Clock Strikes Midnight in Taipei

As soon as I got off the plane in Taipei, I felt it.

That familiar jolt of electricity sizzling through my veins. The thrill that comes with hearing languages you can’t understand and seeing signs written in indecipherable tongues. The curiosity that comes with being somewhere you’re not accustomed to. Relying on the translate app. Googling how the local transportation system works. Looking up currency conversion rates. Figuring out where to eat and what to order.

It was close to midnight but I was wide awake, striding through the bright lights of Ximending eating a rice ball from FamilyMart and sipping soy milk from a Hello Kitty-themed 7-Eleven. Taipei felt like a cross between Tokyo and Hong Kong. I didn’t expect to feel so emotional about my return to Asia with the FamilyMarts, the bidets, and the swapping street shoes for house slippers in the hostel lobby. Turns out those things that were once foreign to me, now had me almost in tears at our joyful reunion.

I had just 24 hours to taste the best food and explore the sights of Taipei before hopping on a plane to Vietnam where I would spend 10 days and meet up with my family who were joining the trip.

For years I’ve used travel as a temporary escape or reset button, only to return home to the same routines and stresses I’d left behind. This time felt different. Traveling has always taught me to adapt to changes. Maybe it’s time I applied that to my own life.

The Curtain

This trip isn’t one of my typical solo travels and it wasn’t a relaxing vacation either. It was more of a bookmark indicating a season of change in my life. For the past few years I’ve been pouring every ounce of myself into something that was quietly draining me. I hadn’t realized how deep the waters I was trying to swim in were, until my body and mind started paying high taxes for it.

This trip to Vietnam became the curtain between two chapters of my life. The former having brought joyful moments and a lot of action and growth, but strained by mental exhaustion and an unsustainable weight I'd been carrying longer than I should have. Knowing something has run its course and actually accepting it are two very different things. The warrior in me wanted to keep going, but the sage in me woke up just in time.

The timing of life is sometimes supernatural. That’s how we know the things that are unfolding for us are meant to be. Back in January, my family decided to plan a spring break trip to Vietnam. Don’t ask why we opted for 32+ hour travel days instead of something a bit closer… adventure to far off places is part of our DNA. We planned it for March when tickets were cheap and we could all get time off work. I felt grateful embarking on such an odyssey and sharing it with my family.

But on the week of my 30th birthday in late February, it was as if the planets agreed to stir up my life. I got an opportunity to go in-house and started eight days later. The week after that, I was somewhere above the North Pole on a 14-hour flight to the other side of the world.

When I returned, I'd come back to a fresh page, but not a blank one. The chapters before it, the lessons from the road, the people I’ve met in faraway places, all of it informs what I write next.

The Vargas Family Adventures in Vietnam (a preview)

My parents are no strangers to adventure, but this was their first time somewhere truly foreign, where even the alphabet is unrecognizable. There’s something special about watching people who raised you, get to experience that jolt of electric awe for the first time. I guess the love of adventure had to come from somewhere…

Together, as we figured out how to cross the chaotic streets of Hanoi safely, we left our old identities and took up new roles— as map navigators, money administrators, transportation coordinators, history investigators, and food managers scanning Google Reviews for the next great meal.

We wreaked havoc on a sleeper train near the Chinese border. Got scammed by an expensive dragonfruit seller. We almost fell for a fraudulent scheme cooked up by a Grab driver who earned himself both a “domestic iguana” and a “gargajo en tapia” title from my dad (I’ll let you Google that last one).

We ate fried rice and noodles for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Overindulged in cardiac-arrest- inducing ice cold sweet Vietnamese coconut coffees. Rowed through the impressive limestone peaks and waterways of Trang An, smelled incense in thousand-year-old temples, and made great new human, cat, and water buffalo friends at a homestay in Sapa. Even the guy at the black market jewelry shop started recognizing me after so many visits to exchange crisp Benjamins for wrinkled dongs.

Overall, even with a few bumps here and there, travel became a shared experience where the best part of the day was also the debriefing. Where around the dinner table of fried spring rolls and 25-cent beers, we learned that while we all experience mostly the same activities, we somehow all came away with different observations and lessons.

Having newly emerged from the curtain now, the thought stirring in my head now is this: Travel doesn’t help us escape life, but it can teach us how to change it.

Stay tuned for the next story about our family adventures and misadventures in this fascinating country. If you enjoyed reading this, please give it a “like” or share this post. Thanks for reading!

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In Colombia, we have a saying: “Al que no quiere caldo se le dan dos tazas.” It literally translates to, “Whomever doesn’t want soup, gets two bowls of it.” Meaning the more you resist something, the more you get of it.

You know that feeling when you’re exhausted on a plane, just hoping for a quiet flight with no chatty neighbors? After four days at a work conference, I felt like I had hit my socializing quota for the entire year. All I wanted was to zone out by the window and listen to Bad Bunny. As soon as I sat down, I scrambled for my AirPods to silently signal that I wasn’t up for talking. But before I could even find them, a stranger in the aisle seat sat down and struck up a conversation.

At first, I felt myself put up blockers to show I’d be polite but not entertain long conversation. However when the conversation took a fun turn, we ended up talking the entire two-hour flight and, I left the plane with a new friend. We talked nonstop, discovering we were both signed up for the Austin Half Marathon, both liked tarot cards, yoga, and were excited for the Benito Bowl. That flight reminded me that friendships and good conversations can happen anywhere…even at 30,000 feet. Sometimes the very thing we try to avoid is actually the thing that brings goodness into our lives.

The conversation started when the stranger noticed my conference speaker badge on the middle seat right next to my sweatshirt and snacks, which I’d pulled out while digging for my headphones. I was still hoping to put on my headphones and zone out, but the badge caught her attention.

“Hi, I see that’s a speaker badge. If you don’t mind me asking, what were you speaking about?” she said in a curious tone.

I explained that I work in marketing and impact communications for endurance sports, and that I was speaking at the national running industry conference. Her face lit up as soon as I said, “running.” Turns out she’s a new runner who’s spent the last six months training for her first half-marathon. When I asked which one, it turned out to be the same race I’m running: the Austin Half Marathon this Sunday.

As soon as I realized we had running in common, it was like I got the energy to be social again. Unbeknownst to her, she’d just become the subject of my market research, so I dived into questions about why she started running, how she started, if she joined run groups, what shoes and watch she wears, what training plan she is following, and her feelings toward certain brands.

When we exhausted the topic of running and agreed to meet up at the half-marathon, we discovered other mutual interests, like books, solo travel, and the Benito Bowl. Then we discovered we were both into tarot readings and sound baths, and, coincidentally, she was already planning to go to a tarot reading + sound bath event, so she invited me, and we met up a few days later.

Building new friendships as an adult isn’t easy. I spend most days working from home, running solo, going to the gym, and occasionally stopping by a coffee shop. Aside from that, I keep a few close friends and rarely make time to seek out new ones. If you’re anything like me (a bit of a nomad or a frequent traveler) you know how complicated it is to maintain friendships abroad and at home while always coming and going.

But putting ourselves out there to make new friends can feel overwhelming, too. There’s no guarantee we’ll meet our new best friend at a Meetup, art class, coffee shop, gym, or run club. Instant connections, like the one I made on the plane, are rare.

I’ve struggled with loneliness lately, telling myself I need to get out more. But maybe it’s less about forcing ourselves to seek new people, and more about opening our eyes to those already nearby, instead of hiding behind headphones and screens— whether on a plane, at the grocery store, or walking through the neighborhood.

Now Sunday is shaping up to be a special day. I’ll be running the half-marathon with my new airplane friend and with Reem (who was once an internet stranger and we ended up traveling to Morocco together last year). Reem is flying in this week to join the race as we celebrate both our 30th birthdays. Here’s to making friends with strangers and the unifying power of running.

This short story shows that sometimes our initial resistance to something (like wanting solitude in this case) is overruled by circumstance, and the very thing we try to avoid might turn out to bring a valuable lesson and gift us a positive, meaningful experience. Sometimes what may seem like an interruption or inconvenience can be a gift if we are open to receiving it and letting life’s little twists guide us.

Sometimes we just want to shut out the world and retreat to our headphones. But when we take time to notice and engage with the people around us, we open ourselves to new connections and unexpected moments of joy.

Taking the “long way home” isn’t always about taking more time or covering more distance. It’s a metaphor for the unplanned moments we initially resist or overlook. But it’s these exact moments that give life its depth and color.

Sometimes the very thing we resist, whether it's a conversation we don’t want to have or an interaction we try to avoid, is exactly what we need. Al que no quiere caldo se le dan dos tazas.

Read another story about a conversation with a stranger… this time at a bakery in Sydney…

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“All things flow, nothing abides. You cannot step into the same river twice, for the waters are continually flowing on. Nothing is permanent except change.” — Heraclitus

For the past nine winters, my family has the tradition of camping at Big Bend National Park during Christmas and New Year’s. Not only is this our giant “reset” button that we look forward to every year, but it’s time away from internet and reconnecting with our selves and one another.

After nearly a decade of frequenting this park, we’ve become familiar with its roads, mountains, winds, and animals. But we’ve also grown used to its ever-changing parts like how some years the Rio Grande is rapid, cold, and flowing while other years it’s warm and shallow. We’ve gotten years where temperatures have dipped to below freezing and other years where it’s so hot we’d had to not go on hikes and seek shade. We’ve gotten flat tires and car trouble on backroads in the middle of no-where, got surprised by a bear, and lots more.

Not only have we witnessed different versions of the park, but the park has gotten to see different versions of us. Who I was as a 19-year old visiting the park for the first time is vastly different from the 29-year old version of me who visited the park last month.

One of the biggest gifts Big Bend has given us is the time to practice being sensible to what’s going on in the moment. Instead of synchronizing with the rhythms of phones, internet, work, and obligations, these trips grant us a routine that aligns our days with the sun, the weather, stars and moon, meals as a family, finding water, and the very basic elements of life. But this year, I learned that it’s not just the external factors we become more sensible to, but our own inner dialogue and insights.

This winter’s trip was different than usual and it had hidden unexpected lessons within it, that have set the stage for this new year and a wider perspective on life with respects to lifestyle and career decisions.

Listening to your body and the environment

The end of December for many of us can be an overwhelming time. It’s deadlines, projects, business deals, gifts, and waterfalls of emotions that come with the mental toll of a year ending and a new one beginning. It was no mystery why I got sick so frequently in December…stress. But I thought that like all the other years, the stress would disappear the moment we got into the car and started our road trip to the desert.

Contrary to my assumptions, I got sick again almost as soon as we arrived. I was happy to be there and share the time with family and friends, but when I noticed swollen lymph nodes, had fever for two nights, and a mysterious outbreak of bug bites, I knew something was off balance. There are often forces that compel us to choose a particular direction, and this was one of those times.

I’d already spent a week out in the desert, and it wasn’t just hanging out at the campsite. We did a strenuous two-day backpacking adventure across the Chisos mountains at 8K feet of elevation, had cooking chores, swam in the river, hiked every day, and even took a canoe across the Rio Grande in a boat into Mexico to drink margaritas and eat enchiladas. But there came a point where I couldn’t ignore my sickness, so I decided to leave a bit earlier than planned while my family stayed. What followed was a week at home where I got the rest I needed. Getting sick on our trip wasn’t the best experience, but it led to what my body and mind needed— rest.

Wu-Wei, the principle of non-action

For Christmas, someone gifted me a book about zen philosophy titled, It’s Ok To Not Look for the Meaning of Life. I didn’t have time to read it during our camping trip, so when I went back home to the couch, I read it in two days and it turned out to be the exact medicine I need in the moment.

One of the suggestions in the book is that in times of stress, we can lean on spiritual leaders or people who we can have unbiased discussions about life with. My friend Elie came to mind, as he is a meditation and QiGong teacher and studies eastern philosophies. I met him at a Shaolin temple almost three years ago and we’ve become good friends.

Seeking some guidance, I went to him with a question: When do we know if we need to act and take agency, or let things go with the flow and leave it up to fate?

This paradox led him to introducing me to the Taoist concept of Wu-Wei, the principle of non-action.

“Wu” means “without” or “lacking.” It refers to the absence of force and ego. “Wei” means “to do” or “to act.” It refers to deliberate or intentional action . When we put it together, Wu-Wei isn’t about doing nothing. It’s about acting without unnecessary force.

In my example of getting sick while camping, I made the conscious choice to go home early instead of forcing myself to stay and push through the sickness. It’s a paradox in the sense that an understanding what’s necessary in the moment, is more useful than pressuring ourselves to trying to force something to happen.

Imagine being a sailor at sea. Elie explained that the sailor feels the current and wind, and adapts the sails to it. Wu-Wei is about being aware of the flow of the universe and attentive to it. If it feels like forces are happening against us, it’s because we’re acting from a place of ego, trying to move in a direction against the wind because we want to reach a certain destination. The lesson is: be aware of the flow.

Not only was my sickness external, but there were internal emotions and feelings of exhaustion and frustration that had been occurring long before our camping trip as symptoms of burnout. That’s why I ultimately decided not to force things and go home. Those days spent at home recovering granted me the space to reflect and have insightful conversations with friends and mentors like Elie.

Even though I wasn’t out hiking and camping anymore, I also wasn’t at home doing nothing. Sometimes what we need is a quieter type of action.

Later that day after the conversation with Elie, I texted Moctezuma, the owner of Livra, a local bookstore. He’s become a bit like my personal book finder and said he’d help track down a specific copy of the Tao Te Ching (Ursula Le Guin translation), and he did. I picked it up at the store and opened it to a completely random page which read:

WATER AND STONE

What’s softest in the world

rushes and runs

over what’s hardest in the world.

The immaterial

enters

the impenetrable.

So I know the good in not doing.

