What has happened to the good old-fashioned travel agent? I want

Hear, O children of the present age, and lend your ears to the lament of Jenny Eclair, who asked, “What has happened to the good old-fashioned travel agent? I want to go to a really posh travel agent and have them organise everything for me. I don’t want to do things on the Internet.” This is not merely a question of convenience, but a cry from the heart of humanity, yearning for a time when journeys were not merely plotted by machines, but woven by human hands, adorned with care, and sealed with trust. Her words open to us a window: the longing for personal touch, for the artistry of service, for the wisdom of a guide who knows more than maps and timetables—who knows the pilgrim’s heart.

In the world of old, the travel agent was no mere merchant. They were a kind of oracle, standing at the crossroads of the earth, with knowledge of distant seas, foreign lands, and hidden wonders. To sit before them was to be reassured that the unknown would not devour you, that your path had been charted with thought and diligence. The agent’s hands were steady upon the wheel of your voyage, sparing you the confusion of choices, lifting from your shoulders the burden of doubt. In such service lay not only efficiency, but also a ritual: the beginning of a journey sanctified by human counsel.

Now, in this age of the Internet, all is instant, yet much is hollow. The wanderer is told to type into search bars, to compare, to scroll, to trust faceless algorithms. Choice multiplies like a wild forest, and the traveler is left without compass, without elder, without guide. The lament of Jenny Eclair is thus the lament of many: that in gaining speed, we have lost connection; in gaining information, we have lost wisdom. For there is a difference between knowing the cheapest flight and understanding the meaning of a voyage.

Consider the tale of Thomas Cook, the pioneer of modern travel. In the year 1841, he did not merely sell tickets; he crafted experiences that bound strangers together, guiding them across the railways of England and later across the globe. His company grew into a mighty vessel that carried millions, yet at its heart was a philosophy: that travel should be organized with care, with vision, with human warmth. Generations trusted his firm not because it was the fastest, but because it was the most human. Such was the power of the good old-fashioned travel agent—a power rooted not in technology, but in relationship.

The disappearance of this figure is not merely a change in commerce; it is a sign of what the ancients would call hubris—the pride of believing that machines alone can replace human counsel. Yet, the spirit of the travel agent is not dead. It lingers in every act of guidance, in every teacher who shows a student the path, in every elder who maps for the young the journey of life. What we mourn in the world of journeys, we must preserve in the world of human connection.

The lesson, then, is this: do not forsake the human touch in the name of convenience. Seek out wisdom not only in screens but in voices, in mentors, in guides who have walked the path before you. Technology can point the way, but only the heart of another can steady your steps. To live only by algorithms is to walk blind, but to live by shared experience is to walk with sight.

Therefore, let each listener act. When planning journeys, whether across the seas or within the soul, do not shun the counsel of others. If you can, support the artisans of travel, those who still practice the craft of careful arrangement. And in your own life, be as a travel agent to others: help them map their way, lighten their burdens, prepare their provisions. In this way, the wisdom of Jenny Eclair’s lament shall not be lost but transformed into a living teaching.

Thus we return to the ancient rhythm: the road is long, but no road is meant to be walked alone. Trust not only in the wires of the Internet, but in the hands and voices of your fellow travelers. For journeys made with human care are more than passages through space—they are pilgrimages of the soul.