The Trip of a Lifetime
I first crossed the pond from my Midwestern town to study abroad in Florence, Italy, for the fall semester of my senior year in college. This was my initial taste of international experience, as slinging shots at Señor Frogs in Mexico during spring break hardly warrants one as being “cultured.” At twenty-one, my top priorities were to be seen in the party scene and to grow my social media rapidly. As I planned for Europe, I daydreamed about all the sights I would snap and filter for Instagram while filling my passport with stamps. Though beyond vanity, the thought of a four-hour dinner off a cobblestone square automatically helped me to slow down and simmer, as my competitive nature aches to see and achieve more. More buildings, more people, and more chances to prove myself as sophisticated when I would return back to the land of the free.
As I prepared visas and transcripts for my international program, my parents, who graciously funded my tuition in Italy were keen to point out my privilege in this “five month vacation.” Brushing off their mockery, I couldn’t help but listen to the rest of my social circles as they expressed jealousy and dubbed this excursion “a trip of a lifetime”.
*Sighs* Hearing the phrase “a trip of a lifetime” forces a smile to my face as the term is endearing like a fairytale and surreal like a Dali. It detaches us from the communities we travel so far to see, blinded from pixie dust of a picturesque scene. Regardless of where you go, from Greece to the grocery store, you really only have that one trip per lifetime.
Much like festival fiends who claim Electric Forest changed their life, a profound moment is merely a memory if you don’t adapt what you’ve learned from your experiences into your everyday. Otherwise, you may off track to Rock Bottom during your return flight (or when the LSD wears off) and retreat to a job you grind fifty weeks out of the year to enable your coveted escapes.
Sure, traveling in your twenties on a student visa is a limited-time offer. But traveling in itself is a privilege any American ought to pursue, as our passport is powerful and English is accessible in any major metropolitan. When we leave, we further understand universal needs: food and water, shelter and sleep, connection and community. Add in the art, architecture and dark-eyed Italian men and you start to remember how beautiful life is beyond curated outfits and hot-girl cliques. Within our bubbles, we become blind to opportunity. When we leave, FOMO is just an acronym translated into Free Of Mundane Operating.
Traveling may push you out of your comfort zone, but depending on with who and how you travel, it’s possible to contain ignorance and ideals through social bubble wrap. I witnessed this in my semester in Italy, watching sorority girls stick together from their New England schools, gossiping about people back home while dropping daddy’s credit card at pubs and clubs. While I considered myself extremely lucky to have support from my family and the loads of cash I’d worked all summer to save, I wasn’t traveling just to spend time with the same people I surrounded myself with back home.
Florence was the first time I had to figure things out on my own considering Mom isn’t much help when she’s ten hours away. So when I ventured to Venice on a solo day trip within that first month in Italy, I kept my head up and my hands sealed to by bag in the train station, weary of pickpocketers while reassuring my end-destination with other passengers boarding the carrier. I didn’t have an international data plan or Google Translate back then, so I spoke with pitiful Italian and profusive hand gestures. I found that beyond anything else, the best way to communicate is with a smile.
After navigating Venice without a guide, I figured I must being doing alright. And while I made connections with people of all ages, races and nationalities that semester, I still found myself partying with pretty American girls raised from affluent families. Together, we flocked around Europe with student-centric tour guides, doing the same shit in different cities. That is, eating epic street foods during the day and dancing until the sunrise every night at whichever discoteca our hostel recommended. In retrospect, I don’t know how respectful it was to visit world-renowned museums with a raging hangover. Though I did my best to understand the history of every major landmark I visited, choosing cities based on affordability and whether or not my new friends from Florence were willing to roll with me across borders.
Classes in Italy were pass/fail as the majority of my peers came for the experience rather the education. And though I mistakenly spoke more Spanish than Italian in my language studies, something substantial in how I communicated and presented myself shifted indefinitely. Considering my friends back home couldn’t imagine missing a home game during senior year, a handful of people didn’t believe me when I said I was quitting my swimming career to study abroad. So when it happened, I not only confirmed my competence to follow through with whatever I say I’m going to do, I overcame projected fears passed down from other people.
Sometimes, exclaiming goals outside of getting promoted, married or knocked up may result in denial or discouragement. Depending on your confidants, your confidence might get squashed when you present your dreams of moving across the globe. So seek advice from those who have already done what you want to do, especially if you know a seasoned traveler who’s much older than you. My grandparents were my biggest advocates for Italy, as they’ve spent much of their retirement in Europe. When my grandma asked that I blog about my trips, she didn’t realize what talents would release once I transpired my experiences into insights. As a kid I imagined myself becoming an author, but writing wasn’t a career a girl from Kansas was encouraged to pursue. But to be a writer one must write, so I recorded each excursion in a digital diary where my grandma, among dozens of other Facebook friends could follow along on my “five month vacation.”
Where Spain was a must-see for me, I ended up in cities that I didn’t know existed like Split, Croatia, where I proudly pruned myself in the Adriatic Sea. I realized that the more I saw, the less I knew about the world, which drove me crazy. The travel bug is a real thing, an insistent itching to see and do it all - given your budget. Thus, I traveled on the cheap, with hostels and happy hours and the occasional couch surfing.
