It is the summer of 2016, and I am in Amsterdam after having attended Tomorrowland in Belgium — one of the largest electronic dance music (EDM) festivals in the world.

In the four years leading up to this trip, I had moved to India for my Master’s, and then back to Dubai for work. Other than a couple of trips to visit family and friends, travel had taken a back seat. Those years were spent studying, working, and partying. A lot. From concerts to ladies' nights to EDM festivals, I worked hard and partied even harder.

Maybe it was the alcohol or the late nights, but the travel bug had settled somewhere in the background. And then suddenly, it’s 2016, and I am turning 25.

One thing about me: I’ve always been a big birthday person. You know the kind who turns it into a week, or worse, an entire month-long celebration? That was me. And 25 felt like a big one. I started the year with a family trip to Sri Lanka, followed by a girls' trip to Georgia in April for my birthday. And then came the biggest celebration of all in the summer. After hours of planning and waiting in virtual queues, we had finally scored tickets to Tomorrowland.

While that trip was centered around music and dancing, it was wandering through Brussels and spending days exploring Amsterdam that awakened something in me. It isn’t the music or the festival that I remember most vividly; partly because of the amount of alcohol consumed, and one day of getting blackout drunk (p.s. those days are long behind me now, but who hasn’t overindulged in their 20s). What I do remember is the excitement of exploring a new city, not knowing what you might discover about a place, or uncover about yourself.

As much as I loved the festival, I loved the exploration more.

A decade later, after countless cities, moving across two continents and constant movement, I find myself on another birthday trip. Only this time, it feels entirely different.

As I turn 35 this week, I am on my first fully solo trip to Vienna, Budapest and Bratislava. As this post goes live, I am probably sitting in a café in Vienna, with a cup of coffee and an unapologetically large slice of cake, because it is my birthday week after all.

While the travel bug is alive and well, the party girl has gone dormant. I no longer crave alcohol-fueled nights dancing to electronic beats. Instead, I want to wander down cobblestone streets, discover hidden alleyways, and stumble upon pieces of history.

Somewhere along the way, the birthday person who needed an entire month to celebrate, slowly went dormant too.

The last few years, especially since I turned 30, my brain has stopped keeping track of my age. If you asked me how old I am, you might get a different answer depending on the day. One day it’s 32, another it’s 34. A few months ago, I confidently said 28 before stopping mid-sentence to correct myself. Sorry… I’m 34! Who forgets their own age? Apparently, I do.

This year, I want time alone with my thoughts. A chance to reevaluate my choices and what I want from the future. The past two years have been a blur. Moving from the U.S. to Germany, packing up a life, unpacking another, learning a new language, and traveling a lot.

Now, as I think about stepping back into the workforce, something is holding me back. Writing has opened up a path I didn’t know I needed or even had. It allows me to combine my love for travel with a creative outlet, and I want to see where it leads.

But that means extending this career break, until it no longer feels like a sabbatical. How long is a break still considered a sabbatical? When does it stop being one? When has enough time passed that it starts affecting future opportunities? These are the thoughts running through my mind as I go back and forth between giving writing a real shot and returning to the job market. It’s not like opportunities are exactly pouring in right now. The market is difficult, to say the least.

Am I overthinking this, like I usually do? Most likely.

This year I want to start stepping outside my comfort zone, taking chances, and trying new things. Letting go of the expectations I place on myself, and just being.

Here’s to the next decade that hopefully continues to be filled with such adventures, just with earlier nights, and lower volumes.

Thanks for reading Jacky of All Travels.

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For years, I kept missing them. Too early. Too late. A cold front. A windy week. A pandemic. A flight booked at the wrong time.

At some point, it stopped feeling like bad luck and started feeling like a pattern, and I had to ask myself — why do I even care?

Every year, as winter starts to loosen its grip, I find myself waiting for the first signs of spring. Not just noticing them, but actively looking. Checking trees on my walks, scanning parks, slowing down just a little in case something has changed overnight.

It has grown to become my favorite time of year. The flowers and blooms themselves are lovely. But they also signify that the long, grey stretch is ending, and something new is about to begin.

For most of my life, I didn’t grow up with that kind of change. Living in India and Dubai, seasons weren’t something you felt in a visible, dramatic way. There was always heat, sometimes dry, sometimes humid, sometimes broken by rain. But the world around you stayed more or less the same. Trees remained green. Flowers bloomed when they wanted to. There was no single moment that marked a shift, no clear turning point you could look at and say: this is when things begin again.

When I moved to the US, I finally understood what seasons could feel like. Spring and autumn became something I could actually see. Change, unfolding in real time. A clear beginning, and an equally clear end.

Somewhere in the middle of all that, I became obsessed with cherry blossoms.
So I started chasing them.

I planned trips around peak bloom forecasts, convinced I could time it just right. A visit to Washington, DC during what was supposed to be peak season turned into a walk around the Tidal Basin lined with bare trees, the blossoms delayed by a sudden cold front. Another year, I tried again, only to arrive just after a few windy days had already blown everything away.

In New York, I waited for spring in Central Park, only for the world to shut down before I could see anything at all.

At some point, I decided to take matters into my own hands and planted a cherry blossom tree at home. It felt like a foolproof plan. Surely this time I wouldn’t miss it. And yet, somehow, I did. Either we were traveling when it bloomed, or the weather turned, or the petals didn’t last. Year after year, I lived in that house without ever really seeing it in full bloom.

