There’s something subtly beautiful in the art of traveling alone. You’re not really alone at all – you’re simply willing to reach out and cultivate new, unused avenues of human connection. And it’s easier than you think.

When you’re traveling alone, you suddenly realize that there are thousands of people that will inevitably become a part of your story. The bartender at the local pub, the quiet girl in your hostel, or even the gruff old man taking tickets for the ferry have already written themselves into the narrative of your travels – all you need to do is keep reading.

In these moments where we’re looking into one another’s eyes, across cultural and experiential boundaries, we discover a deep and irrevocable bond beyond what we’re able to find in the predictability of daily life. Our willingness to defer judgement and find our own likeness reflected in the life of another person triumphs over petty differences, language or skin color. It’s an immediate, authentic attachment.

You don’t have to travel far to be traveling alone. Globetrotting isn’t an option for the majority of the human population – and that’s okay. It’s not the destination of your travels, but the mentality that you adopt when traveling. Appreciation, understanding and patience forge pathways for life-changing experiences, no matter how far you are from home.

We were all born with an innate desire to be loved, and oftentimes we overlook the obvious when searching for a source of comfort. The brief, honest exchange that can occur with a stranger is strikingly similar to experiencing unrelenting, unconditional love. When people we’ve never met open their hearts, their minds and even their homes to us, we see that humanity is still what permanently binds us together.

I haven’t been traveling alone for very long, but already I’ve been met with such unimaginable kindness and I’ve found that, for every moment of heart-wrenching, deplorable human interaction there is someone else that is willing to write you a page in their book.

Whenever you feel lonely, don’t worry. You’re not traveling alone.

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‘I am very fond of sunsets. Come, let us go look at a sunset now.’

‘But we must wait.’ I said.

‘Wait? For what?’

‘For the sunset. We must wait until it is time.’

― Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince

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I’m starting to feel like the little prince. Each sunset holds some sort of new, triumphant reverence; I’ve managed to watch it from the beach almost every night since arriving in Vigo.

On Saturday Balta and I took a day trip to a nearby city called Baiona. We spent the prior evening guzzling alcoholic beverages that the bars (for some reason unbeknownst to me) insist on serving in absurdly large glasses. After an entire night of speaking only in Spanish, I feel like I might have a slightly better grasp of the language than I originally assumed.

Baiona is smaller, quieter and arguably more beautiful than Vigo. It’s famed for being the first town to receive the news that Christopher Columbus had discovered the New World with the arrival of the Pinta in 1493. They have since built a replica of the ship that can be toured for a few euros, but according to Balta it’s just an empty boat and there’s really not much to look at.

As is customary after a night of casual drinking in Spain, we made our way to a bustling hole in the wall for tapas and beer. Although there are plenty of free tapas in Galicia, for a handful of coins you can order massive plates of tapas that typically consist of fresh-caught seafood and/or meat products. After a few heaping platters of octopus, squid and roasted peppers, I felt as though I could probably manage the sunshine and the fresh mountain air.

We made our way through a large, stone archway and climbed the moss-covered steps of an old castle wall. Baiona was never subjected to any bloody wars, yet it’s still easy to imagine the ghosts of soldiers past, pacing the walkway and eyeing the sea watchfully. Everywhere I looked there was a view that was deserving of a photograph. I’ve never been good at hiding behind a camera (I’m always too busy looking around and smiling at everything), but I managed to take a slew of photographs before getting distracted and giving up.

I scaled a few crumbling bricks to sit on a smooth, flat panel perched above the sea, and tricked Balta into joining me for a 10-minute meditation. Water kept splashing me in the face and it was extremely windy, but I still enjoyed myself nonetheless. Balta was quiet afterward, so I think he enjoyed it too.

Once we had finished hungrily consuming the seaside views, we drove to a nearby mountaintop to search for wild horses. Once a year the locals round the horses up, shoot them full of penicillin (or some other horse drug) and throw a giant party. Leave it to the Spaniards to turn veterinary care into another occasion to eat, drink and be merry. I definitely wouldn’t mind an invite.

When we reached the peak of the mountain, we pulled over to see what would have probably been a remarkable view had the clouds not been in the way. Surrounded by nature and miles from the nearest city, you’d think that escaping people would be a relatively easy endeavor. Upon opening my door, however, I was greeted with clear, crisp electronic music at a volume that could rival any Chicago music festival.

A small shepherd’s refuge sat a few hundred meters away, and in front of it a dreadlocked hippie in a bright blue jacket bounced up and down methodically to the vibrating speakers in the back of his nondescript white van. A line of cows stood on the hill behind us, gazing almost woefully through the fog at the strange human with the insanely expensive sound system. Noise pollution is a problem everywhere, I guess.

The wild horses resembled fuzzy ponies, although I only saw them from the comfort of the car window. The sky harbored the threat of imminent rain, so we wove our way through the skeletons of olive groves until reaching the smooth, paved roads of civilization. Yawning and windswept, I mentally began to prepare myself for another evening of trying to decipher Spanish in a bustling nightclub. Baiona was good.

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As a kid I craved skyscrapers and the intoxicating neon of nightlife, but as of late I only have eyes for sunsets and mountaintops. It’s funny how drastically we can change.

Vigo is a small, coastal city in northern Spain. It’s remarkably safe; you don’t have to worry about leaving your purse unattended at the beach and violent crime is virtually non-existent. In fact, Spain as a whole is far less dangerous than the United States. I don’t exactly miss Chicago.

Surrounded by mountains, Vigo has a microclimate that will undoubtedly add years to your life. In the winter it never drops below 42°F, and in the summer the temperature hovers around 77°F. It only took a few moments in a cool breeze for me to confirm that I won’t be making any long-term living arrangements unless there’s a beach and a boat nearby. Vigo also has the largest fishing port in the world, so I’ve been drowning in fresh, exquisite seafood.