Of the two dozen cities I visited that fall of my senior year, there was one infamous capital I avoided. Based off my own stereotypes and American stigmas, I saved one city for when I was older, wiser, wealthier and in love. That is, of course… Paris, France.
Speaking the Language of Love in the City of Lights, I wasn’t inclined to roam around such a reputable place at a young age. “Paris is dirty, the people are rude, and the lines are long” were familiar phrases I’d hear and take to heart. And as someone who struggles with dating (American) men, I wanted to share Paris with The One who I’d tell “I do.” But during the summer of 2022, nine years after my first transatlantic flight, something told me while sitting at a French market in Kansas that it was time once again to get up and go.
“This is just an impulse based off good branding!” I assured myself as I sipped a cappuccino while Édith Piaf serenaded a cafe that’s coated in French paraphernalia. Nonetheless, I set a flight price tracker on my phone and figured that I could give myself enough time to save for a solo trip to France by the end of the year. Because at thirty years old today, I am my own lover, and I wait for no one to permit my decisions for whatever I’m feeling called to do.
In my twenties, I made it my job to work around the world in order to feel something. Feel different, feel important, feel independent and impressive. I suppressed those feelings with food, weed, drinking and one-night-stands, traversing far so people would validate me.
After that first trip to Italy, my sustained starvation in college backfired into bulimia, as the way I portrayed myself on Instagram was a mere facade hiding the addictions I fought. But how luxurious it is to eat and drink around the world, and how permissible alcoholism can be when you’re twenty-three. See, the early years of my travels opened me up to the international language of kindness, yet closed me off from understanding my own voice as I reinvented my story every time I used my passport.
Moving to Seoul, South Korea at twenty-four started as an adventure novel and ended in a nightmare. I bottomed out with binge-eating, drinking, and sex with strangers as a way to evade the dread of always wanting to be elsewhere. If drugs were accessible in Seoul, there’s a likely chance I wouldn’t have lived to write this story, as I fantasized over the bliss of a heroin high while strung out on sugar and Netflix every evening that year.
Moonlighting as an English teacher, I was a professional addict in Asia. Proficient in lying, stealing and deception, no one really knew my pain until I they saw it on my face (along with the 80 pound weight gain) when I returned home. Despite spending New Year’s in Hong Kong between trips to Thailand, I was no longer traveling - I was lost. And what’s worse, I had forgotten my passions and purpose in writing, exchanging creativity for consumption.
Retreating back to my parent’s place in the second half of my twenties offered more humility and grounding than missing a flight. I learned to root myself with my writing and along the way, found a deep appreciation for practicing and teaching yoga. Meditation showed me that no breathtaking scenery could sweep me away from the turmoil I felt inside. Yoga taught me that balance is more important than speed, and that a quiet mind helps you to truly see. See our weaknesses and strengths, see what makes us tick and what makes us great. Where I used to think travel was a pure way to expand the mind, I now find that deep meditation can be trippier than any drug.
It took me years to recover from disordered eating and excessive drinking, and I thank god every morning for making sure I didn’t give up on myself when I lived alone, thousands of miles away from home. Daily meditation helped me discern my needs from the projections of others, arming me with patience. So when I felt the need to visit Paris while eating a croissant in a Midwestern French Cafe, I trusted my gut over my salivating tongue that this ping was a divine instinct.
A part of my soul longs for Europe, as it’s the home of my ancestors and a capsule of ancient times. The history, the horror, the medieval and the modern world of the West is all so fascinating and well, old. Whereas America is just a wee baby.
After a five year hiatus of being in the E.U., I flew to Paris the week after Thanksgiving. The museums and monuments ranked high on my list of things-to-see, while writing and finding a French date were the top two of things-to-do. Gratefully, I checked off all my boxes and spent my last three nights with a Parisian man who came oh-so-close to my list of what I seek in a perfect partner. Smarter than me, just as adventurous as me, thick hair and great humor were all embodied in the man who stopped me in the streets to ask for directions. And while we didn’t fall in love, I felt closer to manifesting a man I’ll love deeply. When it comes to making love, I won’t kiss and tell as my mom will surely read this, but I will say there’s good reasons we call locking lips a “French Kiss.”
This last trip to Europe was unlike any other, as I spent seven nights in the same Airbnb rather speed-dating a handful of cities in one week. My prejudices hit me in hilarious ways, considering Parisian fashion isn’t as lavish as the outfits I packed, pointing me out as an alien and the weirdo I am. So I shopped on the spot, and found vintage and new pieces for a fraction of what I’d pay back home, not to mention every incredible meal I ate barely cost me twenty bucks.
Pinterest and YouTube can refer you to remarkable places, but you must stay open to find the right people. Open in your eyes, so you can spot the hidden gems unmarked from a tour guide. Open in your opinions of how a place might be, and open in your heart to trust the innate love of humanity. Please, be discerning. Not everyone is out for your best interest, but if your intention is in connection for a warm conversation, my dear, you’ll find your people.
Lead with curiosity and gratitude every step of the way. As every moment is one of a lifetime. This one, short, microscopic lifetime in the grand scheme of things, so plan that trip today.