That doesn’t mean I didn’t get to see them at all. There were small wins along the way. A few trees in full color against a bright blue sky. A stretch of good weather that held just long enough. Not perfect, but close enough.

Now, in Germany, I find myself doing the same thing. Noticing a tree here, a cluster of blossoms there. A few in Hamburg, a few closer to home. Still looking, still hoping to catch them at just the right moment.

Why this obsession? I’m not entirely sure.

There’s something about how brief it all is. For a few short weeks, everything feels like it’s in motion, and then it’s gone. And somehow, that makes me want it more. Like I need to see enough of it to last me the rest of the year.

But if the last few years have taught me anything, it’s this: the more I try to control the timing, the more it slips away. Cherry blossoms don’t wait for you to get it right.

Maybe that’s why they call it chasing blooms. Because you never really catch them, not perfectly, anyway.

Or maybe this has less to do with the blossoms and more to do with timing in my own life. My birthday falls in April, right when everything starts to bloom again. It’s hard not to see the connection. Another year gone, another one beginning. A reminder that you can start over, shift direction, try again.

I’m not sure I’ve fully figured it out yet.

But I do know this: every spring, I’ll still find myself looking for them.

Thanks for reading Jacky of All Travels.

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Buy Me a Coffee

At the time, I didn’t think of it as solo travel.

Looking back now at that trip, and the many others that followed, I’m not so sure I was right.

Which raises a question I’ve been thinking about lately: what actually counts as solo travel?

Is it eating alone at a restaurant? Navigating a new city by yourself? Spending an entire day without speaking to anyone you know?

I have done all of the above. So why don’t I consider myself one?

Part of it comes down to the image I have in my head. When I picture a solo traveler, I see someone young, backpack and all, striking out entirely on their own. And I didn’t fit that image.

My solo adventures came out of accompanying my spouse on work trips. While he was in meetings during the week, I’d spend my days exploring the city by myself. We’d sometimes grab dinner together, and we’d usually try to spend a weekend or a few extra days on a short side trip. But most days I was left to my own devices.

As I took more of these somewhat solo trips, I started to enjoy my own company in a way I hadn't expected. My pace was dictated by my own needs, and by how I felt on any given day. On most other trips, my people-pleasing tendencies combined with my Type A planning meant I was constantly managing everyone else’s experience: making sure I didn't miss anything, accounting for everyone’s preferences, checking that no one was bored or tired or disappointed. I was perpetually on edge.

That’s not to say I didn’t enjoy those trips. I did. Traveling with people I love has given me some of my favorite memories, and I’ve been lucky to find friends whose travel style complements my own.

But when it was just me, the tension melted away. I could choose to do nothing, or spend hours in a museum. I could wander a neighborhood I liked without a plan, sit and read in a park, or get a massage. I could come back to the hotel early and lie in bed without guilt. I could also do things that are harder to plan in a group, like a cooking class or a historical walking tour, without worrying whether everyone else was on board.

The first time I truly felt this freedom was on that trip to Beijing. If you haven’t read last week’s post yet, I've linked it below. I don’t think I would have done half of what I did, had I been traveling with other people.

So coming back to my question — Am I a solo traveler? Do my days spent alone count? Honestly, I don’t know if the label matters anymore. What I do know is that those days were mine. The pace, the choices, the quiet. Mine.

I’m not sure why we’re so quick to minimize our own experiences. But the fact that my travels don’t look like the typical solo travel narrative doesn’t mean they weren’t solo travel. It just means they looked different.

I’ve come to cherish the solitude that comes with traveling alone. It requires a certain comfort with yourself. For someone like me, who is always reading the room and picking up on other people’s emotions, being alone can be a relief. I only have to pay attention to what I need.

Is it sometimes daunting? Yes. But the more I do it, the more I find myself craving it.

So as I turn 35 next month, I want to finally put this self-doubt to rest. In a couple of weeks, I’ll be going on a week-long trip that is just mine. From start to finish.

Thanks for reading Jacky of All Travels.

I’ll be sharing my upcoming birthday solo trip here over the next few weeks if you’d like to follow along.

I’d also love to hear if your solo travels look different from the norm.

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I find a place to sit, catching my breath after the climb, when a Chinese woman approaches me.

I assume she wants a picture with me. This, I’ve learned, is not uncommon. Earlier that week I had been stopped multiple times on the Great Wall by Chinese families wanting photos with me, my brown Indian skin clearly a novelty.

Instead, she asks if I would like a picture of myself. Her English is perfect. Since I am by myself, I’m alert for pickpockets or scam artists, but I hand her my phone anyway. She takes a couple of photos and starts chatting. She compliments my smile, and tells me how much she adores Indian beauty.

Normally, this is where I would have smiled politely and moved on.

But I had spent the entire day exploring the city alone, and with the language barrier, this was the first time I had spoken to someone in English. So I let my guard down, and we start talking. I ask her about her life in China, and tell her a little about mine.

Eventually she asks if I would like to go to a tea ceremony.

My internal radar should have gone off immediately. I’d already done a tea tasting during my first visit to Beijing and had no interest in doing another one. I’d also read about common scams in the city, and tea ceremonies were high on that list.

But she keeps chatting, telling me how much she loves Bollywood movies and how Shah Rukh Khan is her favorite actor. Then she asks me if I have time to continue talking over a cup of tea.

