Going Solo

Split, Croatia

August 19th

I have a secret, one that most people don’t realize when they look at my life and the things I’ve done.  I’m afraid to travel alone.  Seeing as I’ve gone off alone to all the corners of the earth, that might come as a surprise, but the thing is, even though I always got on the plane alone, I knew there was someone waiting for me at the other end.  I never had to navigate my way to a new apartment or to a hotel completely alone. And I knew I wouldn’t feel alone for long- I could count on new classmates or new coworkers becoming friends. 

So this summer, I stepped outside my comfort zone to take my first solo travel adventures.  After a full day exploring the Plitvice Lake National Park, I arrived in Split after dark.  I was looking for bus 10 to take to my hostel, but the warm night air and the beach town atmosphere seduced me.  Instead of searching near the bus station, I followed the crowds toward the center.  Families strolled along the waters’ edge and vendors sold swimsuits, towels, sunglasses and hats in stalls lining the street.  I hadn’t gone far when I saw a sign for Diocletian’s basement.    I turned down the alley and walked into history.  The walls around me were built 1700 years ago to support Diocletian’s retirement palace.  Despite the upscale souvenir stalls lining the corridor, I still stared around me in wonder at the arches and columns.  At the end of the corridor, I stopped in surprise.  A row of sandaled feet was at my eye level at the top of the stairs.  As my eyes scanned up, bare calves were followed by red skirts then plate armor, topped of by a helmet. Shields rested on the ground in front.  Curious as to what Centurion soldiers would be doing at the top of the staircase, and since there didn’t seem to be any indication that I couldn’t proceed, I went up to peep between their soldiers.  Some even more adventurous souls slipped behind the soldiers, so I followed them.  There seemed to be some sort of performance going on, and somehow, I’d ended up behind it.  I followed the people in front of me, feeling rather lost as someone gave us some sort of direction in Croatian.  I walked quickly through some more passageways that seem to have been converted into a back stage area, until I was back out into the twisting network of streets.  I decided to snake around until I made it out to the audience side of the performance.  

They seemed to be doing some sort of reenactment, as the emperor read a proclamation (or something to that effect) and I shifted a bit on the ground where I’d found a place to watch.  Maybe I should leave, seeing as nothing really seemed to be happening and the only words I knew in Croatian were “hvala” (thanks), pivo (beer) and kremšnita (custard), none of which figured significantly in the emperor’s speech, surprisingly.  But then, the gladiators came out; the slave ones, who fought with nothing but sticks and nets.  As the one with the stick vanquished the one with the net, the emperor asked the crowd if he should be shown mercy or not.  There’s still hope for the world, I thought to myself as I headed back out towards the street to find my hostel.  All of the children in the crowd, unprompted, were granting the man mercy. 

The next day, I headed off to the beach, where between the warm Adriatic Sea and my book, I kept myself entertained for hours.  Finally driven back into town desperate for some food, for the first time I felt a bit at a loss in my own company.  The conversation I had with my waiter ordering food was the first time I’d talked to anyone all day, and I found myself resisting the impulse to suggest he should stay and talk with me while I ate.  I decided to people watch instead, probably a more socially acceptable past time than keeping waiters from doing their job anyway.  Somehow, I made it through that meal alone, and then, another day of exploring solo.  By the time I got back to Nada’s the next night, I was anxious to have a conversation, but I was thrilled with the experience.  I had done it and found that traveling alone was nothing to be afraid of.  Sure, there were moments when I would have liked some company, but I also enjoyed my private adventures, the solitude and room for thought, the ability to do everything at my own pace.  Now a whole new world is open to me since I’ve realized that I have nothing to be afraid of as a solo traveler.   

Getting good at this wedding crashing business

Zürich

August 8^th, 2014

You may remember last January, when I crashed a wedding (sort of) in Venezuela.  Well, apparently wedding crashing is a bit addictive, because when my friend Johanna told me that the dates I suggested to visit her worked out with the exception that she had to play for a few hours in a wedding reception one afternoon, I decided that was perfect.  (Well, really, when you are coordinating visits/travels with friends in multiple countries, you can’t be too picky.)

Almost the first thing I noticed walking into Johanna’s were the Alphorns taking up half the living room.  I stared at them in fascination.  I’d seen some at a festival in Bavaria earlier that year, but I’d never heard them played before.  So, when Johanna said I was welcome to come along to the reception if I wanted, I didn’t hesitate.