The wordless teaching,

the profit in not doing—

not many people understand it.

I was both surprised and not surprised that the random passage in the book, was yet another signal trying to tell me something. Water doesn’t resist change or external forces, it adapts and flows. It may be soft, but it carves rock and stone. To my understanding, Wu-Wei is similar. It’s where we act from a place of stillness instead of ego or anxiety. It’s learning to read the subtle signs happening in the present moment and allowing that to inform our actions. Sometimes we need stillness and silence to spot those small signs that often go unperceived.

In the desert, when we camp, we learn to prepare for and adapt to thunderstorms, freezes, or heat waves. We also experience stillness away from distractions. We’re so focused on the present moment that it sharpens our view of what really matters in life. After nine years, I thought I knew Big Bend. But every visit proves it’s always changing. Even when we return to the same place, we don’t return as the same people. So, in a way, Big Bend’s unpredictability is what’s always unchanging, and each year has something to teach us. As Heraclitus said, you never step in the same river twice.

Each year, I try to take a lesson from Big Bend and put it into practice. This year, it’s meditation. During our trip, my friend Lisa and I would wake before dawn, crawl out of our tents in the dark guided by moonlight, and find a spot facing East where we’d see the scarlet red first rays of light. Curled up with blankets surrounded by prickly pear cacti, she’d play a Tibetan singing bowl, and we’d meditate for 30 minutes as the sun rose. It’s slightly different at home, but I’m proud to say I’m on day 18 of meditating every day. If the river is always changing, then learning to sit still inside it might be the most useful skill of all.

Enjoyed this story? You might like these other Big Bend stories: 33 Mile New Year’s Hike in Big Bend’s Remote Wilderness (2024) | Family’s Camping Tradition (2024) | Traveling doesn’t end when you get back home (2023) | Desert Trip… a poem (2022) |

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Life is no straight and easy corridor along which we travel free and unhampered, but a maze of passages, through which we must seek our way, lost and confused, now and again checked in a blind alley.

But always, if we have faith, a door will open for us, not perhaps one that we ourselves would ever have thought of, but one that will ultimately prove good for us. — A. J. Cronin

It’s the early 2000s. I recall sitting in my mom’s Honda. Her car was always spotless and orderly, and if we ever left so much as a crumb, we would feel her wrath. The only thing always allowed to be out of place was a thin book tucked between the driver’s seat and the middle console. My dad bought that book at a Hudson News stand during an airport layover and passed it on to my mom to read. Instead of putting it on a bookshelf, she kept it by the driver’s side to read through whenever she had time.

As a kid, I’d leaf through the book when I was bored in the car, but never actually read it until two decades years later. A few weeks ago I asked my dad if he still had the copy, and he handed it to me. It may sound cheesy, but it’s a book from 1998 about cheese. More importantly, it’s a book about something most of us fear: change.

Life is like a maze, and we spend a lot of time in there looking for what we want (Cheese. Yes it’s a metaphor.) Cheese takes many shapes but it’s things like the career we dream of, relationships we long for, or the community we want to be part of, or home we want to build. But it’s not a straight line. It’s usually more of a confusing labyrinth with dead-ends and unexpected turns. Sometimes it feels like we are going around in circles, only to realize later that we were climbing up a spiral the entire time.

Who Moved My Cheese, is a short book about two little humans and two mice, and how each reacts differently when their beloved cheese disappears. It’s about learning to sniff change early, scurry into action, overcome the fear of change, and adapt in time to see that change usually leads to somewhere better. In other words, it’s about taking the long way home no matter how many changes come our way… and learning to enjoy the process.

It takes about two hours to read, so I recommend you read it for yourself. But here are some of my biggest learnings that may be helpful for you too:

1. Don’t get too comfortable, or you won’t be ready for what’s next.

It’s cliche for a reason: the only certainty is uncertainty. When we get too comfortable with something, we become blind to the subtle signs of change happening around us. It’s not to say we shouldn’t enjoy the moment or where we are, but means staying grounded in the present while keeping a pulse of when the air starts to change and prepared to act when the moment does.

2. Fear is normal, but it doesn’t have to stop us.

Running through a confusing maze is risky, and it’s normal to be scared in the face of uncertainty. But traveling through a maze is also an adventure. It’s thrilling, enlightening, tough, and even fun.

There’s a quote that I love by the founder of Patagonia, Yvonne Chouinard, that says something like, “When something goes wrong is where adventure begins.” Instead of allowing fear to paralyze us, how can we use it as fuel to move forward with courage? Out in the maze, we face challenges and face our demons, but isn’t that exactly what we’ve been training for? These adventures are often when we feel most alive!

3. Activity vs Productivity.

In the book, when the cheese disappears, the mice scurry off into the maze to search for it elsewhere. Meanwhile, the little humans start drilling holes in the walls, convinced the cheese must be hidden inside. They work longer and harder, but all they’re left with are holes… and no cheese anywhere to be found.

Eventually, one of the little humans suggests waiting for the cheese to return. Meanwhile, the other laces up his sneakers and prepares to head into the maze in search of other cheese. He’s nervous, but determined to venture out.

Doing the same thing over and over (ahem… drilling holes searching for cheese that is no longer there) while hoping for a different result is activity, not progress. Sometimes growth comes not from trying harder, but from changing direction.

There are, of course, things we cannot change. The point of this isn’t for us to try to control everything or pounce on any sudden change. It can also be about acknowledging that even a change of mindset, can work wonders.

4. When we move beyond our fear, we feel free.

It’s only when we realize we’ve been held captive only by our own fear, that we start to feel how invigorating it is to be on an adventure. We feel refreshed with new movement.

I’ve felt this on my “Long Way Home” trips. When I was in places like Morocco, Cuba, and Japan, I remember wondering why those experiences felt so good. Not because they were easy. Travel takes effort and can be emotionally draining. But because in my everyday life, it often feels like I don’t have life fully figured out yet.

I remember worrying about whether I was being responsible by being on those trips, anxious about money, and stressed about middle-of-the-night calls in Asia just to keep up appearances at work, and wondering if I’d be safe as a solo female traveler. There was also the mental and emotional weight of seeing how people live in these vastly different places, often with so little.

And yet, when you’re out there talking with strangers, forming genuine connections, and navigating unfamiliar experiences, life suddenly feels less serious.

Those fears of not being good enough, not having enough money, not having it all figured out… begin to fade. And what remains is the simple joy of feeling alive.

When we let go of the fear and trust what lies ahead, we discover what nourishes our soul and gives us freedom.

5. Growth usually happens in the area outside of familiarity.

Venturing into the unknown is how we discover new parts of ourselves and the world. It may look like travel, a career shift, sports, or even something as small as going out of your way to talk with a stranger or to take a different route home.

Sometimes it’s stepping out of our physical comfort zone, but other times it’s our mental one. Our limitations are often shaped by our own perceptions, and it’s only by stepping outside them that we begin to see what we’re capable of.

Orson Welles said, “The enemy of art is the absence of limitations.” Think about that for a second and maybe like me, you will realize he is right. Who would we be without challenges, change, and limitations? For the best works of art and human endeavors are often born from friction. Humans thrive when we’re given some parameters, and then push to shatter them. Imagine life without change… I think we’d be bored!

What to Do When Cheese Moves (because yes, it will get moved)

Everyone defines their “cheese” differently. For some, it’s material success. For others, it’s health, family, purpose, or a particular job. But what happens when we devote years to chasing our cheese, only to discover one day that it’s gone?

Cheese disappearing can mean loosing a job we loved or not getting into the university we hoped for. It can mean watching a product we spent years building, suddenly loose funding. Or realizing the place you call home no longer fits who we are becoming. While we can’t predict when the change will strike, we can prepare ourselves to act once we sense it.

Some of us notice change early and begin preparing. Others lace up their shoes and immediately head into the maze. Some stay in denial, hoping the cheese will return because the unknown feels too frightening. And some pause to ask a deeper question: Why do I want this cheese in the first place? And how can I adapt the situation?

Which one are you?

It’s in that long, winding process of exploration, where we get lost, meet others along the way, pause to ask “why,” or sit in the sun for a moment, that we grow. Growth rarely happens at point A or point B. It always happens somewhere in between.

And maybe, just maybe, by choosing to take the long way home, we find the best cheese of all. The kind we never expected to find, because we were never looking for it in the first place.

(Enjoyed this piece? Give it a like or leave a comment, it helps others find this work. And if you read the book, please let the know! For fellow book-lovers, check out the article below about my favorite book)

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Many of us in our 20s and 30s share two common questions: Where do we truly belong? And What is home?

We move cities, change careers, travel the world, meet countless people, amass thousands of online acquaintances, yet still feel lonely. Our workplaces are digital, we spend our days on screens, and attempt different curated meetup groups.

But as our identities stretch with new experiences, it’s often a challenge finding others who understand the versions of ourselves we are growing into. Building grounded community can still feel surprisingly difficult amongst a generation that is constantly on the move physically, culturally, and emotionally.

In this piece, I set out to explore belonging, home, and connection.

It Starts With Loneliness

Carl Jung said, “Loneliness does not come from having no people around you, but from being unable to communicate the things that seem important to you.”

The problem isn’t necessarily having few friends, it’s having people we feel safe sharing the things that matter to us in that moment. Life changes, and so do the topics we care about. What mattered five years ago might no longer be what shapes our days now. That’s why we can feel lonely even in a circle of friends: we may no longer share the same struggles, joys, or pursuits we all once did.

Five years ago most of my closest friendships revolved around endurance sports. I discovered a strong community of people surrounding those interests and went on to form some of my best friendships. But as my interests shifted, so did the time I spent with that community.

The more I started traveling, when I retuned home, I felt incredibly disconnected. It’s only now that I’ve realized our sense of connection evolves just as we do. It’s not about abandoning communities, but finding those that fill our soul with connection and interests we are seeking in the moment.

For instance when we move to a new place, it can be really difficult to make new friends. Three years ago I moved to Paris for the summer and didn’t know anyone. To make friends, I went to a run club and made instant friends. This year, I was in Paris again but this time, a friend invited me to a group called “Home: Third Culture Kids.” That’s where I learned there’s a whole category of people who share these feelings of confusion in belonging and long-winded answers to “where is home.”

Third Culture Kids

The concept called “Third Culture Kids” refers to people who grew up in a unique blend of cultural influences. It could be that their parents are of two different cultures, that they moved around a lot during their childhood, were born in one place but grew up in another, or have just traveled a lot throughout their lives.

Most of us who identify as Third Culture Kids (TCK), find it challenging to describe what “home” is. Mostly because we don’t feel fully one culture or identity. It could be we lived between countries, languages, or cultures. It means we have long answers to the question, “where are you from?”

Our very first meetup was 50+ people making flower bouquets and having a picnic at Jardin du Luxembourg. Funny enough we all felt like miss-matched flower bouquets, full of colorful and mix-and-match cultures. It was fascinating to meet people with such vibrant, mixed backgrounds.

Many nomads also face a big struggle: returning “home.” Each time I returned to Austin, I found it harder to reconnect with old friends. Travel had added new layers and complexities to my identity. I craved Turkish simits, Arabic coffee, Japanese sake, and Australian Vegemite. I missed walkability and public transport. Austin suddenly felt small. The only people who understood these feelings were TCKs.

This year after returning from summer nomad travels, I decided to do something about it, and hosted the first Third Culture Club in Austin, Texas.

Starting Third Culture Club Austin

When something doesn’t exist, sometimes we just have to create it ourselves. After a late-night Google search for TCK groups in Austin and finding none, I made a Partiful invite, designed a Canva flyer, and printed posters. I asked my Kurdish friends who own a coffee shop if they’d host us. A week later, about 20 TCKs showed up.

Everyone wore stickers with their names and countries they identified with, and we played a TCK bingo (like finding people who spoke three languages, kept multiple time zones on their lock screen, or had lived in more than two countries). At the end, we hosted a plant exchange so people could share a small piece of “home.”

People came from all backgrounds: someone born in the US but raised in Thailand, someone from Korea but raised in the US, another who’s from Syria but grew up in Qatar, and me— born in Colombia, raised in Florida, living in Texas, and traveling often. It was special meeting people with entirely different histories but overlapping experiences. Most conversations circled back to one big question: What is home?

After the meetup, several people expressed appreciation for the gathering. We were all in awe of how different we all were, yet the similarities we shared. One thing’s for sure: none of us felt lonely that day.

So, What Is Home?

My friend Markian, who started the TCK club in Paris, has a Ukrainian-American mom and a French-Moroccan dad, but grew up between Spain, Hong Kong, and Russia. My friend Nellie who co-lead the group has a Danish mom and an Iranian dad, grew up in London, and now lives in Spain. One July evening this summer, the three of us sat on the grass at Place des Vosges discussing “home.”

We settled on this: home is the habits, people, landscapes, and familiarities that ground us.

While talking, I realized none of us live conventional lifestyles. We’re nomadic twenty-somethings hopping from country to country, working on digital businesses, adding layers to our identities through travel. Something unimaginable for previous generations.

Today we can see what someone’s job looks like in Tokyo, or a friend’s daily life in a small Indian village. Many of us work remotely, settle when we choose or never settle at all. Some of us are immigrants two, three, or even four times in a lifetime.

Humans have always been migratory. Maybe borders have muddied things, but changing homes is not new. Some people have deep roots in one place, while others have long roots spread across the world like a giant web.

That’s why this blog is called Long Way Home. Home changes as we do. It isn’t tied to one place, and it can shift with new experiences, people, and beliefs. Home is what we choose it to be, and it’s okay if it’s not straightforward. As long as we find grounding, peace of mind, and people who let us be our best selves, that is home.

Sometimes the path to home is a long, winding road with multiple stops. When we choose to build the spaces that feel genuine to us, connection follows. Home isn’t just a place we return to, it’s often a community we create.

