less is more

Keeping it simple without sacrificing depth

There's a common misconception that meaningful travel requires maximalism. More cities, more activities, more packed days. More in your bag, more options, more preparation for every possible scenario. That depth comes from quantity, that richness requires accumulation. But anyone who has returned from an overstuffed itinerary—exhausted rather than restored, lugging a bag they never fully unpacked, carrying impressions but not memories—knows differently. Simplicity doesn't diminish depth. Often, it's the only way to reach it.

The practice of traveling simply isn't about deprivation. It's about clarity. It's the understanding that a single well-chosen experience can reveal more than ten hurried ones. That three days in one neighborhood, walked slowly and noticed carefully, can offer more insight than a week racing between landmarks. That a bag packed with intention carries you differently than one stuffed with contingencies. That the space between activities isn't empty time to be filled—it's where integration happens, where experiences settle into understanding.

This requires unlearning. We've been taught to optimize, to maximize, to see everything possible while we're somewhere. To pack for every weather condition, every social situation, every might-happen moment. The fear of missing out—whether experiences or the right outfit for them—becomes the architecture of our journeys. But this approach assumes that exposure equals experience, that preparation equals readiness, that more options create more freedom. It doesn't account for the accumulation of fatigue, the cognitive load of constant decision-making, the way overstimulation numbs rather than enlivens, the truth that our capacity for genuine attention is limited and precious.

Simplicity in travel means making intentional subtractions. In your plans: choosing one museum instead of four, and spending the morning there. Selecting three restaurants you genuinely want to experience rather than compiling an exhaustive list. Visiting two cities instead of five. Walking the same route multiple times to notice how it changes throughout the day. In your bag: seven pieces of clothing instead of twenty. Two pairs of shoes instead of five. One jacket that works rather than three that might. Items chosen for versatility and purpose, not possibility and fear.

These choices feel counterintuitive at first—aren't you wasting the opportunity? Aren't you unprepared? But what they create is the opposite of waste: the space for actual depth, the freedom of traveling light, the clarity that comes from not managing excess.

Consider what depth requires. It requires time—not just to see something, but to return to it, to let it work on you, to understand what it stirs. It requires attention that isn't fractured by what's next or what you're carrying. It requires the mental bandwidth to reflect, to connect, to absorb. When we simplify our plans and our packs, we're not limiting our experience; we're creating the conditions for experience to become transformative rather than transactional.

There's a particular relationship between how we pack and how we move through the world. The traveler with a minimal bag moves differently—more easily through train stations, more willingly on foot, more open to spontaneity because they're not managing weight and bulk. They're not returning to their accommodation mid-day to change shoes or grab a different jacket. They're not spending evenings doing laundry because they packed just enough. They've chosen their few items carefully, and those items serve them reliably, day after day.

This kind of packing requires knowing yourself. Not who you might be or who you think you should be, but who you actually are when you travel. Do you actually wear jewelry on trips, or does it stay in your bag? Do you really need workout clothes, or is walking your exercise? Will you genuinely use that dress-up outfit, or are you packing it out of obligation? Minimal packing is honest packing—it reflects your real patterns rather than aspirational ones.

The same principle applies to planning. When you're not trying to fit everything in, planning becomes less about logistics and more about curation. You're not solving a puzzle of how to see the most; you're making considered choices about what deserves your limited time and energy. This kind of planning is actually more rigorous than maximalist planning—it requires you to know yourself well enough to choose, to be honest about what you're actually seeking, to resist the pressure of completeness.

There's a particular kind of richness that only simplicity creates. It's the ability to notice small things—how shopkeepers interact with regulars, how light moves through a particular square, how a city sounds different at dawn versus dusk. These observations seem minor, but they're often what creates the feeling of having truly been somewhere rather than just passed through. They're what you remember years later when the famous landmarks have blurred together. And they're only accessible to the traveler who isn't rushing toward the next thing or weighed down by excess.

Simplicity also protects against comparison. When your journey is intentionally restrained, when your bag contains only what serves you, you're less vulnerable to the anxiety of whether you're doing enough, seeing enough, experiencing enough, wearing enough. You've made peace with selectivity. You've chosen your own markers of success—presence, rest, insight, joy—rather than external ones. This creates a different kind of confidence: the certainty that comes from knowing what you value and living in alignment with it.

The resistance to simplicity often comes from a place of scarcity thinking. What if I never come back here? What if this is my only chance? What if I need something I didn't pack? But this mindset transforms travel into obligation and anxiety rather than exploration. It makes each journey feel like your last, which paradoxically prevents you from being present for any of them. Simplicity is an act of abundance—the trust that there will be other journeys, other chances, that stores exist where you're going, and that this one trip deserves to be experienced fully rather than frantically.

What simplicity creates, ultimately, is sustainability. Not just environmental, though traveling more slowly, staying longer in fewer places, and packing less does reduce impact. But personal sustainability—the kind of travel you can repeat without burning out, that restores rather than depletes you, that you look forward to rather than need to recover from. The traveler who embraces simplicity returns ready to travel again, because they know how to journey without exhausting themselves in the process.

This doesn't mean every trip must be minimal. Sometimes the purpose requires breadth—research trips, reunion travels, exploratory ventures. Sometimes you need specific gear or formal clothing. But even then, the principle applies: clarity about what each item and each experience is meant to serve, intentional choices about where to go deep versus where to touch lightly, awareness of your own capacity for attention and what you're willing to carry.

The depth we seek in travel isn't found by covering more ground or packing for every contingency. It's found by choosing our ground carefully and standing on it long enough to notice what's there. It's found by carrying only what we need and discovering that we need less than we thought. It's found in the repetition that reveals nuance, the patience that allows for discovery, the space that makes reflection possible, the lightness that makes movement easy. It's found when we trust that one thing done with full presence is worth more than ten things done while thinking about the next.

Less becomes more not through absence, but through concentration. Through the willingness to choose quality of attention over quantity of experience. Through the understanding that we don't need to see everything or bring everything to be transformed by what we see and what we carry.

What would you remove from your next journey—from your itinerary and from your bag—to create space for deeper presence with what remains?