Of course, when I got there, I realized one tiny detail.  I didn’t know anyone, other than Johanna and her mom and they were busy setting up their horns and getting ready to play.  I also don’t speak Swiss German.  Mingling with the other guests was pretty much impossible. “Oh, hi, I don’t know you, or anyone here, or the bride or groom for that matter, just wanted to hear the alphorns, so what’s your name” doesn’t seem like the best conversation starter.  Especially when you’re saying that to someone in a language that is foreign to them.  So, I just waited on the fringes of the crowd, awkwardly.

But, as they started to play, and I relaxed, enjoying, the music, the blue sky, the atmosphere, I had one of those blissful moments I sometimes have when traveling and visiting locals.  This is an experience that can’t be bought.  I may be the outsider standing on the edges, but still, I am really here, in a Swiss Village, at a wedding reception, admiring the beautiful bride and listening to my friend and her mom play alphorns.  I think those moments, the ones that are real, the ones that go off the beaten path and tourist staples, are the ones that draw me back, time and again to travel, to learn, to make new friends, to tentatively try to communicate in languages I’m just beginning to know, because those are the moments that change me somehow.  

Home(less)

It's been an interesting 48 hours.  After 3 weeks of traveling in Europe with a friend I hadn't seen in 5 years (more posts to come about our travels, hopefully!), I finally returned home to Regensburg.  And it felt like coming home- pulling back into my familiar train station, taking the bus I always take, running into friends before I even walked in my door.

But I was going "home" to Regensburg for the last time.  In a 20 hour whirlwind, I packed, cleaned, washed and ironed the sheets I'd borrowed from student housing (they're the ones with a penchant for ironed sheets, not me) and got ready to leave again.  Moving internationally should become some sort of competitive sporting event.  I think I'd be pretty good at it.  I somehow manage to compress an entire room into a suitcase, a hiking backpack, and a regular backpack, which is talent enough, but my real skill shows through when I then manage to transport that.  After a trial run, I realized that if I place my suitcase against a column, then hoist my large backpack onto that, I can get my backpack on without falling over.  Then, smaller backpack stuck on front of me, all that's left is to drag my suitcase behind me, transporting roughly my weight in luggage.  And then, since this is an extreme sporting event, that means you have to use at least 4 unique forms of transportation. The first leg of my journey was easy for me- a friend offered to go with me to the train station, so I didn't have to walk the 10 minutes to the bus stop looking like a human turtle or load my luggage onto the train by myself.

The Human Turtle with her weight in luggage

But then, I was on my own.  All was going smoothly until I tried to get off of the train.  One of the straps on my backpack got caught on something going through the door.  I tried to turn and look behind me, but I couldn't turn far enough to see whatever was keeping me from moving.  I turned futilely back and forth a few times, flailing around a bit (possibly looking a bit like a turtle that's landed on its back) til someone behind me took pity on me and unhooked me and handed down my suitcase.  I then trundled it all off to the next bus that took me right to the airport.  I breathed a sigh of relief as my backpack and suitcase were whisked away and I was assured that they would go through to my final destination.  But of course, there's no such thing as final in a trip like this.  Final just meant last flight.  I flew into Helsinki, which is still 2 and a half hours outside of Turku.  So, once again, all my luggage loaded onto me, I looked around for the right bus, where at least the driver did me the favor of sticking it into the luggage compartment for me.  And then, finally, finally back in Turku, it was too late to take a local bus back, so I had to catch a taxi, because even I won't walk 3 kilometers with my weight in luggage at 1:30 am.


And then, there I was, "home" again in Turku.  Except, even though many of my friends, most of my earthly possessions, and my studies are all here, I don't actually have a house.  My lease doesn't start until September.  So here I am, at "home", but homeless.  It's an interesting feeling, really.  I've spent quite a bit of time the past few years pondering what home means, and well, being here reminds me that home, for the moment, is here.  Home is where the heart is, they say.  And that's part of it, but I've left bits and pieces of my heart all over, so then home could equally be the US, or Colombia, or Germany.  And in a way, going to any of those places right now would feel like going "home", but not quite the same as coming home here does.  I'd say home is where your stuff is, but that sounds way too materialistic, and besides, then my home would be Paulina's storage locker, and that certainly doesn't seem right.  But home is where you come back to after traveling, where you pick up the pieces of your life where you left off, slip back into the same routines, are comforted by the familiar.  And that's why, for me right now, Turku, Finland is home.  In Colombia, and the US, and Germany there's no picking up where I left off right now- no job waiting for me, groups of friends have changed in my absence, there are no routines looking to be slipped into, just routines looking to be remade.  So it's good to be back, and after a wonderful semester abroad, feel that I am indeed, home.

At least, for the moment.  But then, on to my next adventures!  I'm homeless by choice so I can travel and visit friends all around Europe until I have an apartment at home in Finland next month.