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Feeling stuck is inevitable. It means we are experiencing an inner state in which we want to move forward, change something, or feel differently, but we feel unable to make progress or act. It could feel like we are overthinking every decision, like nothing feels right, that we know something needs to change, but don’t know what or how to change. If you’re reading this, that means you’re probably no stranger to this feeling too.

In realizing I am not alone in this struggle, I decided to explore the theme of feeling stuck, and make that the theme for this essay.

What is feeling stuck?

Feeling stuck is a kind of tension. It’s a mental and emotional strain. It’s an in-between state from where we are now to where we want to go. But for those who dare to step into the long journey of reaching our next goal, that usually means an inevitable dance with anxiety, pressure, or analysis paralysis. Because this journey is long and tainted with uncertainty and restlessness.

But if we are determined to pursue our dreams and goals, feeling stuck is natural and unavoidable. The danger comes when we give in to those moments and let them convince us to stop. It’s not a question of if, but when.

In this essay, we will explore four ways we can ease the discomfort of feeling stuck. These are things I’ve learned from books, mentors, or strangers on my travels:

1. Patience

Rainer Maria Rilke, author of “Letters to a Young Poet,” wrote, “Practiced in the present, patience is the art of courting the future.” This is a reminder to us that patience means being gentle with our process of becoming, for just as nature can’t rush the growth of a flower, we cannot rush toward our full bloom. Patience means embracing our feelings of stagnancy, while not falling to the trap of giving up. It means riding the seasons as they ebb and flow, and sitting with the work, especially when nothing appears to be happening.

A few summers ago, I was deep in the forests of Germany, training in Shaolin Kung Fu. Our master told us a story about bamboo. He explained that bamboo seedlings take a very long time to sprout. They spend a lot of time setting up a network of strong roots, and on the surface it looks like nothing is happening. We start to question what we did wrong. Did we plant them incorrectly, water them too much, or too little? While our bamboo shows no signs of life, the other plants around it are lush and blooming. Then one day, without warning, the bamboo breaks through the ground and shoots up to incredible heights.

Just because we don’t see immediate results doesn’t mean the work isn’t happening underneath. Sometimes no one can see the growth, not even us, especially when we’re in the thick of it. That’s usually when we start to feel stuck. These are the moments when we have to find a balance between not giving up, continuing to move forward, and having the patience and faith to let time do the rest. Everyone is in a different stage of growth.

2. The moment doesn’t have to be perfect.

A few years ago, I was invited last minute to be in a YouTube video and flown out to Europe for what I thought would be a quick four–day trip. They covered the flights, so it felt like a fun, unexpected opportunity even though the timing wasn’t ideal. The plan was simple: film, explore a little, and head back home. But that trip didn’t end after four days. It unfolded into three months of travel across Europe, Asia, and even Australia, with the flights covered the entire way. While I had plans and responsibilities waiting for me back home, something in me knew that if I waited for a “better” moment, it might never come. Saying yes changed my life. It opened my world, shaped my perspective, and taught me that an imperfect moment can still be the right one.

The moment doesn’t have to be perfect for us to make a move, whether it’s changing jobs, moving to a new city or country, or ending a relationship. We often wait for ideal conditions before taking action, without seeing that the imperfect moment in front of us might actually be the best time to begin. It’s when we move toward a goal that we create room for opportunity to show up. Progress, not perfection.

3. It’s okay to feel different.

Somewhere along the way, we’re taught that life is supposed to unfold on a linear timeline: college at 18, partying at 21, career at 22, love of your life in your mid-20s, marriage, a house, kids, and so on. And when our lives don’t come anywhere close to that, it’s easy to feel like we are behind or different from everyone around us. Some people fall in love at 22 and others at 40; some have a breakthrough business early in their careers, while it takes others years; some feel happy with late nights at bars, while others feel happy with 5am morning training for marathons.

Feeling different doesn’t mean we are living life wrong, or that we are off schedule. Our timing may be unconventional, nonlinear, messy, or beautifully unexpected, but that’s exactly what makes our life, OUR life.

I struggle with feeling different for many reasons, but one of the biggest is how unconventional my life has looked over the past few years. I’ve spent the last four summers living and working from different parts of the world, while many of my friends back home are settling into routines, getting engaged, moving up in their careers, or buying homes. It’s not that anyone is pressuring me directly, but there’s an unspoken sense of when life is supposed to follow certain steps or stages, and it’s easy to notice when your path doesn’t line up with that.

During those summers abroad, my life has unfolded in ways I never expected. I spent time in Paris, trained in Shaolin Kung Fu, joined spontaneous trips with people I met online, ran ultramarathons, and slowly built my business. None of it matches the traditional timeline, but each experience shaped me in ways I never expected and wouldn’t trade. They make me, me.

Someone recently reminded me that reaching thirty without having the same experiences as everyone else doesn’t mean we’re behind. Maybe we didn’t go through the typical dating phase in our 20s, or never felt drawn to the traditional corporate career path. Maybe we chose travel over settling down, or spent more time on personal projects. None of that means we’re late. It simply means our timing is different, and those chapters, whatever they look like, might unfold for us at a moment that fits who we are.

4. The way is the goal.

When I get asked, “What was the best part of your travels?” I’ve realized in my responses that it’s never about the place; it’s about the people. The people I meet are those who teach me life’s most important lessons.

In the beach town of Essaouira, Morocco, this summer, I was watching the sunset with two new German friends I had just met at a restaurant a few hours before. While they were trying to say the phrase, “The journey is the destination,” what came out was, “The way is the goal.”

I loved this phrase they came up with because it’s a reminder that the pauses, the detours, and the slow chapters of life are part of the goal, too. They are part of the path that’s trying to teach us who we are. The moments of standstill, feelings of stagnancy, and long waits are part of the long way home. One day, we will look back on the chapters of our life where nothing seemed to happen as crucial moments that quietly shaped us.

Embracing the slow chapters

The places, experiences, and people we encounter are all part of the way. Having a goal is helpful to keep our sails moving toward something, but we must remember that sometimes the smooth and quiet seas are drifting us in that direction too.

Life isn’t always a ferocious whirlwind of energy and movement. Sometimes it’s quiet, subtle, and slow. Sometimes we see more signposts on our road and more directions, while other times there are fewer. It doesn’t mean we have stopped moving. Feeling stuck isn’t the absence of progress; it’s part of the way. And the way is the goal. The way is the treasure.

Enjoyed this story? Give it a “like” by hitting the heart button, share it with a friend who you think would enjoy it, or leave a comment if it resonated with you. If you feel stuck, remember you are not alone, it happens to all of us! Thanks for reading:) —Maria

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Part 1: Halloween Story

The first thing the previous tenant told me, the day I moved into my house, was that the neighbors across the street were extremely quiet. I thought it was an odd thing to say, except when I realized he was referring to the cemetery directly across my street.

He was right. After a few weeks of living in my house, I’d turn out the lights and enjoy the loud silence. No noise from roommates, neighbors, or cars. Peace and quiet. But the first oddity arrived quickly. Not in the shape of noise, but as an orb of glowing green light somewhere deep in the cemetery. I’d see it as I closed my curtains each night, and at first I thought nothing of it. Maybe it was a solar light someone had placed next to a headstone. But night after night, I saw the little green light dance from spot to spot and some days it didn’t appear at all.

By daylight, the cemetery didn’t scare me. In fact, someone had conveniently removed one of the iron bars in the fence directly across my house, leaving an opening wide enough to fit a body through. So the cemetery became my daily walk in the park, and I had easy access rather than walking half a mile to the main entrance. I also didn’t have to abide by the 7 pm closing time.

One crisp fall night, I saw the green light appear like an eye blinking in the black void of night. I don’t know where the burst of courage came from, but I found myself sneaking out like a cat on the prowl, and at 10 pm, crawling through the hole in the fence, determined to find the light. While I could see it from my window, I searched and searched between the tombs, but never found the source. That was the last time I ever saw it.

The mystery didn’t stop with the lights. My front door has two doors: one screen door with a lock, and a second regular door. I always lock the regular door, but never the screen door. Until suddenly I’d arrive home and find the screen door locked. At first, I thought maybe I had locked it by accident. The second time I thought I was going crazy. But then it kept happening a few times a month. I was going to ask my landlord if maybe the handle was broken, but I had a business trip, so I decided to wait until I returned.

While I was away, my parents ended up coming over to stay at my house because there had been a storm and their power was knocked out for days. One day, my mom called to share that the screen door was locked and hard to open. I told her I swore I had left it unlocked. A few days passed, and all was fine, until it happened again. She swore she hadn’t locked it, but when she came back from work, and it was clearly locked.

Cemeteries are places I usually visit, even when I travel. From walking through Okuno-in in Japan, one of the most strikingly beautiful places I’ve ever been to, to my favorite reading spot in Paris, Père Lachaise, to the cheerful, colorful cemetery in the ghost town of Terlingua, Texas. I find them fascinating, peaceful places full of memories and interesting characters—places to reflect on life and wonder about what else lies ahead.

But I have a theory that those folks tucked into the soil at the cemetery across my street sometimes feel a little lonely and like to play some pranks. When I’m in Austin, I still take my near-daily walks through the cemetery (mostly in daylight, don’t worry). I imagine how quiet it must be for them, so sometimes I tell them stories from my travels: about my “Around the World in 89 Days” trip that started as four days in Germany and turned into three months across Turkey, Hong Kong, Japan, and Australia; about the unforgettable comic discomfort of riding camels in Morocco; and about running 50 kilometers, wondering if anyone from the 1800s could have imagined humans doing that for fun.

You may think I’m crazy, but since I started those cemetery walk-and-talks, I have never again seen any more green orb lights, and my door does not mysteriously lock itself anymore.

Part 2: Dia De Los Muertos

Tonight (Oct 30, 2025), I arrived home in the dark with exhausted legs after the gym. Instead of the usual stillness and quiet from the neighbors across the street, I heard something different. Music and laughter.

The sounds were coming from deep inside the cemetery, and once again, my curiosity got the best of me. Still in my workout clothes and by the light of the quarter moon, I pierced the darkness of the shadows and squeezed myself through the familiar gap between the iron bars of the fence.

As I found my footing, my eyes glazed over the silhouetted field of gravestones and crosses. It wasn’t the rustling of leaves or the creaking of trees on a windless night that invited me in, but the sound of trumpets and mariachi music, and the delicious smell of cooking food drifting from unseen corners of the cemetery.

Orange lights and candles gave the cemetery a soft welcoming glow, and I could see a crowd of 60 or more figures gathered in the distance. As I approached, I saw that a big patch of the cemetery was decorated with ofrendas, colorful skulls, and marigold flowers. Tables were lined with photos of smiling people. Some probably from the early 1900s, others more recent. Women dressed in colorful clothes and pink flower crowns. A few men had their faces painted as skulls and wore colorful ponchos. There was Mexican hot chocolate, menudo, tamales, and pan de muerto, of course.

I had stumbled into a celebration of the Mexican tradition, Dia de los Muertos, literally in my front yard. I stood toward the back of the crowd, observing, unsure if it was an event for the families of the descendants or if it was open to the public. As I stood there feeling awkward, debating whether to ask someone what was going on, to approach the food table, or to leave, a woman suddenly appeared next to me.

She had red lipstick and a flower crown on her head and seemed to materialize from thin air beside me. The next thing I knew, this stranger named Gloria was introducing me to the organizers of the event. Then she grabbed my hand, led me to the tables of food, and placed in one hand a plate full of tamales, tortillas, conches, cookies, and in my other hand, a mug of spiced hot chocolate. All the while, I was still in my sweaty gym shorts.

Attendees were a mix of Tejano descendants of those buried on this land, a few other neighbors like me who had wandered in, professors from the university, and representatives from the cemetery and the Mexican-American Cultural Heritage Center. There were a few speeches on the importance of preserving heritage and history through stories passed down from generation to generation. People sat on lawn chairs amongst the gravestones and there was a feeling of togetherness, respect, and pride in the air. I thought that those prankster souls must be loving all of the above-ground company they were getting today.

I love feeling of being more connected to those in the cemetery and neighborhood. The people whose graves I can see from my window are the same ones whose living relatives were here shaking my hand and sharing their cookies and tamales. The faded name on the slab of marble, “José Limón: Father & Husband; 1831-1862,” no longer feels like a complete stranger, but like a person with family who I just met, who had a challenging but fruitful life, and who had talents and left a legacy.

I have two final points. One is about the beauty of public spaces, and yes, cemeteries are some of those. In fact, back in the day, cemeteries used to be treated as parks—well-kept and places where people gathered and picnicked.

How can we learn about the history of a place and the people who lived here before us? We can take a second to imagine the type of lives they led and the events of their time. Think about how their struggles were so different from ours today, yet in many ways the same. Wonder about what made them happy and what they accomplished.

This cemetery in particular has graves from the late 1700’s right next to a fresh one from last week. There are headstones etched with Free Mason symbols, Arabic phrases, the cross, the Star of David, and very Mexican names next to very German names. The world down there very much matches the world up here, and public spaces like this one give all of us a moment of reflection, celebration, and connection with new people, all in a graveyard filled with bright colors and collective living memory.

This leads to the second point: I believe we have the wonderful responsibility and ability to carry on the memory of those who have passed on, and celebrate their lives over and over. There were hundreds of photographs on the ofrenda tonight. Old, young, white, black, brown, tall, short, rich, poor. Many of us there took the time to look at the photos one by one, to look into their faces, and wonder who they were and what they stood for. What they liked to eat, the music they listened to, and the dreams they had.