I had about an hour to kill before meeting my husband for dinner. So I said yes. I remember thinking how nice it was to finally have a real conversation with someone in the city. Maybe this could become a nice little travel memory.

She leads me to a tea shop just on the outskirts of the park. The place looks fancy, and she seems to know the staff. I glance at the prices and immediately realize this is an expensive tourist trap, but I order a single cup of tea. They also bring out a plate of biscuits, which I assume are complimentary.

About half an hour later I need to leave for dinner, so I ask for the bill. The server brings it over and places it in front of me. I look at it, and then at her, as I wait for her to reach for her wallet to pay for her tea. But she just looks at me and smiles. When I look down at the bill, I see that the biscuits, the ones I barely touched, are also listed.

In that moment I realize exactly what has happened.

I could have pushed back. I could have insisted on splitting the bill. But it was awkward, and I just wanted to leave. So I paid. But if I was paying for those biscuits, you better believe I wasn’t leaving them behind. I asked for them to be packed up and took them with me.

As we walked out of the park together, I felt like a gullible tourist, not the seasoned traveler I liked to think I was.

Turns out you can still get scammed.

But at least I walked away with a good story… and a box of biscuits.

This wasn’t my first time in Beijing. I had visited the city almost a decade earlier, a trip that produced its own memorable stories, including what is still the best foot massage I’ve ever had. I wrote about that experience in a previous post, linked below.

The rest of that week in Beijing unfolded very differently from my first visit. The first time I came to the city, I rushed between landmarks: the Great Wall, the Forbidden City, Tiananmen Square.

This time, I had nowhere I needed to be.

I spent my days getting lost in the hutongs — the interlaced alleyways of old Beijing. I took the subway everywhere, which to this day is one of the most efficient and safe subway systems I’ve ever used.

And I ate.

I spent one afternoon learning to make xiaolongbao (Chinese soup dumplings). Zao, our cooking instructor, showed us how to prepare the dough and season the meat. As we kneaded the dough, I started chatting with Leigh, another traveler in the class. She was visiting from Australia and had traded sunny days for cold, gloomy November in China. Over our imperfect but delicious xiaolongbao, we laughed and talked. After the class we walked together toward the Drum and Bell Towers, added each other on Facebook, and that was that.

I was in Beijing accompanying my husband on a work trip, which meant I spent most days on my own and we would usually meet up for dinner or drinks in the evenings. One dinner I still can’t forget was at Black Sesame Kitchen. Located in a quiet hutong, it feels almost like a speakeasy. It took several wrong turns and repeated map checks before we finally found it. But once we did, our taste buds were blown away.

We were seated at a family-style table while the chef prepared the dishes in front of us. Over ten courses, one of which was dumplings we learned to make ourselves, we introduced ourselves. As it turned out, we were all traveling from the US. It was my first time trying black sesame ice cream, and I loved it. It is still one of my favorites, and I’ve since discovered the local German supermarket chain REWE carries it.

We also took a street food safari and tried everything from pastries and dumplings to noodles, donkey-meat sandwiches, and desserts. My favorite? The jianbing, a Chinese crepe filled with eggs, crackers, and scallions folded into an envelope. Each bite, a crispy, umami-packed flavor bomb.

I discovered a tiny hand-pulled noodle shop, and to this day I still think about that spicy noodle broth. I went to Din Tai Fung by myself and gorged on dumplings.

Can you tell I love dumplings? Or do you need more evidence?

One day was devoted to bargaining and shopping at the silk and pearl markets, which was nerve-wracking but exhilarating. The vendors hand you a calculator, you type in your price, they shake their heads dramatically before entering a counteroffer. Back and forth it goes until you agree. Or you start to walk away and see if they chase after you. If they don’t, you know your offer was too low. So you go into another store selling the same product and repeat the process.

I left with bags full of green tea, souvenirs, and silk scarves… but also some buyer’s remorse. I definitely felt like I could have gotten a better deal.

Oh well. There’s always next time.

I spent time in local markets buying spices to take home. I also bought so much chili oil (you can never have too much) and other condiments. After all, I had plenty of luggage space, given I had forgotten to pack any bottoms for this trip (a mistake I wrote about before).

There were so many things I did on that trip that I never would have done on my first visit. Beijing has so much to see that your first visit often revolves around the major historic sites.

But this time, I wandered through places like the 798 Art Zone, admiring the murals and sculptures.

One afternoon I found myself at the Beijing Zoo. The main attraction, of course, was the pandas. While they were undeniably cute, seeing so many animals confined in small enclosures felt deeply depressing. I still remember leaving with tears in my eyes.

I haven’t been to a zoo since.

That week in Beijing ended up looking very different from the trip I had taken years earlier. Without the pressure of seeing every landmark, I spent my time drifting through neighborhoods, taking cooking classes, eating my way through street markets, and navigating the city at my own pace. I lingered longer, paid more attention, and experienced Beijing in ways I never would have on my first visit.

And somewhere during that trip, I realized I was more capable than I had given myself credit for. But that realization deserves its own post.

My second time in Beijing taught me something important about travel.

The first visit shows you the landmarks.

The second visit shows you the city.

Thanks for reading Jacky of All Travels.

Every Tuesday I share a new travel story or reflection.

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Buy Me a Coffee

But this idea, that admiration mixed with envy can attract negative energy, lodged itself somewhere deep in my psyche.

