Our solution seems to work for both of us: I go, he stays. I come home, he’s still here. I am a traveler. My husband is not. The man just does not share my wanderlust, preferring to live his life here at home, doing his exploring via travel documentaries and attending his favorite local events each year—same time, same location, same people. That is his social network and I absolutely respect it because, you know, I have no choice.

But I am a traveler. There are things I need to go and see, and so I do just that. Without him.

Now don’t get me wrong, community and regional happenings are some of my favorite things, and those travel documentaries enjoyed at home? I love them as well. The difference is, I like to travel further than a county line, and those globe trotting shows just inspire me to want to see more of a place in person—the highlights only whetting my curiosity.

I can’t say I am envious of couples I know who successfully travel together, but I am curious because we don’t. Seems like every trip I take, around every corner I see something that my husband would find interesting and would enjoy seeing.

But does he need to be there to see things himself? Well, if it means folding him into an airplane seat, we’ll never know. And if he were there, I’m not so certain I would get to see the things I want to see. On our rare trips together, I sure seem to spend an awful lot of time making sure he’s comfortable and happy rather than leaning into the trip itself.

My daughter is an excellent fellow adventurer and she never makes me feel as though I am imposing when I ask her to travel with me, especially when I beg her to go and pay all of the expenses. But of course, taking time off work, clearing her schedule, costs her in other ways.

My friends joke that I must keep a packed suitcase by the front door just in case an opportunity arises—which many do. There’s no shortage of invitations to hit the road—or the airport—and go explore somewhere with groups formed of other orphaned travelers, other wives without partners.

Still, I do a fair amount of my traveling alone, embracing the fact that I can, and not hesitating if I can’t scare up anyone to go with me. It can be a touchy situation, finding an ideal traveling companion. Believe me, I’ve done the research. I’ve traveled with people I know and love and with people I didn’t know well—finding a friendship taking shape along the way.

I still haven’t found that one available person who is comfortable, engaging and easygoing when traveling, but won’t ask me what I think she should wear every day of the trip.

And then there’s this: on a recent bike and barge trip in the Netherlands, I successfully snored my assigned roommate out of our shared room on the boat. In the middle of the night. With her bedding and pillow. She slept on the stairwell landing, she said. With earplugs.

In that instance, only a dear—and deaf—traveling companion would have worked, although it did get me a private room without the single upgrade charge, once they found her a new roommate.

All I know is this: some adventures need to be enjoyed alone. Everyone visits somewhere or sets off to explore some unknown territory for their own personal reasons and with their own motivation. When I’m traveling, there is a need to find time to experience quiet and reflection and joy and awe in where I have come. And I don’t need anyone else’s feedback to know that.

I’ve never had any trouble finding interesting people along the way, and I’ve found everyone has a story to tell—if you give them the time to tell it. Also, no one minds giving directions in their own hometown, getting lost can be fun and I can make any cab driver in any country laugh.

Traveling alone is not hard, it’s not lonely and it’s not scary. Of course I take precautions for my safety, but really, I’ve never felt afraid. I allow myself the freedom to wander my surroundings but stay aware just the same, seeing all that I came to see.

Because, as responsible as I am for my well-being, I am just as responsible to make certain I have a good time.

If I don’t, it’s nobody’s fault but my own.

Penny Simonson is mostly retired and calls herself a lazy gardener and writer. Born in Spokane but raised in a traveling military family, she finds it no surprise she inherited an itchy foot.