The Magic Map: Where Should We Go?

Deep in the heart of an old bookshop, where dusty volumes whispered secrets to one another and sunlight streamed through windows shaped like friendly cats, there lived something rather extraordinary. It wasn't a book—though it looked a bit like one when closed. It wasn't a person—though it had thoughts and feelings and an insatiable curiosity about the world. No, what lived in that bookshop was something far more magical: a map named Chester.

Chester wasn't like other maps. While ordinary maps sat quietly on their pages, waiting to be consulted and then forgotten, Chester had been blessed—cursed, some might say, though Chester preferred "chosen"—with the gift of magic. Not the flashy kind with sparks and fireworks, but something gentler. Chester could feel the places he pointed to. He could sense the excitement of a mountain summit, the laughter of waves crashing on distant shores, the mysterious hush of ancient forests. And most importantly, Chester could share these feelings with the children who opened his cover and said those three special words: "Where should we go?"

The bookshop where Chester lived belonged to an elderly woman named Mrs. Pemberton, who had inherited him from her grandmother, who had inherited him from her grandmother, and so on and so on, all the way back to a mapmaker named Theodore Maplesworth, who had discovered, quite by accident, that the right combination of wanderlust, wonder, and a particular kind of invisible ink could bring a map to life. For two hundred years, Chester had helped children find their perfect adventures. He had guided shy little ones to gentle beaches and brave ones to towering mountains. He had whispered the names of faraway places into dreaming ears and watched, with the particular pride that only an ancient magical map can feel, as those children grew up to become travelers themselves.

But today was different. Today was special. Today, a new child would walk through the bookshop doors and meet Chester for the very first time.

Or perhaps—and this is where our story really begins—today, that child would be you.

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Let's pause for a moment, dear reader, because before we can discover where you might like to go, we need to understand something rather important: places are like people. No, really! Just as every person you meet has their own personality—their own way of speaking, their own habits, their own things they love and things that make them grumpy—every place in this big, beautiful world has its own personality too. And just as you wouldn't try to have a deep conversation about poetry with someone who just wants to play sports (nor would you want to play sports with someone who wants to discuss poetry), you wouldn't want to visit a place whose personality doesn't match yours. Finding the right place to visit is a lot like finding the right friend to make. It's one of the most important steps in any adventure!

So how do you find a place that's right for you? That's exactly what Chester is here to help with. You see, Chester has spent two hundred years watching children choose destinations, and he's learned to recognize the signs—the little clues that tell him what kind of place a child might love most. Some children get excited when they hear about animals in the wild. Others light up at the mention of tall buildings and busy streets. Some children dream about snow on mountaintops, while others imagine themselves floating in warm ocean water. Each of these dreams tells Chester something important about what kind of traveler that child might be.

But before we get to the quizzes and the helping you figure out your own travel personality, let me tell you about another child who had to make this very same choice. Her name was Maya, and she was seven years old—the same age as many of you reading this book—and she was facing a decision that felt, at the time, like the hardest decision in the entire world.

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Maya lived in a small apartment in the city with her mother, her father, and her golden retriever named Biscuit. Her apartment was cozy, with books stacked on every surface and the smell of whatever her grandmother was baking drifting in from the kitchen on Sundays. Maya loved her city. She loved the way the subway rumbled beneath her feet like a giant sleeping animal. She loved the toy store on the corner that had a mechanical elephant outside that waved its trunk every hour on the hour. She loved the park where she and Biscuit went to chase pigeons and eat ice cream, and she loved the library where the librarian always saved her favorite books.

But Maya also loved her grandmother. And her grandmother didn't live in a city at all. Her grandmother lived in the countryside, three hours away by train, in a small cottage with a garden full of vegetables and flowers, a barn where chickens clucked and roosters crowed, and a pond where frogs held concerts every evening. Maya's grandmother had soft hands that smelled like flour, a laugh that sounded like wind chimes, and the magical ability to make everything—from butterfly houses to birthday cakes—seem like the most wonderful project in the world.

The problem was this: Maya's family was planning a vacation, and they could only choose one place to go. Her grandmother had invited them to stay at her cottage, where they could help plant the spring garden and collect eggs and have long, lazy afternoons reading in the hammock. But Maya's parents had also found a wonderful deal on a trip to visit a big city—a real, proper big city with museums and theaters and an aquarium where you could watch dolphins do somersaults. Both options sounded amazing. Both options made Maya's heart flutter with excitement. How was she supposed to choose?

For three whole days, Maya agonized over the decision. She made lists of pros and cons. She asked Biscuit for advice (Biscuit, being a dog, was no help at all—he would have been happy anywhere as long as there were treats). She even tried flipping a coin, but then she got upset with the coin for not making the decision for her. It seemed like an impossible choice, and Maya began to wonder if maybe she just shouldn't go anywhere at all.

That was when she remembered the bookshop.

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Maya's grandmother had taken her to Mrs. Pemberton's bookshop once, two years ago, on a rainy afternoon when they needed somewhere warm and dry to wait out a sudden storm. Maya had been drawn immediately to the peculiar map in the corner—the one that seemed to shimmer and glow when you looked at it from just the right angle. She had asked her grandmother about it, and her grandmother had smiled that mysterious smile that old people sometimes have and said, "That, my dear, is Chester. He's helped a great many children find their way. Perhaps he can help you someday too."

Now, standing in her room surrounded by lists and stress, Maya decided it was time to pay Chester a visit. She kissed her mother goodbye, told her father she was going for a walk, and set off through the city streets toward the bookshop. The mechanical elephant waved as she passed, but she didn't stop to watch. She had important business with a magical map.

Mrs. Pemberton was dozing in her chair by the window when Maya pushed open the door, but she woke immediately when the little bell chimed. "Well, well," she said, her eyes brightening. "If it isn't little Maya. I remember you. You were the one who asked Chester about dinosaurs, weren't you? You wanted to know if there was a place where you could dig for T. rex fossils." She chuckled softly. "I believe Chester sent you to a museum in Montana. Did you ever go?"

"I went," Maya said, bouncing on her heels with excitement despite her worries. "It was amazing. But Mrs. Pemberton, I need to talk to Chester. I have a really hard decision to make, and I don't know what to do."

Mrs. Pemberton studied Maya for a moment, then nodded knowingly. "Decisions like that can be terribly difficult," she agreed. "But I think Chester