An American Girl Abroad

by Adeline Trafton

Here the story of our journeying may end. The remaining distance, through the kindness of friends, new and old, was accomplished without difficulty or annoyance. We reached our own homes in due time, and like the princess in the fairy tales, "lived happily forever afterwards."

A few practical words suggest themselves here which would pass unnoticed in a preface—where, perhaps, they belong. First, in regard to the question often asked, "Can women travel alone through Europe?" Recalling our own experience,—too brief to serve as a criterion,—I should still say, "Yes." We met, frequently, parties of ladies who had made the whole grand tour alone. In Switzerland we found English women, constantly, without escort. The care of choosing routes, of looking after baggage and buying tickets, of managing the sometimes complicated affairs attendant upon sight-seeing, with the vexations and impositions met with and suffered on every hand, no woman would voluntarily accept without great compensation, I am sure. But if she prefers even these cares to seeing nothing of the world, they can be borne, and the annoyances, to a great extent overcome, through patience and growing experience.

Then, if you start alone, or without being consigned to friends upon the other side,—which no young woman would think of doing,—you are almost sure to join, at different times, other parties, whose way is your own; and far preferable this is to making up a large company before leaving home—the members of which usually disagree before reaching the continent, and often part in mutual disgust. "There is nothing like travelling to bring out a person's real nature," say some. But this is untrue. Travelling develops, rather than reveals, I think, and under conditions favorable only to the worse side of one's nature. You are bewildered by the multitude of strange sights and ways; the very foundation of usages is broken up; you are putting forth physical exertions that would seem superhuman at home, and are mentally racked until utterly exhausted,—for there is nothing so exhausting as continued sight-seeing,—and at this point people say they begin "to find each other out."

An occasional period of rest—not staying within doors to study up the guide-books, but entire cessation from seeing, hearing, or doing—and a scrap from the mantle of charity, will save many a threatened friendship at these times. We learned to know our strength—how weak it was; and to await in some delightful spot, chosen for the purpose, returning energy, courage, and interest; for even that would be banished at times by utter weariness and exhaustion.

In former times, Americans fitted themselves out for Europe as though bound to a desert island. Wider intelligence and experience have opened their eyes and reformed their judgment; still, a word upon this subject will not be unwelcome, I am sure, to girls especially, who contemplate a trip over the ocean.

In the first place, your steamer outfit is a distinct affair. You are allowed to take any baggage you wish for into your state-room; but, if wise, you will not fill the narrow space, nor encumber yourself with anything larger than a lady's hat box, which may offer a tolerable seat to the stewardess, or visitors of condolence, in case seasickness confines you to berth or sofa. Even preferable to this is a flat, English portmanteau, which can be slipped under the lower berth. If you sail for Liverpool, you can leave this at your hotel there in charge of the head waiter until you return, and thus avoid the expense and care of useless baggage.

Its contents your own good sense will in a measure suggest. Let me add—a double gown or woollen wrapper, in which you may sleep, flannels (even though you cross the ocean in summer), merino stockings, warm gloves or mittens, as pretty a hood as you please, only be sure that it covers the back of your head, since you will ignore all cunning craft of hair dressing, for a few days at least, and even after you are well enough to appear at the table, perhaps. Bear in mind that the Northern Atlantic is a cold place, and horribly open to the wind at all seasons of the year; that you will live on the deck when not in your berth or at your meals, and that the deck of an ocean steamer partakes of the nature of a whirlwind. Fur is by no means out of place, and skirts should be sufficiently heavy to defy the gales, which convert everything into a sail. Take as many wraps as you choose—and then you will wish you had one more. A large shawl, or, better, a carriage-robe, is indispensable, as you will very likely lie rolled up like a cocoon much of the time. A low sea-chair, or common camp-chair, is useful to older people; but almost any girl will prefer a seat upon the deck itself; there are comfortable crannies into which no chair can be wedged.

By all means avoid elaborate fastenings to garments. A multiplicity of unmanageable "hooks and eyes" is untold torment at sea; and let these garments be few, but warm. You will appreciate the wisdom of this suggestion, when you have accomplished the herculean task of making your first state-room toilet.

If you are really going abroad for a season of travel, take almost nothing. You can never know what you will need until the necessity arises. If you anticipate, you misjudge. Your American outfit will render you an oddity in England. But do not change there, or you will be still more singular in Paris. It is as well to start with but one dress besides the one you wear on the steamer—anything you chance to have; a black alpaca, or half-worn black silk, is very serviceable. When you reach Paris, circumstances and the season will govern your purchases; and this same dress will be almost a necessity for constant railway journeys, rainy-day sight-seeing, and mule-riding in Switzerland. A little care and brushing, fresh linen, and a pretty French tie, will make it presentable—if not more—at any hotel dinner table.

A warm shawl or wrap of some kind you will need for evenings,—even though you travel in summer,—for visiting the cathedrals, which are chill as a tomb; and for weeks together among the mountains you will never throw it aside. But if you can take but one, don't provide yourself with a water-proof. They are too undeniably ugly, and not sufficiently warm for constant wear. If it rains slightly, the umbrella, which you will buy from force of necessity and example in England, will protect you; if in torrents, you will ride. Indeed, you will always ride, time is so precious, cab-hire so cheap, and distances so great in most foreign cities.