Recently, I’ve been thinking that the long way “home” can be perceived as death. Not in a morbid sense, but one that brings peace of mind and a bit more motivation. We are living this life and our short time, making the best we can with what we have, all the while hoping that we can breathe this air above the ground just a little bit longer. All we can do is surrender to circumstance while remembering that, in our power, we often still have the choice to take the longer way, wherever we are headed.

Even in death, our journeys continue, carried by those who remember our stories and our hearts. May we, in turn, carry others on their long way home. And may the infamous ‘dash’ between our dates grant us a long, winding, memorable voyage.

So while the neighbors across my street may not make much noise, I think they have a lot to teach us!

(PS: If you enjoyed this story, you may enjoy this one about what we can learn from Dia de Los Muertos, which I wrote about in 2024).

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On a dusty sunburnt day in Marrakesh, two girls in their late teens grabbed me each by an arm and hurled us all into incoming traffic. I shut my eyes and only opened them once we’d emerged on the other side—alive, laughing, and strangely exhilarated in the middle of Jemaa el-Fnaa square.

The girls were smiling. They didn’t know me, although we’d shared a taxi a few minutes earlier. During the ride I wondered why the driver picked them up after I was already in the car, until I realized that’s just how taxis work here. They are shared spaces.

I got out of the taxi and froze, staring at the churning sea of cars, tuktuks, and donkey carts with no crosswalk in sight. Sensing my hesitation, they showed me how the locals cross… by walking straight into traffic.

Marrakesh’s streets are loud, alive, and pull everyone into the same shared space. Everyone negotiating movement together. While it looks unhinged, somehow it works.

Crossing the chaotic street bonded us more than the taxi ride. We hugged and laughed like old friends, exchanged Instagrams, then they disappeared into the labyrinth of the medina. I never saw them again.

These micro moments of strangers crossing paths for just a few minutes are often the highlight of my travels. But the more I move through the world, the more I realize that the design of our cities shapes how often these serendipitous crossings happen. Walkability, transportation, and gathering spots not only influence our physical health through movement, but also our mental health through connection, empathy, and togetherness.

Listening to a podcast from Esther Perel, a renowned psychotherapist and author who studies human relationships, I was reminded how isolated we are today. In many American cities, people go from home to car to work to home and rely on online deliveries, losing everyday human interactions. In older, walkable cities in Europe where cafe culture reigns, or small pueblos in Colombia where the elderly sit on the streets, walking creates natural opportunities for people to meet, chat, and feel part of a community.

Jane Jacobs, an author who wrote and observed that the trust of a city street is formed over time from many little public sidewalk contacts1 . People stopping by the bar for a beer, getting advice from the grocer, keeping an open tab for weeks at the local cafe, admiring new babies, or sympathizing over a current event. All these seemingly trivial interactions accumulate into a web of public respect and trust, a social resource that can be relied on in times of need. Even the most quotidian errands and exchanges contribute to a feeling of community, which is largely absent in car-dependent, convenience-focused cities.

1. What Makes a Third Place

Traditionally, third places are the places we go that aren’t home or work and that are free or low-cost. They are places like coffee shops, libraries, parks, and gyms. But I think that definition misses something essential: the street.

There’s a wonderful photobook by New York photographer Joel Meyerowitz, where he beautifully writes about street photography. Because the street is where life happens, and where strangers’ lives collide. People interacting across ages, cultures, and backgrounds. The street is where we step outside of our private worlds and meet the public.

Third places are where connection happens by design or by accident. They are the antidote to isolation because they encourage eye contact, small acts of kindness, and the awareness that we’re part of a shared world.

2. Stories from the Road

Istanbul. The first time I was in Istanbul, I was waiting at a bus stop alone when a woman joined me. She started talking in fast Turkish and pointed to my wallet. At first, I thought she was asking for money, but then I realized she wanted me to pay her bus fare with my card, and she would pay me back in cash (buses only accept transit cards, not cash). The bus finally arrived, and I helped her board. Inside, we used Google Translate to have a nice conversation. She even helped me figure out which bus to transfer to and which ferry to take across the Bosphorus. Small, fleeting interactions like these give hope in humanity make ordinary days feel special.

Hong Kong. I walked along the Avenue of the Stars overlooking the humid harbor of Hong Kong. It was my first night in the city, and I didn’t know anyone or have any plans. People around me were taking photos with the skyline, and I tried taking a selfie with my phone, but it didn’t do it justice. I took out my Sony camera and attempted a selfie, wishing I had someone to travel with so that I didn’t have to take awkward selfies. I must have looked ridiculous because a stranger around my age stopped and offered to take my photo. That’s how I met Natasha, who is my age and from St. Petersburg, Russia, but lives in Chongqing, China studying medicine. We bonded immediately. Since we were both alone without plans, we walked to a 7-Eleven, grabbed a couple of beers, and then sat on a bench by the harbor talking for three hours. She shared the complications of holding a Russian and Chinese passport, we bonded over a love of cultures and travel, and by chance we crossed paths again in Kyoto a month later. Looking back on Hong Kong, it isn’t the skyline or buildings that linger in my memory, it’s those few hours spent talking and connecting with Natasha.

Chicago. Last week, I visited the city for work to study a community-run group called Peace Runners, which brings neighbors together to run and walk in a disinvested and overlooked neighborhood of the West Side of the city.

I took the metro instead of an Uber, which gave me a chance to experience public interaction. On the stairs, I helped an elderly woman in colorful African clothes carry her heavy suitcase. Her English was limited, but she thanked me repeatedly. This simple moment illustrated how being in public lets us help others and bond with strangers.

My conclusion after spending a few days with the Peace Runners group, shows that these small, everyday connections build a strong sense of community, even in neighborhoods under tension, proving how empathy, interaction, and movement (walking and running) strengthen the bonds that keep communities resilient.

Austin. While many third-place interactions happen while walking or on public transport, they can also happen in car-dominated cities. Last week, I discovered a Syrian coffee shop tucked inside a Mexican-owned laundromat. The Syrian barista was learning Spanish; the laundromat owner was learning Arabic. People of all sorts were coming in to do their laundry. Some looked like they may live out of their car, others were students, and others brought their fancy duvet covers to dry. On the cafe side, people were glued to their computers, police officers came in for coffee, and a country band was playing in the corner. Later, the barista noticed I was watching an Arabic online course, so he came over and helped me practice. Later, in a spontaneous act of generosity, he made mini pistachio-cardamom lattes for everyone. The cafe buzzed with excitement and we all started chatting with each other. Third places like this where people of all sorts can cross paths and have personal interactions, aren’t just idyllic, they are functional and important.

3. What the Data Says

A study published in Nature Cities2 found that in cities like Zurich, Dublin, and Copenhagen, more than 95% of residents can reach essential services within a 15-minute walk or bike ride. In Paris and Madrid, it’s around 90%. In U.S. cities like San Antonio it’s just 2.5%.

Paris is an excellent example of how change is possible. In less than 10 years, cycling traffic in Paris increased by 240%, and is on track to be 100% bike-friendly by 2026. Air pollution in the Paris region has also been cut in half over the past two decades. These city-wide changes don’t just improve mobility, they create the conditions for everyday human interactions.

Walkable urban areas also have significant economic impacts. They comprise just 1.2% of the land in the 35 largest U.S. metropolitan areas but generate nearly 20% of the nation’s GDP 3. Walkable communities often experience higher rates of job creation and economic resilience due to increased foot traffic and local commerce.4

4. Choosing to Be Part of the Street

While more third places and better walkability can mean more chances to meet new people, observe, and share a fleeting sense of humanity, we can also choose to walk, linger, and create tiny openings for connection. Even small efforts help bring life back to our streets.

Most of the time, these interactions are simple: the wave of a baker through the window, an invitation from a bartender, the barista who remembers your order, the elderly woman you help with her suitcase, the new friend you make on a park bench, or the fleeting experience of crossing a chaotic street in Marrakesh where strangers take your arms and guide you to safety with a smile.

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At the train station in Valencia at dawn, my cousin slipped a thin yellow book into my hands as we said goodbye. It was the end of this summer’s Long Way Home trip, and I was about to board a train to Madrid, then a long flight back to the US. On the cover I saw a camel riding through desert dunes. Of course: El Alquimista.

I’d read The Alchemist a dozen times, always in English. But this copy was in Spanish, and I cracked it open as soon as the train pulled away. Reading it in a new language gave me fresh eyes. Maybe it was the translation, maybe the stage of life I’m in, but I noticed things I hadn’t before. That’s the gift of rereading: it’s the same book, but we’re not the same reader.

1. The people we meet along the way

Every person Santiago meets teaches him something. The fortune teller shows him to pay attention to dreams; the crystal merchant teaches patience, courage, and maktub; the camel driver shows that nothing is coincidental and to read life’s omens; the Englishman reminds him that knowledge is only valuable when paired with experience; and the alchemist teaches him to listen to his heart; and even the man who later threatens him plays a role, pointing him toward the treasure in the dream. Not every encounter is pleasant, but each shapes the journey. In life, as in travel, it’s the people we meet along the way who leave the deepest mark.

2. True love never holds us back

Real love wants us to grow, feel fulfilled, and walk the path of our destiny. It doesn’t keep us in place, it pushes us forward. Santiago often feels pulled between setting roots or spreading his wings. The first time was with the merchant’s daughter. The second was with Fatima, when he considered staying with her and serving as an advisor to the oasis.

This is the familiar tension between the comfort of the known and the risk of the unknown, a universal dilemma for anyone pursuing a big change. But love isn’t just romantic, it’s also the love of Santiago’s father, who gave him his blessing to pursue his calling. It’s the fatherly love the crystal merchant who teaches him about maktub and gives him his blessing to search for the treasure. That’s why his love with Fatima is deeper than romance. She too gives him her blessing, encouraging him to follow his Personal Legend even if it means separation. Her encouragement gave him peace of mind and courage to continue.

3. The way is the goal

One of the obvious takeaways is that life is about the journey, not the destination. But this time I understood it as: the way is the goal.

This little phrase came from two German girls I randomly met at a restaurant under a bridge in Essaouira, Morocco. They meant to say “the journey is the destination,” but what came out was: “the way is the goal.” And it stayed with me.

The way is the treasure. The treasures are the people, strangers, friends, thieves, teachers, mystics, camel drivers, books, deserts, and wisdom we gather along the way.

The path isn’t linear, and detours shape everything. Getting robbed led Santiago to the crystal merchant. The clan war kept him at the oasis, where he met Fatima. What looks like delay is often space and direction.

4. Action vs Maktub

Santiago’s decision to become a shepherd instead of a priest (because he wanted to travel) is what sets the chain of events into motion.

The old king tells him the world’s biggest lie: that at some point in our lives we lose control and fate governs everything. But the truth is a balance between maktub (it is written) and the action of own choices. Santiago learns to listen to his heart, and by doing so, he makes better decisions. Just because something could be destined doesn’t mean we shouldn’t keep trying.

5. Love and Maktub

The camel driver explains that no matter how many twists and turns the caravan takes, it will still reach the oasis. The Englishman’s books, too, take readers on side quests and unexpected detours, but always reach the ending. Fatima has her way of expressing the same truth:

“I want you to continue your quest for your personal legend. The dunes change with the wind, but the desert is still the same desert. It is the same with our love. Maktub. If I am part of your Personal Legend, we will be together again one day.”

True love doesn’t hold us back, it gives us peace of mind, courage, and a chance to become better than we were.

6. Seeing it with my own eyes

This was the first time I read this book after visiting Morocco. The description of the medinas of Tangier hit differently.

“All around the market there were people coming and going, shouting, yelling, buying. There were rugs next to hazelnuts and there was lettuce being sold next to copper cups and coins. Strange chants sounded multiple times a day, men held hands, and veiled women walked the streets.”

It is one thing to read about the world (like the Englishman in the book), but another to go see it, to immerse yourself and learn from it (like Santiago does). Wisdom is shifting from seeing the world as strange or frustrating to simply seeing it as new. It’s going from victim of a thief to a traveler in search of treasure and adventure.

7. Fear of leaving the familiar

When Santiago realizes he could be on another continent in a foreign land just by selling one of his sheep… he starts to panic. This dream, suddenly within reach, seems very scary. The crystal merchant feels the same about going to Mecca: he has the means, but is afraid of achieving the dream and having nothing else to dream toward. It’s the danger of staying in our comfort zone, even when our dream is within reach.

8. One decision can change everything

In the span of one day, Santiago goes from waking up with his sheep thinking he might stay and marry the merchant’s daughter… to meeting a gypsy dream interpreter, talking with a king, selling his sheep for gold, taking a boat to another continent, being in a new country with a different language and customs, getting robbed, and meeting the crystal merchant. In life, sometimes one decision can change everything in the blink of an eye.

9. Following the omens

The person who first interprets his dream is the old gypsy woman. She only interprets dreams, she doesn’t tell Santiago what to do. This reminds me of a tarot reading I experienced in Paris. By chance, I contacted the woman after seeing a poster for a unique deck that wasn’t sold anywhere else. She happened to be flying in that night from Beirut and I met her that same evening. She didn’t give me answers, but the reading revealed omens: a bull, a lion, and red carnations. Signs, sometimes obvious, sometimes hidden, that pointed toward a future I would later experience months later: Spain. Life is full of these small, magical connections. proof that mysticism isn’t just in books; it can be in the real world too, if we are open to receiving it.

10. Alchemy as the chemistry of life

In Spanish, “alchemy” is alquimia, derived from the Arabic al-kimiya. I’ve come to interpret alchemy as the chemistry of the human psyche, maybe even of our Personal Legend. How it changes, how we change it, how others change us.

Alchemy is the concoction we become when we mix our childhoods, travels, careers, challenges, love stories, thieves, friends, coincidences, and choices. Alchemy is the creation of all of those things into a cocktail that makes us uniquely us. Alchemy is the chemistry of life. The spiritual in physical form.