Every time my flight is delayed, a trip gets cancelled, I fall sick while traveling, or the weather turns bad, the thought crosses my mind:

Is this someone’s buri nazar?

Did my posting about the trip invite someone’s evil eye?

This ancient superstition is universal. The belief that a malevolent or envious gaze can cause misfortune, illness, or bad luck.

In India it is called nazar or drishti. In Greece, mati. In Italy, malocchio. In Latin America, mal de ojo.

And to prevent this misfortune befalling us, we adorn ourselves with amulets, charms, talismans, and sometimes even perform rituals to get rid of this dark cloud hanging over us.

Nazar is not always about intentional malice. Sometimes it comes from something more subtle. Someone might say, “You’re so lucky to travel,” while quietly thinking, I wish I could too. That mix of admiration, longing, and comparison is believed to create the evil eye. In that sense, nazar is less about superstition and more about the strange emotional energy that exists between people.

In India this belief is pervasive, influencing every stratum of society, regardless of religion, language or geography. This belief is ingrained from childhood. You are protected from it and reminded of it’s looming presence, and it’s often blamed for any misfortune that befalls you or your family

As babies, we often have a kaala teeka — a small black dot made from kajal (kohl) — placed behind the ear, on the forehead, or even on the sole of the foot to ward off the evil eye. Outside homes and shops, lemon and green chillies hang from doorways to absorb negative energy. Many people wear a kala dhaga, a black thread tied around the wrist or ankle, as protection from unseen forces.

Any praise, accomplishment, or compliment is often followed by the phrase “nazar na lag jaye” or may no evil eye be cast. It is said after good news, during weddings or births, almost as a reflex. In some ways, it mirrors the English habit of saying “touch wood” after sharing something positive, a small verbal ritual meant to protect good fortune.

And if misfortune does strike, there are rituals meant to remove the evil eye. One common method involves wrapping salt and dried red chillies in a piece of paper, circling it around the affected person, and then burning it. The logic is strangely specific: if the smoke carries the sharp smell of chillies, then nothing supernatural was involved. It was simply bad luck. But if there is little to no smell, it is taken as proof that negative energy had been present and has now been burned away.

Growing up around these rituals, the idea of nazar was always somewhere in the background. I never considered myself someone who believed in such things. And yet, pieces of it followed me into adulthood.

As life got better and things started falling into place, a strange worry began creeping in…

Things are going too well. Something bad will happen to balance it out.

I don’t like that this is how my mind works. I catch myself downplaying the good things in my life. When I talk about a trip, I instinctively add something that went wrong — the delayed flight, the long lines, the bad weather. As if I need to balance the story so no one thinks everything was perfect.

My parents would often tell me, “Stop sharing so much of your life online,” and I would dismiss that completely. In the beginning, I shared my travels actively on Instagram. But over time, I realized I didn’t need to document everything. I could experience something fully without announcing it to the world.

Slowly, I stopped posting about my life. Then I stopped posting about my travels too. Now I mostly share small updates through stories rather than full posts.

I know many people who follow a similar rule. They don’t post about trips until they return. They don’t share promotions, house purchases, or big life plans until everything is finalized. The reasoning is always the same: don’t invite nazar before the good thing has fully happened.

I often joke with my friends about this. We are educated, rational adults. Why do we still end up thinking this way? And yet the thought lingers.

Will people think I travel too much?

Will they wonder how I can afford it?

Will they assume my life is perfect, and quietly resent that?

Sometimes it’s even specific people. I’ve noticed that when I share future plans with certain individuals, trips I’m excited about or things I’m looking forward to, those plans somehow fall apart.

I know, I know. It’s not rational. Nevertheless, the pattern sits in the back of my mind.

And I hate to admit this, but when bad luck comes in a streak, I’ve even tried performing the nazar removal ritual myself. And though I’d like to dismiss the whole idea as superstition… the chillies didn’t emit any smell!

How do you explain that?

I remember one trip shortly after we moved to Germany. Friends were visiting from the U.S., and we planned a Christmas market trip to Brussels, Amsterdam, and back.

Almost every train on that journey was cancelled or delayed. One train stopped halfway and terminated unexpectedly. Another was cancelled entirely. At one point we ended up detouring through Rotterdam, a city we had never planned to visit. The weather was miserable. Cold rain that soaked through our shoes. One of our friends got sick midway through the trip.

We still had a wonderful time. We discovered a beautiful Christmas market in Aachen we hadn’t planned to visit, and Rotterdam turned out to be surprisingly interesting.

But when things kept going wrong, the question still crossed my mind:

Is this just Deutsche Bahn being Deutsche Bahn… or did someone’s nazar catch up with us?

When I think about it logically, I realize it’s probably just confirmation bias. If I look for evidence of nazar, I will find it everywhere. A delayed train or cancelled flight becomes proof.

Life naturally involves setbacks. But when something goes wrong after sharing good news, it’s easy to blame the evil eye.

I’ve tried replacing this thinking with something completely different: the law of attraction. Expect good things. Share good things. Believe good things will happen.

Has the idea of the evil eye disappeared completely? No.

But I am working on letting it stay in the background instead of letting it dictate my actions. I’m learning to celebrate good things without immediately worrying about inviting envy.

It’s strange how beliefs you barely noticed growing up resurface later in adulthood. Maybe we never fully escape the environments that shape us.

After all, I am a product of that environment, and I’m still in the process of unlearning parts of it.

Maybe sharing this publicly will finally make me stop thinking about nazar….

