I used to think travel was about exploring the world, the excitement of new places and landscapes. But over time, I’ve realized it’s something else entirely. For me, travel has become a way of following my instincts, a quiet winding road that brings me back to myself.

This spring, actually in just a week, my compass first points to Japan, one of my favorite countries. I’ll go back there for my birthday with my husband and our two sons—my youngest experiencing it for the first time. I’ll turn fifty-two there, which feels oddly perfect. Japan has always reminded me that beauty lives in intention. And at this point in life, there’s something freeing about knowing exactly who you are and not feeling the need to explain it.

From there, the route heads north to Helsinki, just long enough to sleep beside the Baltic Sea before catching a ferry across waters that have quietly been on my travel list for fifteen years. An old mentor, Mary, who is now gone, once described that crossing to me in a way that lodged itself somewhere in my imagination. St. Petersburg was once part of the dream, but the world shifts and routes change. Instead, the journey continues to Estonia and Latvia, two places that have been on my map for very different reasons.

Estonia captivates me with its remarkable story—small, resilient, and one of the most digitally advanced nations in the world. Riga adds a more personal touch. A dear friend of mine, Clara Knopfler, survived multiple concentration camps with her mother during the Holocaust. Riga was the last stop before the march to freedom that ultimately brought her back to Transylvania. Walking those streets feels less like a history lesson and more like honoring a life that endured and never lost hope.

The road then turns west toward England, where I’ll meet my husband while he’s working in Newmarket. I’ll spend a few peaceful days wandering the cobblestone streets of Cambridge, a place that always encourages my thoughts to slow down and become more reflective. The night sounds at Trinity College…the bells, the scholarly atmosphere, and punting boats, plus afternoon tea at the Ivy, a charming spot just steps from the ancient colleges and narrow alleyways where bicycles rule the roads. 

After that, it’s Paris…twelve days in the city that still feels like a dream I somehow get to revisit. For me, Paris has never been about monuments, although the sparkling Eiffel Tower does not disappoint. It’s about the atmosphere, long walks, and the sense of permission the city seems to give people to simply exist with a little more beauty in their day, especially as I stroll along the Seine with my silk scarf and think about the caramel and sea salt soufflé at Philippe Excoffier.

From Paris, my oldest son will spend two days with me in the Champagne region, a place he has never visited but where I’ve grown fond of several houses—Veuve Clicquot, Jean Diot, Lallier—and a few new discoveries this time: Ruinart in Reims and Henri Giraud in Ay. With a guide leading us on one of the days, we’ll explore the countryside, visiting mainly women-run wineries, the kind where the craft feels personal, and the stories stay with you long after the glass is empty. We might even make a quick stop at Moët and Pierre Jouet tasting bars in Epernay.

Then we turn east together toward Yerevan, Armenia, stepping into a country neither of us has explored before, with the road leading us to something completely new, the kind of adventure that reminds me how much life still lies just beyond the horizon.

The journey continues to Tbilisi, Georgia, a place my son already loves and is eager to share. My husband will meet us there, and together we will celebrate our son’s twenty-seventh birthday with his Georgian friends gathered around the table. In a country known for its warm hospitality, the evening will likely unfold the way Georgian dinners do — slowly and generously — with khinkali dumplings, plates passed from hand to hand, and long toasts that stretch late into the night, accompanied by music and folklore. It’s the kind of celebration that reminds me how travel often becomes less about the places themselves and more about the people who welcome you into them.

The final chapter circles back to Paris once again before my husband and I head to Deauville, the seaside town in Normandy that has quietly grown meaningful to us over the years. It’s a place famous for its wide beaches, striped parasols, and horses galloping along the shoreline at low tide, but also for the simple pleasures we’ve come to enjoy, bowls of steaming moules frites, the classic pairing of fresh mussels with crispy fries.

Somewhere between exploring the charming streets and relaxing at café tables, I always find myself returning to the Jonak shop, where a pair of effortlessly Parisian shoes inevitably ends up in my suitcase. This visit also opens a new possibility—a business opportunity still in the works. And maybe, if time allows, I’ll steal away for a day to Rouen to stand where Joan of Arc’s story reached its final chapter, where history still quietly echoes through the old stone streets.

Looking at the map, it appears to be a long arc across the world, with an upcoming trip that spans eight countries and covers many miles in forty-five days.

But I’ve realized something about travel. It doesn’t pull me away from my life. Instead, somewhere between unfamiliar streets, quiet train rides, and the rhythm of moving forward, the noise fades, and the roles loosen their grip. And that’s the quiet truth of travel: sometimes I seek out new places, and sometimes I am simply moving north of who I was.