11. Beginner’s luck and the final test

When we are seeking our Personal Legend, our search always begins with the principle of beginner’s luck and ends with a final test. Right before achieving our dream, the world tests us. Not because it is cruel, but to remind us that the real treasure is the lessons, wisdom, and experiences we’ve gathered along the way. This is the toughest moment, and the one where most people quit.

One Last Omen

May 2025: We mounted the camels just as the sun began to sink and wind began to roar. As our caravan left the town of Merzouga and into the heart of the dunes, the stranger riding the camel behind me said, “This sounds cheesy, but this feels like we stepped straight into The Alchemist. Not sure if you’ve read that book.” I cracked a smile behind my Amazigh headscarf, feeling the story come alive around us.

And maybe that’s why it feels destined that my own summer began in Morocco and ended in Spain, just like Santiago’s path. That the guy riding the camel behind me and mentioned The Alchemist, was actually living in Valencia, Spain, the same city I visited 3 months later, and where my cousin coincidentally gifted me the book. The same place my tarot card omens alluded to.

But like Santiago, I didn’t return home with gold in my backpack, but with something greater: the alchemy of detours, treasure of strangers turned friends, new omens, and lessons that changed me along the long way home. Now that I’ve read the book in English and Spanish, I can say it is not the same book and I am not the same reader.

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Travel gives us amazing sights, but it’s only by sitting still that we can turn those into insights. That’s what travel writer Pico Iyer shares in his TedTalk about the art of stillness in travel. Travel is not only about where we go, but about the stillness afterward that allows those places to change us, helping us reflect on questions that matter: where we truly want to live and what kind of life we want to build.

When we travel, all our senses are on high alert, taking in sights, smells, conversations, and new ways of being. But it’s only when we pause and sit with these observations that our internal chemistry begins to shift. In stillness, the raw experiences of travel transform into insight, allowing us to understand how the journey has moved us.

The Long Way Home Journeys

Over the past four years, I’ve been embarking on three-month-long summer adventures to far off corners of the world from Europe to Asia to Latin America. I’ve been calling these trips, “The long way home.”

Many travelers recognize the same feeling: returning home after months of new sights, sounds, and experiences can leave us unsettled. Normal life suddenly feels smaller, quieter, and harder to step back into.

“Travel isn't about seeing the sights, it’s about a new way of seeing. And once you have a new way of seeing, even the old places look different,” Pico Iyer says.

Post-Travel and The Stages of Grief

Returning from long journeys often comes with an emotional cycle that feels surprisingly familiar, almost like the stages of grief. Many travelers move through similar feelings. For me it has been this:

• Year 1 (2022): Denial — resisting the end of the trip and the return to standing still.

• Year 2 (2023): Frustration — irritation at being back in a city that feels different, restless to get moving again.

• Year 3 (2024): Bargaining — running “what if” scenarios in your head, wishing you could have stayed abroad longer or that home felt different.

• Year 4 (2025): A soft depression — a lingering sadness for the life you just left behind.

• Year 5 (2026): What will it be?

This framework isn’t just personal, it’s a shared experience among travelers who’ve spent extended time away. The challenge is learning to sit with these feelings, to observe them, and to let them inform how we see both our homes and ourselves.

Year Four: A Different Kind of Acceptance

This fourth year, returning home after months abroad brought a more reflective contemplation. I’m happy to be back with family, to sleep in my own bed, and to settle out of a backpack, yet there is still a subtle grief for the life I just left. The walkable streets, the new friends, and the rhythms of other cities.

What feels different this year is awareness. Sitting with these emotions is helping me understand that sadness isn’t a sign that home has lost its magic, but that I have changed. Travel adds new layers to who we are, shaping how we see both the world and ourselves. We can use that to help decide our next steps.

Insights, Not Just Movement

I remember a teacher at a Shaolin Kung Fu temple in Germany saying, “Insights mean inside sight.” The idea stuck with me: the lessons we gather on the road only become meaningful when we bring them inward. Sitting with our experiences allows us to turn movement into understanding, and understanding into choices about how we live, where we want to be, and what we value.

The Fifth Year?

Looking ahead, the fifth year brings a natural question: what will it feel like to return next time? Perhaps it will be acceptance, or perhaps a new shade of reflection entirely. For travelers, there’s always a quiet tension between continuing the cycle of journeys and wondering whether it’s time to put down more permanent roots somewhere new.

The point isn’t in predicting the stage, but in using the pause after travel to process what we’ve experienced. Stillness is what allows us to transform movement into understanding. By sitting with the insights we’ve gathered, we can see how travel has shaped us and make thoughtful choices about our next steps, whether that means embracing life at home, planning the next journey, or exploring a longer-term change. The future remains uncertain, but reflection gives it direction.

Questions for All Travelers

For those of us who travel often (ie: digital nomads), returning home can be a time to think deeply about:

• What has this year’s travel taught me? How have I changed this time?

• Which aspects of the countries and cities I’ve traveled to have brought me the most joy?

• Do I want to continue this loop between home and travel, or is it time to choose — to stay, or to explore a new place as home?

Movement vs Being Moved

So, travel perhaps is as much about movement as it is about stillness. It’s only with the stillness that we are able to process how the movement we experienced for travel, converts to how it moved us as a person. There’s a difference between movement and being moved.

As Diana Uribe says in her podcast about migration, movement is deeply human. For millennia, people have always found reasons to shift from one place to another. Sometimes for work, sometimes for safety, sometimes simply to try something new. And with that comes a question many of us still hold: is this movement temporary, or permanent? Do we return, or do we root elsewhere?

In the end, travel isn’t just about where we go, it’s about what we allow ourselves to process afterward. Stillness is what turns movement into meaning.

Enjoyed this piece? Give it a like, leave a comment, or share with a friend. Thanks for reading!

-Maria

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Do you ever wish there was a word for a complex emotion you are feeling but can’t describe? The beauty of travel is that we often encounter words from other languages that can help us define and make sense of our feelings. Saudade is one of those.

I first spotted this Portuguese word written on book covers, T-shirts, and as graffiti tattooed on the walls throughout Lisbon. But it wasn’t until my last day in Lisbon that I looked up the definition. Now I can’t believe I almost left the country without learning its meaning.

Saudade is more than a word; it’s an emotion. It’s a strong, nostalgic, and melancholy yearning. A deep emotional state of longing for a person, place, experience, or feeling that is absent.

It’s when we miss someone who passed away, the memory of a fun trip, a past romance, the echo of our childhood, the sounds and smells of our hometown, and any point in time we cannot return to. But saudade isn’t just about the past; it can also be the feeling of missing something that never actually happened. The scenario we imagined in our heads for so long that never came to be.

.This word is a bit of a contradiction. How can we feel grateful for a memory yet endure the pain or sadness that comes from thinking about it longingly?

“Saudade is a pleasure you suffer, an ailment you enjoy,” is how Portuguese writer Manuel de Melo described it.

The world is full of words and expressions that often don’t have a direct translation into other languages because they carry cultural nuance or emotional meaning that doesn’t translate easily. This is one of my favorite aspects of travel: learning words used in different cultures to label feelings and emotions that we often struggle to express even in our own language.

For instance, in Japan, I learned the concept of ichi-go ichi-e, which can be explained as “one time, one meeting.” The fact that in our lives, there are experiences that only happen once. Or in Turkey, I learned of Istanbul’s hüzün, which was popularized by the writer Orhan Pamuk. It can be interpreted as the black and white melancholy often used to describe Istanbul’s mood.

Saudade, to me, is almost a mix of both. Hüzün acknowledges the nostalgia and ache of other times, while ichi-go ichi-e reminds us to embrace the transit moments with gratitude. Together, we find both joy and sorrow in memories that will never be repeated.

To the Portuguese, saudade is more than nostalgia. While nostalgia is looking back and feeling the loss of something, saudade holds space for both a loss in the past, present, or future. It recognizes that the ache for missing someone or something is real, but we can face it with tenderness and gratitude. That while missing deeply can hurt, it’s also proof that you’ve loved deeply. It’s the bittersweet mark of having loved a person or loved a moment in time.

All of us, no matter where we are from, can probably relate to this contradicting feeling. It’s the feeling of pain in the memory of joy. It’s holding onto sadness with a smile. So much complexity in one word.

As I write this, I’m at my favorite cafe in Lisbon, Bemposta, writing and people-watching while enjoying my last day in the city. I feel saudade as I sit here writing and drinking an abatanado pingado (a cafe Americano with a splash of milk) while chatting with the owner, Felipe. Even while living the moment, I’m aware of the sadness in it because I know I will miss it. But this feeling of sadness only happens because there was an equal amount of joy. The happier the memory, the deeper the sorrow and melancholy once it’s gone. This is saudade.

Saudade isn’t closure, but perhaps it is a concept that gives us peace. That we aren’t alone in our struggles of sadness, grief, longing, and happiness at memories past, present, and future. That holding happiness and sorrow in the same hand is possible and actually very common. That we aren’t alone in our complex human feelings and emotions. Perhaps there is solace simply in knowing that a word exists to embrace the murky landscape of the mind, giving shape to what we so often feel but cannot name.

Can you think of a saudade feeling that’s both sweet and painful?

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Unexpected second story for the week. I’d already written the previous one, so wanted to share it. But this one matches more my current state of mind. I wanted to be open with it because sometimes life’s sad moments find us when we are also experiencing our highs, and there’s no way around it. I guess it’s tricky balance of holding both truths at the same time. Maybe you feel this happens to you sometimes too. (I will also be taking a break from writing next week, so will resume the week after that).

A few weeks ago I lost one grandfather and today I lost my other one. It seemed as soon as one grief subsided, the other was just lurking around the corner.

For both, I happen to be across the world and not making it to the funerals. Not being able to be with my family during these hard times. It feels isolating and lonely to grieve so far away and with no one nearby to lean on. I found myself looking at old pictures of us and the happy memories we had the chance to make. It makes me happy knowing we got to experience such joyful times together. Although I was mostly a kid for most of the years, so I’m sad we didn’t get to have more adult-to-adult conversations. I wish now more than ever I could as them for their biggest life advice.

On the other hand, both grandfathers loved to travel. I feel grateful to be exploring and seeing the world and places neither of them got the chance to go to.

Now looking back I see bits of myself that are clearly reflections of them. For instance my mom’s dad was the type of person who was always smiling and always squeezing the most out of life. He would laugh uncontrollably for an hour straight until there were tears of laughter in his eyes. Just like me. He also taught me to swim at a very young age and it’s the sport that has stuck with me all these years.

My dad’s dad was full of quiet intellect and had green eyes. I inherited both. He was an avid reader, history lover, enjoyed photography, and was an insanely talented artist. Charcoal, pastel, sketching, acrylics… his pieces belong in a museum. I like to think my nerdiness and love of reading and comes from him. While my sister may have inherited most of the artist genes, the parts of me that dabble in art most certainly come from him.

My dad’s dad was born in 1931. He grew up as an orphan because both his parents died when he was a baby. We didn’t know too much about their lineage up until a few months ago when we learned his great great great grandmother was born in Porto, Portugal and died in Lisbon. Coincidentally it’s where I find myself today.

Death and grief is unavoidable. Some experience it more early on in life than others, but it always finds all of us, in the end. I just hope to live a life that would make them proud. Continue laughing, continue taking photos, continue swimming, continue having a strong family, and continue seeing the world.

It’s a reminder that our time in this life is limited. The important thing is finding the things about it that are important to each of us, and to be intentional with how to live in a way that reflects that. Both my grandfathers reached quite steep age in numbers, but age is not the only deciding factor of when our time is up.

I say this not in a dreadful way, but in a way that I hope to lead my life. With both a bit of urgency and also slow enjoyment of the present moment.

As the phone in the metro station said… call the people you love and tell them you love them. It’s a great reminder for all of us.

The sun was already sending beads of sweat down my back as I emerged from Cais do Sodre metro station in Lisbon. It was morning commute hour and hundreds of us were hiking up the stairs in unison. It feels good to be part of the morning hustle synchronicities. Not as an onlooker, but a partaker. That’s what I love about living in cities temporarily. Having a limit to leave gives urgency to get to know the place better. But staying here long enough means becoming a regular at cafes and familiarizing yourself with the city, its people, and routines. But what we don’t often think about is the impact both positive and negative us transient humans leave as a fingerprint in the places we visit. This is what I’m exploring today, part of the digital nomad dilemma.

As I wove my way through the hilly streets, the morning light bounced off the mosaic tiles covering the faces of buildings. Pigeons took their morning bath in a little puddle from a fountain. I passed a little hole-in-the-wall place with a black awning and plastic red chairs and tables on the outdoor terrace, and decided this was my spot.

Immediately I was greeted by an older grandfather-like man who smiled and said “Bom dia!” As he cleaned a table for me and pulled the chair out so I could sit down. It’s a traditional place, the kind you can see the time itself hand-carve the wrinkles in the walls and accumulated grim on the floors. The glass counter is filled with dozens of pastries and the espresso machine rattles as it pours out strong shiny thick black espresso.

It’s not “Instagram-worthy”. Sitting here made me realize how much we now pick our eating spots and coffee shops based on how aesthetically appealing they look. First checking online, then evaluating in person. But it’s spot like these that are the real gems. As I sat there, I saw him greet tourists passing by. All of them scanning the place and passing it by probably just because it wasn’t up to photogenic standards.

Another day I was walking with a friend back to their apartment. When we said goodbye, I kept walking down the street and stumbled upon another little traditional cafe called Bemposta, owned by Brazilians. Unassuming, but inside full of heart. Friendliest people, great background music, wifi, strong coffee, Portuguese and Brazilian pastries, and a little terrace in the shade.