Or maybe not.

P.S. The evil eye exists across so many cultures. Did you grow up with any superstitions that still pop into your head as an adult, especially ones that affect how you travel or share good news?

I’d love to hear about them! If nothing else, just to reassure myself that I’m not the only rational adult with slightly irrational beliefs.

Thanks for reading Jacky of All Travels.

Every Tuesday I share a new travel story or reflection.

If you enjoyed this piece and would like to support the publication, you can:

• Subscribe for future Travel Tuesday essays

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Buy Me a Coffee

Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about the push and pull that shapes how I travel. The need to feel a place deeply, to stay long enough to get a sense of it and not just drift by, and at the same time the urge to see everything, to do everything, the feeling that there’s so much to see and so much to do. How do you balance the two?

A lot of the posts I read here on Substack about slow travel talk about spending weeks or months in a city, learning its rhythm, becoming a regular somewhere, letting the place unfold. But that’s not where I’m at in my life right now. Most people are not full-time travelers or digital nomads. Most of us travel in short bursts — a week here, 10–14 days there.

In the U.S. I had to plan my travel around the limited 15 days of PTO and few public holidays. So how do you reconcile the desire for depth with the reality of limited time?

I would love to spend a month exploring Thailand. But then the thought creeps in: if I’m already there, shouldn’t I also see Laos? Cambodia? Maybe squeeze in Vietnam? Who knows when I’ll be back.

That is the mental tug-of-war I constantly find myself in. Wanting to commit to a place, but feeling the pull to maximize the opportunity. Trying to be intentional, but also not wanting to “miss out.”

I remember one trip through Northern Italy where we changed cities and hotels almost every two days. Once we even switched hotels within the same city just to experience different neighborhoods. It was exciting, but by the end I felt like I had spent as much time packing and unpacking as actually experiencing the places themselves.

For the longest time I assumed that because I couldn’t spend weeks or months somewhere, slow travel simply wasn’t possible for me.

But I’ve started to realize something else.

Slow travel isn’t really about time. It’s about intention.

So how do you incorporate “intention” into short trips? These are things that have helped me:

• Fewer must-see checklists per city. Not rushing from landmark to landmark, trying to optimize every minute.

• Leaving space for the unexpected. I now plan one main activity/attraction per day, and let the rest of the day unfold.

• Spending longer in cafés, parks, and neighborhoods instead of rushing to the next thing on the itinerary. I carry a book with me and read in a park, or just walk through a new neighborhood.

• Not spreading myself too thin emotionally, even if the geography is ambitious. I might still do 3 cities in a week, but intentionally.

I am trying to make peace with the constraint of time. Maybe this season of life isn’t about choosing one extreme, but choosing balance. About learning to live with the tension.

I am still negotiating this push and pull.

Still figuring out what balance looks like for me.

And trying to embrace the trip I can take — not the one I wish I could.

Thanks for reading Jacky of All Travels.

Every Tuesday I share a new travel story or reflection.

If you enjoyed this piece and would like to support the publication, you can:

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But now that I’ve spent over a year in Germany, I’ve realized how much I couldn’t have predicted. So I wanted to share some of the things I’ve learned — what surprised me, what challenged me, and what I still miss from the U.S., the last place I called home.

Dining Is an Experience, Not a Transaction

No one rushes you.

No one checks on you every 5 minutes.

No one brings the bill unless you ask.

At first, it felt like bad service. I was so used to the constant hovering in the U.S. Part of it comes down to tipping culture. In most of Europe, waitstaff aren’t dependent on tips for their livelihood. There’s no expectation to leave 18-20% like there is in New York. If you tip at all, it’s usually 5-10%, which was a welcome change.

Now? I’ve learned patience. Meals aren’t meant to be rushed. Conversations are allowed to breathe. Sometimes, the waiter simply assumes you’re still enjoying the food and the company.

And if you are in a rush, you better say so. Let them know upfront. Or walk to the register to pay. Otherwise, you might be waiting a while for the check. Because here, finishing your plate doesn’t mean the experience is over.

Water Isn’t Free (And Neither Are Bathrooms)

Maybe I shouldn’t combine these two, but they go hand in hand.

Want tap water served at a restaurant? That’s going to cost you, sometimes more than you expect, depending on how fancy the place is. In the U.S., it didn’t matter where you dined, a glass of water was usually the first thing at your table. Here, you can go an entire meal without it. If you ask, you pay. Even for tap water.

So now, I carry a reusable water bottle everywhere. It's both eco-conscious and eco-nomical. Although that doesn’t always work. I’ve been told more than once that outside water isn’t allowed, and that if we wanted water, we needed to order it.

And after all that water, if you need the restroom, be ready to shell out again. Rest stops, malls, train stations; most charge between 50 cents and 1 euro. I once ran to the bathroom at a train station, only to realize at the entrance that I needed coins. I had to run back, grab my wallet and sprint back again, all before my connecting train departed.

Lesson learned: when time is of the essence, bring your wallet or phone along.

Sundays are Sacred

In Germany (and some other European nations), everything shuts down on Sundays and public holidays. Except for restaurants and gas stations. Even trucks aren’t allowed to drive on the Autobahn on Sundays.

No grocery runs. No last-minute errands. No “I’ve run out of milk and need to pop into the store.”

At first it felt inconvenient. Then strangely, it feels freeing. As long as you remember to stock up by Saturday, Sundays become just for you. Walk. Hike. Eat out. Do absolutely nothing.

