It isn’t a collection in the usual sense. I don’t chase after rare finds; I don’t know their value, nor do I appraise them. I simply love them. I love looking at the lines, the names, the cities that no longer exist. I love imagining who held this map before me. Where they were going. What they were looking for. Maybe they were a sailor. Maybe a refugee. Maybe just a dreamer sitting at a table, tracing routes with a finger.

My oldest map is of Europe, from 1948. I bought it at a flea market in Prague. It’s full of creases, the corners are frayed, and on the back, there is someone’s handwriting: "Munich – Vienna – Budapest." And a date. I don’t know who wrote it. But every time I take it out, I feel a connection—to the person, to the time, to the world that existed before me.

Why do I keep this hidden? I don’t know. Perhaps because it’s too personal. Too quiet. Not the sort of thing for dinner-table conversation. But now I realize: it’s a part of me. And perhaps the most authentic part. Because it’s not about status, or success, or how I appear to others. It’s simply about what I love. Quietly, without witnesses.

I take out the maps when I’m sad. I spread them out on the table. And I travel. Not physically—but in my mind. Through streets that may no longer exist. And it brings me back to myself.

Do you have something like that—something quiet and personal that you don’t tell anyone about?

Alexandra