In these two spots I mentioned, the servers know the people walking past and greet them by name. They make time to chitchat with you. They greet all of the elderly people shuffling by and all the little babies in their strollers. If their friend shows up at the cafe, the server pulls up a chair next to them and smokes a cigarette and drinks a coffee with them. They are relaxed and treat everyone like family.

As weeks in Lisbon have passed by, I’ve continued observing and asking questions. When we travel to a place, like Lisbon, for instance, why do we gravitate toward those specialty coffee shop places that all serve flat whites, matcha lattes, avocado toasts, and granola bowls… when we can find the same exact things back home… and increasingly in every city. Do we go to them because of aesthetics? Because servers are more likely to speak our language? Because we are comforted by being familiar with the menus? I’m not saying going to these places is bad, I’m just being more conscious of how globalized we are getting and how intentional we are being about authentic traditional experiences when we travel and what we prioritize.

Lisbon seems packed with third-wave specially cafes and coffee shops. They are adorable and cute and friendly. You can order conveniently in English and they have croissants, delicious omelets, pancakes, and lattes. But none of them serve true bica, bolo de arroz, queque laranja, or paõ de queijo… quintessential Portuguese or Portugese-influenced staples.

If those places are all we frequent while in foreign countries, that begs the question: Are we loosing the real reason we travel?

It’s a bit strange to see myself wrestle with these topics. For the most part I often scope out a place’s ratings on Google Maps and check the comments and reviews. I’m usually on the hunt for good local cafes. But this time in these few weeks I think I am changing. For a long time I’ve always been a supporter of the “local” spots. But now I realize it’s more than about “local” and more about authentic and traditional (to that geographic place in the world).

For instance why go to a cafe where we immediately get greeted in English and everyone around us is expat and digital nomad huddled into their computers drinking cold brews and mochas… in Portugal… when instead we can go to the unassuming little bica snack bar, practice Portuguese, and get a coffee for half the price, great conversation with the owner, and observe the locals coming and going.

But being a digital nomad myself, I feel almost bad taking up a table and using their wifi and doing work on my computer. It feels like I’m disturbing their day-to-day atmosphere by bringing my digital nomad lifestyle into their cafe. What to do?

I don’t have an answer. But what I find important is thinking about these things, because we are seeing cities change so much because of it. Traditional spots disappearing to make way for specialty cafes catering to tourists and immigrants that locals can’t afford. Cafes that once were places of socialization, idea exchange, mingling, thinking, smoking, reading… turning into offices for those with laptops. Where servers don’t know people by name anymore because the street is all hotels and Airbnb’s.

When I expressed this dilemma to my mentor, Ron, he reminded me that a city like Lisbon is very international. Something else we can do is look for places that are fusions of Portugal. For instance Angolan cuisine or Mozambique cuisine in Lisbon because they were former Portuguese colonies, so the food we’d find here from those places would also be very good and we are likely to meet interesting people there.

As I write this, I’m at Bemposta. The owner is smoking a cigarette and sat down next to a customer to talk. I’ve turned into the unofficial greeter because every time someone arrives, I say “Bom dia” and feel part of their little neighborhood cafe. I’ve come here enough times to now recognize the little babies that pass by with their parents, the elderly people who shuffle up the street, and even the dogs of the neighborhood. There’s something special about feeling like you are part of a community, even while you are a temporary guest.

Later in the day I went over to Baixa and went into an EspressoLab because I knew they’d have wifi, bathrooms, AC, and I could do some work on my computer. But still I was able to make a connection with the server who turns out was from Venezuela and we had a nice conversation. By the time I was leaving, he was also getting off shift and he ended up walking me to the metro station and showing me which train to take.

All extremes are difficult. But at least if we are more conscious of how we travel and interact with the places we visit, we can begin to make better choices. Not just for ourselves, but to the communities where we visit.

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Sometimes the best travel experiences come not from meticulous planning but from following instinct, serendipity, and curiosity… and Portugal— with its history, culture, and unexpected connections, offers the perfect backdrop for such a chapter.

The terra-cotta rooftops shine in the afternoon as the sun beats down on the little white village buildings. As I write this I’m in a little sea-side village called Vila Milfontes heading south from Lisbon on the way to the Algarve. I rented a car early this morning and have been slowly making my way down the coast. This seemed like a scenic spot to get caffeinated, do a little work, and writing.

Late last night I was feeling stressed because I accidentally booked a fully electric car and hadn’t been able to change it. I was frantically looking on the map for chargers on the 4+ hour drive and drawing a route, figuring out how often I’d have to charge, download the needed apps, and educating myself on how to drive an e-vehicle. Turns out I stressed for nothing because when I got to the car rental place, I paid a bit more and was able to get a gas vehicle.

Rewind: I arrived in Portugal last Saturday after having spent the past 1.5 months in Paris, and I’ll be calling Lisbon home for the next month. My final weeks in Paris were a bit mellow as I was sick with bronchitis, but I guess sickness doesn’t care where in the world you are or if you still have many things to do in your Paris list. But time was up and it was time to move on.

A few weeks ago I had not made any plans for after Paris, and time was ticking so I needed to plan my next move soon. One day while on the phone catching up with my friend who rented me the Paris apartment, she told me she was in Lisbon and was enjoying it. It occurred to me Lisbon could be a good idea as I’d never been to Portugal before.

But I looked on Airbnb only to be faced with absurd prices and very limited options. So I called my friend and asked if she could put me in touch with the person who she rented the Lisbon apartment from. She did, and it worked! We swapped and she went back home to her apartment in Paris while I replaced her in the Lisbon apartment. It was one of those moments where things work out pretty seamlessly and you can’t help but feel it’s just meant to be.

First impressions of Lisbon are that it’s as if San Francisco, Istanbul, and Tanger had a kid and it came out with some mutation of a Latino gene. Lisbon has the hills of both San Francisco and Istanbul. The colorful buildings, trolleys, and Golden Gate Bridge copy of SF. The views of river and sea mimic the glittering Bosphorus of Istanbul and ferries making their way across. The signature labyrinth streets of Tanger and its medinas can be seen throughout the city too. But in the culture— the liveliness and language— it’s evident of latin roots.

On my first day in Lisbon I went to the world’s oldest bookshop, Livraria Bertrand, where I got a historical fiction book about Lisbon’s role in World War II. Although this genre can be exhaustive, the book really covers the strategic importance of Lisbon at a time where the country declared its neutrality during the war. However, it became a hotbed for Allied and Axis spies, particularly women librarians. I’ve ready many books about the world wars and this is the first that ever mentions the importance of Lisbon and women’s roles in this city to pass on information and resume historical manuscripts and books that were otherwise being destroyed.

One evening at a “mirador” or viewpoint, I stood near a tour group and eavesdropped. I learned that a massive earthquake rocked Lisbon in 1755 and changed the course of history. In brief, the series of shockwaves, tsunami, and fires set off a chain of events that would trigger the Enlightenment era because it proved to people the importance of science and nature. This would come to shape the era of modernity as we know it, not to mention the eras of exploration and “new world.”

One day I received a message from a friend from France who told me he was bummed we didn’t get to see each other this year and I had already left. I replied that I left France but was going to Lisbon. In pure coincidence, turns out he was coming to Lisbon for a day on a stopover. So, we were actually able to meet up after all and spend a day exploring Lisbon.

When you find yourself in a city where you don’t know anyone, there is one way to make friends quickly. Run clubs. On Wednesday I joined about 150-200 other runners of Rookie Run Club at Cais do Sodré for a 5K. A friend had told me about this club and had connected me with a few people who welcomed me when I arrived. It’s a wonderful feeling when you go somewhere and suddenly find yourself immersed in a community. Especially a mix of Portuguese and people from many other countries and backgrounds. I left with a handful of new friends and I’m sure I’ll continue to see them throughout my time here.

Now I’m writing this from Odeceixe, another tiny town about an hour before Lagos. The past 2 hours of the drive reminded me of those agricultural towns in California on the other side of Big Sur where field workers pick strawberries and other big agricultural crops. There were big irrigation fields, and farm workers covered with hats picking food in the hot sun.

I pulled over into this town and searched for a cafe to get cold lemonade. I happened to stumble upon one that had arepas and empanadas on the menu. Turns out it’s owned by a family of Venezuelan-Colombians. So of course we ended up chatting for a while.

I was curious how they ended up here in this dot of a town so Meli, the cafe owner explained that she had fled Venezuela and moved to Medellin where she met her husband. Then they moved to Madrid but it was difficult finding work. They got offered a job in the fields here in Portugal. She worked in the fields for a few years then as a waitress, then back in the fields. Then they found a small space in Odeceixe and decided to turn it into a little cafe. Meli’s husband remodeled the space and Meli + her 3 sisters and mom run the cafe.

It’s interesting the comparison between the west coast of Portugal and the west coast of the US. Not just jagged edge of the continents is very similar with huge cliffs that lead to big blue ocean, but also in that they are both important agricultural lands and have influx of migrant farm workers. As I sit outside writing this, I can hear the conversation happening inside. Among the sisters they are talking about the importance of stepping out of your comfort zone. About how everything felt uncomfortable when they decided to leave Venezuela, but that that’s how it is for a lot of people and that we just have to go for it. To take a chance on ourselves despite the challenges.

Feels like the perfect conversation to eavesdrop on :)

Well, it’s time for me to continue my drive south. One more hour to reach Lagos in the Algarve. Chao!

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It always gets sweeter as the end draws near.

Like sugar settled at the bottom of a cup of coffee, each sip becomes sweeter the closer we get to the finish. The more we are enjoying it, the more we don’t want it to end.

But what if it only tastes this sweet because it has an ending?

The filmmaker Orson Welles said, “The enemy of art is the absence of limitations.” In other words, great art is born from limitations.

Sweetness in Endings

Maybe there is sweetness in endings. It’s better to have lived an experience with joy for a short time, than none at all. But also perhaps because the only way to refill a cup is to empty it first.

Perhaps we have to reach the bottom of the cup to understand how to fill it again. Of course, not forgetting to enjoy the sips as we go and savor the moments. Knowing it’s going to end gives us all the more reason to enjoy it in the present.

It’s not always sweet. Sometimes the sips are bitter. It’s always fascinating when something begins bitter, only to transform with time. Like meeting someone you don’t particularly like, only to become good friends. Or moving to a new city that frustrates you at first (like my first few weeks living in New York City), but then slowly your love for it grows and you don’t want it to end.

For me the past three summers, my sweet little cup has been Paris. Yet it has always been temporary. It’s strange arriving in a place working so hard to make it feel like home, knowing that you will just have to leave it again. I love this phase, but I also know it’s sad and melancholy having to say goodbye. It means saying bye to friends, to routines, to neighborhood bakers. But gratitude and living in the present helps alleviate some of the sadness.

New Murphy’s Law? Why do we enjoy things more when it’s time to leave?

As I write this, I am down to my last days in Paris for 2025. Last year I had three months and it wasn’t enough time. This year I had one and a half months, yet still feel it was not enough. Plans with friends that we didn’t get to have, restaurants we didn’t get to try, parts of the city left unexplored. But maybe there’s beauty in the unfinished because it means we have reason to be back.

Maybe you’ve experienced this phenomenon too: Just days from leaving, I found a new favorite café, Au Bois Dorée, on my street and befriended the servers, made new friends through an international club, found rhythm with my run crew. All as I’m about to go.

In my family we say, “Es mejor quedar con ganas de volver.” Translating roughly to, “It’s better to feel like you want to return.” It’s better to have lived and enjoyed than to reach a point where it no longer feels special.

Maybe if there was no end in sight, then we wouldn’t stop to appreciate the beauty and enjoy things as much. I always wonder if I lived in Paris permanently, would it still feel this special?

Life is the minutes you want, minus one

Perhaps knowing this will all be gone soon is what makes us enjoy it more while we have it. Maybe it’s the limit that makes it special. The kind of truth a fool embraces, trusting the fleetingness as part of the beauty.

Time is like water. It fills and takes shape of any vessel no matter the size and shape. There is never enough of it. Sometimes this causes restless energy and urgent need to experience life as much possible. But at other times it’s a reminder to slow down and savor it all.

Like a good cup of coffee, life tastes best when sipped slowly. Only with time do hidden aromas emerge and grant us the chance to explore mysterious winding roads.

It’s a delicate balance between urgency and stillness. Between motion and pause. We need both, yet time is fickle. Sometimes it moves in slow motion and other times it’s gone in the blink of an eye. But it always ends a second before we’re ready.

It may sound foolish, but it’s a cycle that often brings joy. To trust in the next beginning even if we don’t want to let go of the one we are in.

“Life is the minutes you want, minus one,” said a character in a book I read recently (The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue). And maybe that’s what makes it beautiful: beginnings and endings aren’t separate. They are intertwined.

There will come a time when we don’t get to start again, which is all the more reason to savor the cycle and things in the middle, while time still feels generous.

—Maria

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There is a concept called “third culture” that refers to someone who grew up in a culture different from their parent’s home culture. A bit like multi-cultural, but mostly it’s those who find it difficult to pinpoint one exact place of “home”. You don’t fully feel of one culture and not the other either.

Take me, for example. I was born in Colombia to Colombian parents, but since I grew up in the U.S., there are times I don’t feel entirely Colombian. Yet in the U.S., I don’t always feel fully American either. I’ve also spent a lot of time traveling and living abroad, so with every new place, I feel like I’ve added another layer to who I am. This in-between space is called a third culture.

In Paris a couple of weeks ago I was on my way to a meetup of a group called “Home: Third Culture Kids Club.” It’s for people who identify as a third culture who usually have long-winded answers for “where are you from?” and “where is home?”.

Our mission was to bring a small bouquet of flowers and meet at the Luxembourg Gardens, where we would all share our flowers and re-assemble a new bouquet we could take home with us.