Just don’t forget to check the public holiday calendar. Because if you don’t, you might find yourself stuck at home on a random Tuesday with no milk or eggs.

There’s something deeply calming about an entire country collectively deciding to slow down.

Variety Is Not Guaranteed

Grocery stores here are smaller.

A few cuts of meat. Maybe fish, if you’re lucky. A modest canned goods section. You won’t find the sprawling, warehouse-style supermarkets with 27 varieties of the same thing.

I once went to 4 different grocery stores, a large supermarket and a local butcher trying to find beef short-ribs, to no avail. I eventually went to a bigger butcher in the city to find the cut I wanted. The same goes for specific fish, or something like a whole turkey during Thanksgiving.

But in exchange, you get fresh, local produce at extremely affordable prices. For someone who was anchored to inflated U.S. grocery costs, shopping in Germany feels like a bargain. Fresh bread. Seasonal produce. Fewer preservatives and additives.

And fresh local eggs that aren’t refrigerated. Yes, you heard that right. If you look for them in the cold section, you won’t find any. Eggs here aren’t washed the same way, so they can be stored at room temperature.

Do I miss the variety? Sometimes. I miss Costco. I miss wandering the aisles discovering some exciting new item I absolutely don’t need, but will buy anyway. I miss Trader Joe’s and my beloved “Crunchy Chili Onion Sprinkle.” If you know, you know.

The language barrier made shopping harder at first. I spent the first couple of months translating labels on my phone, trying to memorize product names, and building my German vocabulary. Grocery shopping, which used to be relaxing, felt intimidating. Now it’s easier. I know my staples, my German is improving, and I don’t need Google Translate for yogurt anymore.

But I’m still counting the days until a Costco opens nearby. A few months into our move, I was so homesick that I made my husband drive me to Paris so I could go to Costco there. It was my Christmas wish.

It was my first time in Paris, and I can’t believe that Costco is what got me there!

Noise Laws Are Real

No loud music. No vacuuming. No yard work. Nothing that disturbs the peace, all day Sunday, and during quiet hours the rest of the week.

I wrote about this in more detail in the post below, so I won’t get into it here. But let’s just say that we’ve been politely reminded more than once that mowing the lawn on a Sunday is not appreciated.

Wine is Suspiciously Cheap

And dangerously good.

You can get a genuinely excellent bottle for 4-6 euros. And not just for German wine, but Italian, Spanish, and French bottles too. When we first moved, we made a game out of finding the most expensive bottle at our local grocery store. I think we got to 13-15 euros. That’s it.

Somewhere along the way, I became a Riesling person. Living in the Rhine Valley will do that to you. I’ve had more than my fair share, and I can’t wait to explore more of the wine region this summer.

And it’s not just wine. Alcohol, including beer, for the most part, is very affordable.

As someone who isn’t a big beer drinker, I assumed I’d feel left out. Instead, I discovered Radlers. Half beer, half lemonade. Refreshing, delicious, and now my go-to order when everyone around you is ordering proper German beer.

Recycling Is a Full-Time Job

Germany is serious about its trash. Very serious.

Most plastic and glass bottles come with a deposit (Pfand) added at checkout. You return them, you get your money back. Simple. Except, there are multiple types of Pfand, and it took me months to understand the difference.

Glass bottles without a deposit have to be sorted into neighborhood recycling bins. Clear glass in one. Green in another. Brown and other colors in a separate one.

Plastics, tin, and aluminum go into the yellow trash bags or bins. Most packaging clearly tells you how to dispose of it, thankfully.

Paper has its own bin. Cardboard boxes need to be broken down. But not all paper goes there. Of course there are rules.

Organic waste, along with yard trimmings, goes in the bio bin.

Batteries, light bulbs, and electronics can be returned to supermarkets or electronic stores. If they sell it, they are required to take it back.

Clothes, wearable or not, have their own neighborhood recycling containers.

And if none of these categories apply? Then, and only then, can it go into Restmüll, or the ‘‘everything else’’ bin.

How long did it take me to figure all of this out? Months. And I’m still learning. But strangely, I enjoy it. For someone who has always tried to reuse and recycle, having an actual system in place feels satisfying.

Recycling here isn’t optional. It’s structured. Systematic. Built into daily life. And now it’s almost muscle memory.

Air Conditioning Is a Luxury

Never have I appreciated air conditioning more than during my first German summer.

Roughly 85% of German households do not have air conditioning. And while summers here are generally pleasant, the heat waves are not. Brick buildings trap warmth beautifully, which is wonderful in winter, and absolutely brutal in July. Open the windows for air, and you’re also inviting more heat inside. Close them, and it’s a sauna.

Last summer, we were lucky enough to travel during part of the heat wave. Even then, we slept with 3 fans running at full power. I am already dreading this summer. Maybe we finally give in and buy an AC. Although living in a rental with German-style windows (more on that later) makes it easier said than done.

So yes, I do miss central air conditioning in the U.S. And sleeping under a blanket in the middle of summer.

The Small Things Add Up

None of these things are life-changing on their own. But together, they’ve shifted the way I live.

A little slower. A little more intentional. A little less materialistic. And slightly more patient.

But still missing Costco.

P.S. As I started writing this, I realized there’s so much more about life in Germany that I wanted to share. So instead of one very long post, consider this the first of a few.