Last week the only thing I knew about Vigo was that I would be teaching yoga, English and cooking in exchange for meals and a place to stay. I was mildly apprehensive about living with someone I’d never met (and barely spoken with), but I think it’s important to take a leap of faith at least once or twice a week. So I leapt.

My host, Balta, is a native Galician (the name for the northwest community of Spain) and has lived in Vigo his entire life. He practices couchsurfing and hosts people from all over the world – inviting them into his home, learning from their experiences and sharing his world with them. Last week I was crammed in a 300sqft room with a Russian lady snoring above me every night, and this week I have my own bedroom, bathroom and access to unlimited avocado. I couldn’t have asked for a more wonderful host or comfortable place to stay.

In the morning I write and explore Vigo. Balta finishes work at 3PM, so after a quick lunch we’ll head to the beach to practice yoga and English until sunset. In the evening we’ll have dinner or go out with his friends, and I’ll practice my (shaky) Spanish. It’s pretty surreal and maybe the best gig I’ll ever have.

Learning a new language can be remarkably frustrating. On a good night I can hold entire conversations in Spanish, and on a bad one I can barely string together a sentence. I often feel as though I’m unable to communicate with the world unless I’m speaking through a series of grunts and/or wild hand motions. C’est la vie.

Most people that I speak with are intrigued by the disastrous state of politics in the United States. They also possess a marked disdain for Drumpf and have no interest in visiting the “greatest country in the world.” I don’t really blame them. I’m trying to be a good ambassador by apologizing for the poor judgement of a chunk of our population.

I don’t know where I’m headed next, but I’ll be in Vigo for a few weeks. I can already tell that it won’t be easy to leave.

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Here are, in no particular order, as list of things that you should know about Toledo:

1) Things don’t really get started until 10AM

Yesterday I woke up at 7 and was out the door by 7:30. Quieres un café? Nope. Coffee shops don’t open until 8 (at the earliest).

2) It’s always acceptable to drink

As soon as the coffee shops were open, I saw at least three people sipping a glass of wine with their muesli and orange juice. Coffee shops also serve alcohol. I’m not saying you should, but you can.

3) Don’t drink sparkling water (or regular water) directly out of the bottle. Especially if it’s a big bottle

I’ve never had so many people try to give me a glass at once.

4) When dining out, it’s not necessary to say thank-you three million times

They think it’s weird and creepy.

5) Don’t smile at or make eye contact with random strangers

Also weird and if they’re the opposite sex they’ll think you’re hitting on them.

6) Take a nap in the afternoon

The siesta is still alive and well in Toledo. Everything closes down during naptime, so you’ll feel like you’re walking around a ghost town if you stay awake.

7) They pick up their dog poop

Unlike Madrid, in Toledo you don’t have to constantly worry about stepping in a steaming pile of dog shit. I think this is great.

8) The steep, cobblestone roads are not an acceptable excuse to avoid high heels

If the little 80-year-old lady is rocking her pumps, then you should be too.

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In Toledo it always smells like there’s a campfire nearby. Sometimes it’s mingled with the alluring saltiness of cured meats, coffee or the strangely acidic scent of wetness after a brief rain. I think that’s what history smells like, but I’m not sure. After today, I can safely say that the Monastery of San Juan de los Reyes is what history looks like.

When I arrived at the hostel, the receptionist gave me a little map with at least 20 orange buildings highlighted on it and told me, “Visit all these.” I knew almost nothing about Toledo a few days ago, but I definitely knew that I didn’t need to see every historical landmark on the map. I could have done a bunch of research on the internet and read up on the cultural significance of each site, but… I’ve never been that kind of traveler. Instead I woke up, had un café con leche and started walking.

I tried (loosely) to stay on the main path that cuts through the center of the city, but that’s easier said than done. There were times where I was squeezing myself between two buildings and assuming that I was hopelessly lost, only to see a sign telling me to dive deeper into the labyrinth. It was actually pretty amusing, and I’ve since learned that you can’t get too lost when you’re tucked inside the maze of the city walls.

After some window shopping and churro-eating, I arrived at a formidable building wrapped in a bunch of ugly construction work. It was marked as a point of interest on the map and an elderly tour group standing nearby seemed relatively satisfied with their experience. Gingerly dodging buckets of paint, I approached the main desk and paid my 2,50€, expecting to be shuffled into a church.

Instead, I made my way through a crumbling archway and immediately breathed a quiet, “Oh!”

I’ve fallen in love with a few places. I fell in love with some views in Prague, a night sky under the northern lights and a mountain in Yellowstone National Park. I, too, am in love with the Monastery of San Juan de los Reyes. Or, to be more specific, the courtyard and the garden.

Built in 1477, the monastery still in use. Monks stroll the property and services are held in the church. There are two courtyards, one upper and one lower, both of which are intricately decorated.

I admired a single rose blooming bravely in the garden – a perfect contrast to the plump mandarin oranges that dangled precariously from a tree. A blue, almost white fir seemed to radiate light, and I found myself wondering if it would continue to grow or simply stay the same size. I’m a novice when it comes to architecture, but if I’m pretending I know what I’m talking about… I can confidently say that the sharp
edges of the gothic edifice contrasted purposefully with what was a veritable garden of Eden. According to the internet, though, the monastery is “an example of Gothic style with Spanish and Flemish influences.” All I know is that I almost cried when a sunshower started, and I was alone the entire time.

Thus far, Toledo has been doing a pretty satisfactory job at satiating my desire to be awe-inspired. Happy Valentine’s Day everyone – wherever your love may be.

 

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