I was scrambling at the last minute trying to find a flower shop and was on a bike weaving my way through the streets of the Latin Quarter when I finally spotted a shop. In a rush, I leaned my bike against the wall and went inside.

Poppy flowers, sunflowers (my favorite), pretty red flowers. I picked a couple of each and went back outside to my bike, only to almost bump into two other people who were also browsing the flowers. We all made eye contact and in a mix of languages asked if we were also going to the Third Culture Kids meetup. We all were.

My two new friends walked me to park the bike at the station and from there we all walked together to the gardens while explaining our mix of cultures and places we consider home.

Sara was born in London to Spanish and Pakistani parents but then moved to France as a kid. Mamed is Algerian and moved to France for school. We all gave our long-winded answers of where we consider “home” and I learned that a lot of people have way longer answers than me. It wasn’t a competition of cultures and languages, but rather sharing a bonding moment over the ambiguous question of “where are you from?”

Then the topic moved on to “What do you do?” And Mamed replied, “On est lààà.” With a dragged out làààààà. I don’t speak French so didn’t know what he meant.

“It means we are just here,” he said. Just being. Just here.

That stuck with me. Just in the moment. We are living, and that’s enough. (Later I found out the phrase became popular because of a YouTube video about unemployment… but I still like the concept haha). Our jobs are only part of who we are. Perhaps sometimes we forget to bring into conversation about other aspects of our lives.

I already forgot what he said he did for work. I remember just walking with him and Sara to the gardens where we met about 40 other third culture people. I met someone who has Russian and Ukrainian parents. I met someone who’s Cameroonian-American-French but grew up in London. And the founder of the group who’s mom is Ukranian-American, dad is French-Moroccan, and was raised in Spain, Russia, and Hong Kong. And we all just spent time together just being. Making flower bouquets. And guess what… that was enough.

Maybe we are all a bit like our flower bouquets at the end of the afternoon. Mismatched and re-arranged, but very beautiful and vibrant. In the end, just like our flowers, we were bound together with a little string and wrapped in paper, taken home and watered. Then just left to be. To live. To be here.

That’s what I love about Paris. Here you still see people just being. Sitting on a park reading a book. Sitting at a cafe and people-watching. Staring out the window. Sitting next to the Seine, thinking. Just arranging flowers in the middle of the Luxembourg Gardens in Paris with a bunch of strangers turned friends. Being. Just here. And that is enough. That is everything.

On est là.

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“You say you feel lost right now, you don't see exactly where life is taking you. But maybe you feel this way because you're preparing yourself for what is coming.” — my friend, Iris Kattar

If you feel a bit lost in life, you are not alone. Those wise words came from my friend Iris, who texted them to me after a long phone call we shared, both of us still reeling from emotional tsunamis for similar yet different reasons. Mostly having to do with transitions of life. A culmination that led to the feeling of being lost at sea but not in the sense that you don’t have a compass, rather that you don’t know even where you are supposed to be going.

It was a week that cracked open every part of me: solitude, death, career, love, home, and the future. It felt like a quarter-life crisis, one of those “everything at once” storms that blow through with no warning bringing thunderclouds, pelting rain, and bolts of lightning coming in every direction.

Our conversation took place when I was at a beach in Normandy and she was in Cyprus. I’d spent the previous evening perched on a pile of rocks in front of the sea, crying. At first I was oblivious to the intense golden sunset in front of me. The light reflecting off the jagged cliffs and the sparkling orange ocean stirring with soft rhythm. In the moment the only waves I felt were those of sadness, grief, overwhelm, and doubt. At one point in between sobs I looked up, saw the scene, and realized it was a beautiful place to cry. And that made me cry even more.

I don’t share this for sadness or pity. On the other hand I share this because it’s human and even though most of my stories are around magic, I think there is still magic in sadness and in feeling lost even if it doesn’t feel like it at first.

When we find ourselves in deep waters like that, we have no choice but to learn how to surf. But surfing isn’t easy without someone to show you how. Fortunately, my guides came in the form of friends I reached out to the day after the worst of my storm had passed. Today, I want to share bits and pieces of their wisdom, in case you, too, are trying to stay afloat through life’s unpredictable tides.

Iris’ Wisdom: The Wilderness Years

Iris told me she read a book about how Churchill spent much of the 1930’s out of the government. A period of time known as his “wilderness years.” Instead of using his energy to make his way into the government, he spent time writing, reflecting, giving speeches, and advocating for policies around the growing Nazi threat. When Britain finally called on him to lead the country, he hadn’t been worn down by political battles of previous years— he was ready to step up and fight back with full focus.

She said, “While this is a big example, it makes me think about every step of our life. Most of the time it doesn’t make sense, but it might be because it’s preparing us for something else down the road.”

“The important thing is to trust that we are where we are supposed to be. And to make the best out of every situation, to give it everything we have. Embrace the present even if the future after that is blurry. You are already here, make it count.”

As we continued our conversation, I took out my notebook and started taking notes. “The lows are part of the process,” she said. “It’s about knowing that when we take action, we have to let go and have faith that it will all work out.”

The Waiting Is the Hardest Part

There is a tension that happens after we take a risk but before we know what will come of it. Tom Petty said it best in song, “The waiting is the hardest part."

There is difficulty living in the in-between. We move heaven and earth, we take leaps of faith, we try. But in this blurry place the important thing is to be patient and stay true to ourself as the outcome unfolds. Even more so is letting go of the idea that one outcome is the only “right” one. It’s in these moments that forcing the “right” answer isn’t something we should do.

A guy I met at a hostel in Essaouira, Morocco has a saying for this: “Life is like a tomato sometimes sweet, sometimes sour, but it always has a unique flavor.”

I think he is right. Once we’ve done all we can and surrendered to the path, the outcome isn’t just good or bad. Each one is simply different and uniquely its own. Maybe that’s how we make peace with patience?

Speaking of patience, this morning I was re-reading an excerpt of Rainer Maria Rilke’s Letters to a Young Poet (which you can find in full free PDF here).

“Patience is the art of courting the future. It belongs to becoming rather than being, to the unfinished rather than the completed… Patience means sitting with the work even when – especially when – nothing appears to be happening.”

There are times in life where we feel we are trying and trying to no clear success. But perhaps there is something deeper in play and even though it may feel as if nothing is happening, it’s working below the surface.

What We Can Control: Learning

This week apparently was full of emotional tsunamis for a lot of people, so another call I had was with my friend Noémie, whom I rent my Paris apartment from.

She said these words that really stuck: “I can’t control the situation, but I CAN control what I am learning.”

Maybe that’s the point. That even when we feel most lost, we are learning how to find ourselves and each other. Not by chasing outcomes, but by paying attention to the growth that lives tucked hidden away in the folds of the process.

Keep Moving

We may not see a clear path now, but if we keep moving, it will reveal itself. Maybe we are lost, maybe we need a good crying session, maybe we are in our wilderness years. Maybe this is the moment to accept help from our friends, to let them guide us as we learn to surf the waves. But for now the best we can do is let the ocean teach us, trust the current, be patient with ourselves and with others, and keep moving forward.

Because feeling lost doesn’t mean we are off course. Perhaps it's the beginning of something that’s forming beneath what the eyes can see. Something we aren’t meant to see yet, only start to prepare for. And we must be patient. I guess it’s called the Long Way Home for a reason :)

—Maria

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There is a saying that what happens once only happens once, and what happens twice surely happens a third time. This is my third summer in Paris. In the same apartment on the 8th floor and with an unobstructed view of the Eiffel Tower. An apartment I found by talking to a stranger at a coffee shop.

They say it’s almost impossible to find apartments in Paris, especially good ones. People spend years searching for the perfect one and rarely to find it, especially on the first try. Too small, too old, no view, small windows, too hot, too cold, no elevator, ground floor. Yet somehow I found my second home after a simple conversation with the guy making my coffee when I was only passing through Paris. It happened effortlessly, in perfect timing.

I live in Austin, Texas most of the year. But each summer, I find myself here again drawn back by something I can’t quite explain.

What If?

It’s a story worth telling because it feels like a movie. I’d been invited to come to Germany to film a video, and afterwards I came to Paris for three days with some friends. On the last day, I was working remotely from a coffee shop when the wifi went out. Frustrated, I gathered my things and wandered around the streets.

As I walked, I passed a shoe repair shop and peered through the window. A man was concentrated stitching together the sole of a shoe. It was a simple thing, but it lit my flame for Paris. The idea that walking around you can witness people working on their craft. The idea that all you have to do in Paris is go on a walk and the world will entertain you. A thought bubbled in my head…what if I could stay in Paris longer? This is the story of that “what if.”

Eventually, I found another coffee shop with decent wifi and I ducked inside. In classic American fashion, I asked the barista, “How are you?” He seemed a bit taken aback by my question but made conversation about my camera which was dangling around my neck.

After a few espressos and work calls later, I went up to pay and we chatted a bit more about photography. Then something unexpected came out of my mouth, “Do you happen to know anyone in Paris who has a room for rent?” I blurted out and surprised even myself. He looked confused, but said he’d ask around and we exchanged numbers.

At around midnight, he texted, “I found you the perfect place. My friend is traveling this summer and she is open to renting you her room. It’s the most beautiful flat in Paris.”

My jaw dropped when his friend, Noémie, sent me photos of her apartment. I didn’t even have time to see it in person because I was leaving Paris for Amsterdam the next day. But we agreed I’d come back in two weeks and stay for almost a month. That was the summer of 2023.

That’s the year I fell in love with this city. With Paris in the summer. With the cafes and tiny coffee cups, the artist ateliers, the boulangeries, the bookstores, the pool on the Seine. With biking around the city and taking the metro and discovering new hidden corners of the city every single day. With becoming a regular at my corner café and making new friends. It’s a city that inspires creativity and encourages you to dream.

Last summer, I came back. Noémie was traveling again for the summer and I jumped at the chance to stay at her apartment, this time for 3 months.

Are things meant to be?

Fast forward to April 2025. Just a few months ago I was in Austin with the looming Texas heat. I decided that if a third summer in Paris was meant to be, it would unfold without forcing things. I listed my house on Facebook Marketplace and waited. Three days later, I’d found a tenant. The only thing left was finding a place to stay in Paris.

I hadn’t heard from Noémie and assumed she wasn’t traveling. So I scoured Airbnb, but everything felt wrong. Wrong neighborhood, too small, too expensive, no views. Finally, I texted her.

“It is totally possible. About when do you think it would be ? I don’t have travel plans but if you want to come, I can make plans,. If you are coming, it means I am meant to be elsewhere.” she replied. This was the sign I needed. Without forcing things, summer in Paris was about to happen… again.

I arrived on a Sunday evening on a flight coming from Tangier, Morocco. As I ascended from the underground station, I was greeted by big blue skies and the big red METRO sign. Once on ground level, I spotted the familiar “Au Metro” brasserie on the corner and broke into a smile. A city teeming with life.

Nothing could dampen my spirits. I was walking down Rue Claude Decaen yet again, going up the tiny elevator to the top floor, through the teal blue door, and into the magic apartment. The sun glittered gold as I settled back into the familiar room.

As Noémie always says, it’s not even surprising anymore. We both have this feeling that our lives are connected in some strange way. What surprises me (and doesn’t) is our friendship. We’ve only met in person twice, yet it feels like we’ve known each other forever. How can two people, connected by a guy making coffee, have such intertwined lives?

“You coming is a great opportunity for me to take some fresh air too, I will head to Portugal” she had said. It’s strange, this mutual understanding with someone who also believes in the magic of the universe. That nothing is random, and when something crosses your path, there’s probably a reason. She doesn’t question that. Neither do I. We both accept this is exactly where we’re supposed to be, even if we don’t know why.

Action or Surrender? Wise Words from a Friend

Last week, I had a conversation with my friend and mentor, Ron. He asked why I’m in Paris again, beyond just enjoying it. Summer 2023 was spontaneity. Summer 2024 was for attempting to write my book but then surrendering to other events that happened. But what about 2025?

I’ve been searching for an answer and haven’t found one. Am I here just to enjoy life? To meet someone? For a career shift? A creative project? I don’t know. No big revelations. No one remarkable I’ve met. No career-changing moment. I’ve been writing (but not the book). I can’t help but wonder: is there something more?

Yesterday I met up with my friend Iris. We met at a park in Paris in 2023 and kept up our friendship. When talking about our uncertain future, she suggested that it’s hard to even picture what our lives will look like in 5 years and that’s okay. She asked if, five years ago, I ever imagined I’d be living in Paris for the summers. Of course not. Never in my wildest dreams. Some things we just can’t plan for, and that’s okay.

“But how do we know when to act and when to leave it up to fate?” I asked.

She told me about her job search last year. She’s a French teacher and had an idea to teach in Hong Kong. She applied over and over, heard nothing. So she kept her online clients and moved through Brazil and Ecuador. Just as she was wrapping up in Ecuador, she got an offer for a three-month job in Hong Kong.

Coincidentally (or not) she was on a call with one of her long-time students who lives in Hong Kong when the job offer came through. He simultaneously got a text from a friend looking to rent her place in Hong Kong. It all unfolded perfectly, from her job to her housing. There is no doubt Hong Kong is where she is meant to be.

It’s these stories that give me hope and remind me to trust the quiet work of the universe. Even when nothing seems to be happening, something often is. We do what we can: take the chances, ask the questions, send the texts. And then, we let go.

There is a dance between action and surrender. It not always easy to find its rhythm. But it’s people like Noémie and Iris, and moments like these summers in Paris, that remind me: Not everything needs to make sense right away. Sometimes, the meaning arrives later. And sometimes, just showing up is the point.