For now, pour yourself a glass of German Riesling or grab a beer and Prost!

For ongoing research into suspiciously cheap Riesling.

Wine Research Fund

Established in 1872 as the world’s first national park, Yellowstone spans over 2.2 million acres and contains nearly half the world’s active geysers. Within a single day, you move from wide open valleys dotted with bison, to steaming geothermal basins that feel otherworldly. From silent alpine lakes to canyons carved in impossible colors, it’s a collision of ecosystems and elements, all contained within one restless stretch of land.

Where the Valley Comes Alive

One of the things I was most looking forward to in Yellowstone was wildlife spotting. The first few bison we saw on our first day had me ridiculously excited. Like we had stumbled upon something rare, and I clicked dozens of pictures trying to capture it.

That excitement didn’t last long.

Driving through Lamar Valley and Hayden Valley, we realized that in Yellowstone, bison aren’t rare. They are everywhere.

Thousands, and I mean thousands, as far as the eye can see, stretched across the valley plains. Dark specks scattered across the green and gold landscape, some grazing lazily, and entire herds moving slowly across the valley. Calves chased each other in bursts of energy, rolling in the grass while adults stood watch.

At times they were so close to the car, you could reach out and touch them. There’s something unsettling about being in such close proximity to an animal that massive. They also seemed oddly comfortable near the thermal basins, steam rising around them as they stood on ground that was quite literally boiling. We spotted multiple bison on a few of our trails, which for me was a bit too close for comfort.

And the bison were just the beginning.

We spotted grizzly bears and black bears, mothers with cubs, casually crossing the road like it’s part of their daily walk, completely unbothered by the dozens of people watching. Mountain goats appeared perfectly camouflaged on the yellow rhyolite rocks, as if a part of the canyon itself. And then there were the elk, mule deer, big horn sheep, squirrels, marmots, coyotes and countless birds that we also spotted during our time in the park.

It truly is the closest you’ll come to a safari experience in the US.

Worth Knowing

If you see cars pulled over along the shoulder, especially if someone is holding binoculars or a long camera lens, it is more than likely they have spotted something.

And if traffic suddenly slows to a crawl, there’s a good chance a bear (or a bison with no sense of urgency) is crossing the road.

Definitely carry binoculars. It makes wildlife spotting way easier.

Where the Land Stretches On

Yellowstone has over 600 kms of paved roads, spread across 3 states (Montana, Wyoming and Idaho), and is larger than Rhode Island and Delaware combined. The scale of it is hard to grasp until you’re inside it.

And the only way to truly understand that scale is to drive. And drive we did.

Over 5 days, we covered more over 300 kms, tracing the Grand Loop Road (the figure 8 route that connects most of the park’s major sights). Hours passed behind the windshield, but it never felt repetitive. The landscape kept shifting. Open meadows gave way to dense forests. Rivers appeared and disappeared beside the road. Snow still clung to mountain peaks in late May.

The most breathtaking portion for me, was the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone.

Driving along the North and South Rims, each overlook seemed to outdo the last. The Yellowstone River carved its way through the canyon, gathering force before plunging over the Upper Falls. At Inspiration Point, we stood looking at the dramatic view of the Grand Canyon, bathed in hues of yellow, orange, pink, and white, almost like a watercolor painting.

Yellowstone is immense, but it’s also constantly changing, and no two stretches of road feel quite the same.

Worth Knowing

Yellowstone is expensive, and the food inside the park is average at best and definitely overpriced.

The smarter option is to stop at a grocery store before entering the park and pack lunches. There are picnic areas scattered throughout the park, many with beautiful views of rivers, forests or open meadows. It saves money, and is more scenic.

Reception is spotty to nonexistent in large parts of the park, so download offline maps in advance. And if you’re visiting in early spring, or late fall and winter, keep an eye on road closures, as conditions change quickly.

Where the Earth Breathes

Yellowstone contains more than 10,000 thermal features, including the largest concentration of geysers in the world, along with hot springs, mud-pots, and steam vents. Most of the park sits atop a super-volcano known as the Yellowstone Caldera, which is still very much active. Beneath your feet, magma, gas, and hydrothermal fluids are constantly moving, and the park shows you just how alive it is as you walk along the trails and witness the massive geysers erupting, and thermal basins steaming.

The first time you step onto the boardwalk trail of the basins, it’s slightly disorienting.

The earth hisses, steam rises into the air, and pools of water bubble as if simmering on a stove. And the colors, vibrant blues fading into rings of deep oranges, rust and lime.

Walking through West Thumb Geyser Basin, the turquoise pools were so clear they looked inviting. Perfect, even for a short dip. Those intrusive thoughts, however, don’t last long, as you feel the steam, smell the sulphur, and read the warning signs reminding you that the water can reach temperatures high enough to cause fatal burns within seconds.

That tension — beauty and danger existing side by side — is what makes Yellowstone’s geothermal landscape so surreal.

I had seen the photos of the Grand Prismatic Spring, which is the largest hot spring in the U.S. and the third largest in the world, so I thought I knew what to expect. But standing there, walking along the edge, watching steam drift across the bands of color, the scale alone is staggering. And it definitely looks extraterrestrial.

And then there are the geysers.

Old Faithful is the most famous, erupting with clockwork reliability. But beyond it lies the Upper Geyser Basin, home to more than 150 geysers. Some erupt every few hours, others every few days. And you can feel the restless energy of Yellowstone, waiting to erupt at any moment.

