The traveler’s paradox: Traveling alone as a woman

There’s an air of romanticism inherent in the act of “adventure.” It’s Odysseus. Jules Verne. Jack Kerouac. Chris McCandless. Generations of men, admired adventure writers, have had us yearning for the open road. Yet there’s a reality of traveling alone as a woman that is often inferred and rarely recorded.
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It’s a dog-eat-dog world

Part of what makes traveling so exciting is seeing how people live around the world. But during my trip to Europe this summer, I realized that humans aren’t the only ones with cultural quirks. Those of us who grew up in urban parts of the U.S. will agree that we have
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Waiting for change

Around this time of year, the Greek island of Mykonos is a magical place full of sunshine and bikinis and parties that last all day and night. It’s a favorite vacation spot of celebrities and high society folk — Mykonos has the kind of pristinely beautiful beaches that make for
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Athens in Limbo

Edinburgh got pretty frigid in February, so when I discovered that we had the third week off, I jumped at the chance of a getaway. I wasn’t picky. I figured any place further south would solve my vitamin D deficiency. When I told my friends and family that I was
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OFF THE BEAT: I’m Greek — you’re weak

I’m Greek. Like really Greek. Although I’m in a sorority, that’s not really what I’m talking about. You know, the “loud breeding Greek eaters” who think that every word in the English language stems from Greek, that everything in existence was invented by the Greeks and that not eating meat
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