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In case you missed Part 1:
A few weeks ago, I flew to Morocco to meet a stranger I’d only talked to online—a fellow traveler named Reem who I connected with over a shared love of adventure and spontaneity. We met for the first time in Marrakesh and spent 10 days crossing the country, from medinas to desert dunes. Part 1 of this story captured the magic of that leap of faith. Now, in Part 2, I’m digging into what it really felt like to navigate Morocco: the chaos, the beauty, the confusion…and the lessons we learned when we stopped trying to make sense of it all.

Organized Chaos

There is a shock upon arriving in Marrakesh. All senses are stimulated. There are donkeys pulling carts, snake charmers with cobras in the square, and even the simple task of crossing the street seems insurmountable. Our riad owner called it, “organized chaos”.

What we learned was that the “organized chaos” was not reserved strictly for Marrakesh, but applicable to describe the entire country. As someone who has traveled to other chaotic countries like Cuba, Colombia, and Turkey… Morocco is it’s own category.

I can say, however, that my experience in those countries prepared me for Morocco. The haggling, yelling, and verbal harassment was way more intense in the Grand Bazaar of Istanbul. The catcalling and men trying to follow me or guide me somewhere was way worse in Havana, and the vigilante mode is always more alert in Colombia. What makes Morocco different was its chaotic contradictions.

Entering the Maze

The medina of Marrakesh is where our story begins. The labyrinth of narrow twisting and dead-end streets are a daunting mystery to the visitor once they realize GoogleMaps is quite ineffective. But the locals know them like the back of their hand.

Turns out these mazes of car-less tiny streets were designed intentionally for making it difficult for invaders to navigate. The architecture helps for climate control and air circulation. In fact we hardly felt the 95ºF (35ºC) temperatures. The shaded alleys and tall buildings provided wind and a cooling effect. You just had to be on alert at all times because the alleys are so narrow you could easily get run over by motorcycles and donkey carts. A few times we had to plaster ourselves against a wall to not get run over!

My favorite part of the medina IS the chaos. I was in Marrakesh a day before Reem arrived and the best part of the day was sitting at a street cafe and people-watching. I sat there for 3 hours sipping coffee after coffee and just observing. It was here that I noticed the tea-runners (at least that’s what I call them). People who bring tea to all of the venders in the medina who are working. They run around balancing trays of tea and take it to all the different merchants.

For centuries the people here have been merchants and tradespeople. There is a reason why haggling is part of the culture and why they are such good vendors. If you look closely, there is also a system to the madness. For instance watching products being transported by motorcycle and donkeys since no cars can reach the medina. Or how it may look disorganized at a glance, but in reality it’s organized by souks based on the trade and craft.

I loved admiring all of the workshops, craftspeople, and quotidian life. People making leather shoes, weaving carpets, dyeing fabrics, tinkering with brass, and master wood craftsman— all packed into high-density space. But while one street is bustling, one wrong turn of a corner and you can find yourself in a sketchy looking dead-end street where we were warned danger could be lurking.

A-Mazing and Chaotic

This metaphor of a maze is how I would describe our experience of Morocco. Constantly disorienting. Some days we experienced direct connections and meaning, while other days were cultural-dead ends and disappointing interactions.

What surprised me most was how the mass-tourism industry has shaped the country. Tourist menus with different prices and tourist only restaurants were everywhere especially on the road to Merzouga. As someone who enjoys authentic local experiences, this made it difficult to navigate. At times it felt to me as the famed Moroccan hospitality may be of a bygone era. But I knew I was challenging my own assumptions and that while that was in the case in more situations than I expected, it was certainly not the case for all.

For instance, one afternoon in Marrakesh, we found refuge from the heat in a small coffee shop making coffee on sand from the Sahara. The owner was warm and welcoming, and our exchange didn’t feel transactional. He even surprised us with extra smoothies (and he gave me the recipe at the end!) expecting nothing in return. That kind of kindness stayed with us especially when contrasted with other moments, like when Reem bought bracelets in the souk and we later realized we’d been overcharged for low-quality pieces. Morocco constantly asked us to hold both truths at once.

During my trip, I was reading a book called The Caliph’s House by Tahir Shah. The book was comforting to our confusion. It explains that in Morocco, there is no common sense, and the only way to be at peace with that is to stop having common sense yourself. If you want to get anything done, you have to play the game. In order to live alongside the chaos, you have to partake in the chaos. Once we understood this, life got a bit easier.

It takes a while to get over the initial shock of the madness. It’s the rite of passage. But after that, it’s a matter of inviting the chaos to enter you. It’s no use trying to understand the chaos, you have to become part of it.

By the end of the trip we were haggling prices, yelling aggressively “LA! LA!” (No! No!) to men trying to talk to us, and “La shukran” (no thank you) to kids trying to sell us stuff. We shut our eyes and walked straight into traffic like locals do, somehow trusting the traffic stops. It always did. We fought our way into restaurants to order food, and we accepted the fact that that taxi rides are always shared and you will take many detours along the way. (Fun fact now I’m in Paris and I feel the urge to cross the street like in Morocco, only here it doesn't work that way!)

The other challenge was the language. The Arabic dialect in Morocco is different from other Arab countries. My friend Reem is Lebanese, so she spoke Lebanese Arabic or formal Fusha with locals when possible. I often defaulted to Spanish. We’d translate for each other in English, creating our own little multilingual loop. At times, conversations would zigzag from Berber to Arabic to English—or Berber to Spanish to English. Somehow, we made it work.

Desert Detour

Just when we were getting used to Marrakesh, it was time for the journey to the Sahara. This is where things got strange. We were crammed into a bus with other travelers and the driver didn’t speak to us at all. Luckily we snagged the seats in the front next to the driver so we got air conditioning and views for all 9 hours of the drive.

For the shared bus, we would get randomly dropped off at different towns and handed off to various tour guides who’d show us around but not actually tell us anything interesting. We were rushed from place to place and then expected to pay for the “tour.”

The silver lining about being on the shared bus was getting to know fellow travelers. I also got to speak Spanish, practice Italian, and exchange a few words in French, Turkish, Japanese, and Chinese. At some point, someone connected their phone to the speakers and we started passing it around, sharing music from our respective countries and turning our bus ride into an impromptu cultural exchange through sound.

One of the Turkish travelers and I struck up conversation and when she said she lived in Istanbul, it occurred to me to ask if she’d be open to becoming a letter carrier and helping deliver a postcard to a friend who lived there. Incredibly she said yes and a week later, hand-delivered my card. “Faster than Fedex!” she said.

About 5 days after we had split from the bus group, Reem and I were eating in a restaurant in Chefchouen on the other side of the country, when we randomly ran into two other travelers from our former bus. Turns out they had a car this time and we went with them to a waterfall and riverside picnic for an entire day.

So, while the shared tour often felt like being herded from one tourist trap to the next, the real highlight wasn’t the sights. The true gift was the new friendships, cross-cultural exchanges, and the unexpected ways our paths crossed again.

Worth It, Every Time: Why Travel Changes Us

When we travel we are often left with more questions than answers. That was my experience with Morocco. I felt that I needed more time to understand the country, but at the same time it felt like you could spend decades there and still not understand it.

When people ask if Morocco is worth visiting, I’d say there’s only one way to find out. Go. These are places words cannot describe. Everyone’s experience is vastly different and there are conclusions only your eyes, ears, and heart can experience and decide. We can ask all of Reddit, ChatGPT and friends what they think of the country, but the only way to really find out is to go see for yourself. There will be always be things we like and dislike from a place. But I believe it’s always worth it to try and discover it.

Travel also isn’t just about discovering physical places, it’s about discovering new places within ourselves. Part of that growth is being tested by challenges while on the road. Though the traveler can get weary and lost, that’s when we learn the most. To trust our intuition, accept help from those around us, experience awe and joy, challenges and heartbreak. With traveling, we see it all. Not just around us, but within.

In the end, Morocco wasn’t just about the country. It was about the choice to say yes to a wild idea. Reem and I could have met in Los Angeles or somewhere closer to home where we live just a two-hour flight apart. But we chose to meet for the first time on a different continent, in a place neither of us fully understood. And that decision became part of the adventure itself. Travel gets more interesting when we stop seeing it as a checklist of destinations and start seeing it as a way to experience life more deeply with the people we meet, the spontaneity we allow, and the stories we choose to step into.

You can catch up with Part 1 (Went to Morocco with a Stranger I Met Online), and Reem and I’s mini podcast of meeting local kids in a remote village, and my $30 flight to Morocco and solo-adventures in Essaouira and Marrakesh before Reem arrived.

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Fifteen years ago, I read The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho, and it lit a fire in me to one day journey to Spain, Morocco, and Egypt. In 2016 I made it to Andalucia, Spain, where the book’s story began. I remember standing on the coast of Tarifa looking across the water to the shores of Tanger, Morocco, knowing that that’s where the main character of the book traveled to next. Last week, that dream became real (at least the Morocco part).

Even better? I made the trip with a friend I made online. We met for the first time in person in Marrakesh.

Over 10 days, we crossed the country from the coast to the city to camping in the Sahara desert. We met strangers, followed omens, shared meals, got lost, laughed hard, felt tired, felt scammed, saw beauty, got inspired. Travel does that. It stretches our perspective, tests our patience, and gifts us with a deeper appreciation for the present moment and other people’s ways of life.

There’s something beautiful about saying yes to a little adventure and a little uncertainty. About trusting the journey and the people we meet along the way.

I’d heard mixed things about Morocco and even now I feel mixed bout it. But I’m a firm believer that it’s ways worth it to visit a place and see for yourself. Witness with your own eyes and discover it. Better yet if you can befriend a stranger to come along with you for the adventure.

Here is part 1 of the story:

A perplexed look of surprise, curiosity, and concern was glued to Daniel’s face when he was trying to make sense of my story. The older French riad owner and I were having tea in the garden of the hotel in the middle of the Marrakesh Medina where I had booked a room for my friend Reem and I. While waiting for Reem to arrive from the airport, Daniel and I were having a chat in under the orange trees.

He assumed Reem and I were longtime friends, and was very confused when I told him I’d never met her in person. “You’re about to meet for the first time right now?!” He said in disbelief. “You both live in the same country but decided to meet for the first time all the way in Morocco?!”

Short answer… yes. Long answer… Reem and I met because in 2023 I’d been in a Yes Theory YouTube video. Reem had seen the video and as a result started following me on Instagram. I followed her back, but we never started a conversation. We remained quiet ghosts on each other’s social media.

Almost two years later, I reached out to her because of the war happening in her home country. It was the first exchange of messages we had, but we both felt an instant bond. I learned she had moved from Beirut to Los Angles two years ago and was my same age. We followed up with a 3-hour video call where we learned about our shared love of travel, spontaneity, and sports.

On that first call four months ago, I asked Reem if she could travel anywhere tomorrow, where would that be? She said Morocco. Funny enough, I had the same answer. “Wouldn’t it be crazy if we went there one day?” we said.

Two months later, Reem was applying for her Moroccan visa and I purchased a $30 flight from the US to Morocco using credit card points. We laughed at the fact that we lived just a two hour plane ride away but decided to meet for the first time in the far continent of Africa.

We were also crossing our fingers that Reem’s visa was accepted. It was almost the 11th hour when finally the message came through that it was. We were good to go.

That’s how I found myself walking the noisy, crowded, labyrinth that is the Marrakesh Medina in late May. After dodging donkeys, motorcycles, snake charmers, monkeys, intense smells, and shouting vendors, I took a sharp turn into a sketchy-looking alley that Google Maps claimed led to the riad.

Riads in Marrakesh mean homes with interior gardens in the center, like a courtyard. Nowadays they are also synonymous to guesthouses or hotels. If you find yourself in Morocco, staying at a riad is a “must”.

After swerving into a dark quiet street away from the crowds, was an old wooden door you had to bend down to enter. But inside was an oasis of calm. A fountain trickling in the center, lush fruit trees providing cool shade, a cat snoozing on a chair, and birds chirping. The kind of place that feels enchanted and makes you forget you’re in the middle of a chaotic city.

Daniel and his second in command, Ali, welcomed me with the signature Moroccan mint tea and cookies while I waited for Reem to arrive. They were in disbelief that Reem and I planned such an ambitious trip around Morocco despite never having met in person.

Like anything that’s worth it in life, there’s aways a degree of risk. Would we get along? Would we have the same travel style? What if we came all this way and then got annoyed with each other?

There was also the fact that neither of us had planned what we would do in Morocco. Not a single Google or ChatGPT search as to “what are the best things to do in Marrakesh.” The only things we’d planned were our riads and a 4-day trip to the Sahara.

But to me that was a good sign. Part of the reason Reem and I get along is because we both enjoy spontaneity and seeing where the wind takes us. We are not big into the TripAdvisor or Lonely Planet “must-do’s” and we rather walk the streets without a plan, talk to people along the way, and discover the city on our own.

It’s a bit of what The Alchemist calls the “language of the world.” This sense that we can communicate with people and the world around us by way of feelings rather than words. It’s the gut feeling we get when we meet someone and instantly know we can trust them. When even the unplanned comes together as a symphony with hardly any effort. Thankfully, that was my experience traveling with Reem, my internet friend, through Morocco.

As the sun went down and the temperature cooled, there was a knock on the door. It was Reem! Daniel and Ali watched us with curiosity as we met for the first time, the dawn of our Moroccan adventure.

It’s always a fun moment when you meet someone in person after being internet friends for so long. There’s a feeling of “you are real!” Life beyond video calls means you get to see how tall they actually are, their mannerisms, etc.

Reem and I sat down to eat cookies and admire just how crazy we both are to be on the other side of the world with someone we met online, about to embark on a crazy adventure through Morocco.

Daniel witnessed our first interaction, looked at us, and laughed. “I will leave you so you can meet.”

Part 2 of the story coming soon!

In case you missed it, Reem and I recorded an audio post last week which you can listen to here!

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