Worth Knowing

The best view of Grand Prismatic Spring isn’t from the boardwalk, it’s from above. Take the short but steep Fairy Falls Trail to the Grand Prismatic Overlook. It is totally worth the hike.

The National Park Service posts predicted eruption windows for many of the more predictable geysers. Keep a check closer to your travel window, so you can try and witness geysers, in addition to Old Faithful.

And carry water! Even in spring, the basins can get intensely hot. There is nothing more ironic than being dehydrated, surrounded by water in every direction, and knowing none of it is safe to drink. I would know, because I forgot to carry mine when we walked the Upper Geyser Basin.

And This Should Go Without Saying, But……

PLEASE. STICK. TO. THE. BOARDWALKS!

Even with the signs everywhere, there are still people who step off for a better shot. Or to squeeze past someone. Or simply because they think the rules don’t apply to them.

You are literally walking over an active volcano.

You do not know whether the ground beneath your feet is stable. The crust can be thin. The water can be scalding. This isn’t dramatic. People have fallen through, and suffered life-altering burns.

And then are those who give in to their intrusive thoughts and actually try to touch the water.

Do you not see the warning signs? Do you not smell the sulphur? This is not a hot tub.

And don’t get me started on the folks who treat the wildlife like a photo opportunity.

That bison that looks like it’s peacefully resting? It can be up and charging in seconds. The number of times we saw people ignore the park rangers and inch closer for a better shot — standing directly in the path of a bison — was unbelievable.

And the bears. Following them. Crowding them. Ignoring distance guidelines.

Do not antagonize a mama bear with her cubs.

Because here’s the part most people forget: if a bear attacks after you invade its space, the bear is often the one that gets euthanized. For your mistake.

Remember that this is their home, and you are just the visitor.

Okay. Rant over.

There are places that feel curated for visitors.

Yellowstone does not.

You are not the center of the experience here. You are merely a witness.

A witness to a planet that is still shaping itself. To the earth breathing in steam and boiling pools. To wildlife moving through valleys as it has for centuries. To rivers carving canyons, one relentless year at a time.

And at night, when the park finally quiets, you look up and see thousands of stars scattered across the sky. The Milky Way stretching overhead. And for a moment, the alien worlds of science fiction don’t feel so far away after all.

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Maybe it’s the way the trip is portrayed that induces these feelings. The sunsets, the sweeping views, the artfully plated meals are easy to share. The tired feet, the cranky outbursts, the argument just before that photo, less so. The crowds, the missed trains, and the hours spent waiting in lines rarely make it into the frame. When all you see is the polished version of a trip, some envy is bound to creep in.

I’ve wondered how they afford it. I’ve felt that pang. I’ve compared. And then I remember the trade-offs I make for my own trips. I also wonder if other people think the same when they see me traveling. Behind those trips are the countless hours spent planning, hunting for deals, and squeezing value out of points and miles. The basic economy seats. The public transportation instead of taxis. The hotel breakfasts that double as lunch so we can justify a nice dinner. Travel has often meant choosing experiences over upgrades, plane tickets over impulse buys, and priorities that don’t always make sense to everyone else.

At the end of the day, there is always a compromise. ‘‘Having it all’’ feels more like a slogan than a reality. Whenever someone is traveling full time, or extensively, there are likely other areas of their life where they are choosing differently. Maybe it’s a missed family celebration. Or saying no to a spontaneous weekend away with friends. Maybe it’s working overtime instead of taking holidays. Travel rarely happens in isolation; it happens because something else gives way. Some part of travel envy comes from the illusion that everyone else is ‘‘doing it better,’’ when in reality, they may simply be doing it differently. And it often ignores the fact that travel is, at its core, a financial priority choice.

But comparison isn’t the only source of travel envy. It’s especially strong when you’re not traveling, when you’re at home and your social feed seems full of other people boarding planes. In those moments, the feeling isn’t really jealousy. It’s longing. Not envy of the person, but rather of the experience itself.

There is also that strange twinge when someone visits a city you love and discovers something you missed. Seeing them try a restaurant you didn’t know about or wander into a neighborhood you never explored and thinking, why didn’t I do that? Or worse, did I do it wrong? Maybe it’s a kind of scarcity mindset. The quiet fear that there isn’t enough time, enough trips, enough life to see it all.

But I don’t think it’s necessarily a bad thing. A little envy can be a great motivator. It can nudge me to plan the next trip, to revisit a place with fresh eyes, or to finally book the flight I’ve been hesitating over. Sometimes that pang is simply a reminder that travel still excites me.

That said, I’m not endorsing the spiral of comparison that can come with it. I’ve learned to quiet that voice telling me I don’t have enough time to see it all. Because it doesn't really matter if I do. What matters is that I keep exploring. There will always be more to discover — in new lands, in familiar cities, and in my own backyard.

Whenever someone says they cannot afford to travel, I understand the hesitation. But I also think travel doesn’t always have to look the way we imagine it. It doesn’t have to mean five-star hotels, Amalfi Coast summers, or Maldives water villas. Sometimes it’s as simple as a hike in a nearby forest, a weekend of camping, or taking a regional train to explore the cities around you. Travel can be grand, but it can also be small.

And while it can be tempting to romanticize constant movement, I know that isn’t what I truly want either. I need the travel, but I also need my routine. The steadiness of being home. The familiarity of my daily walks with my dog. So while a few specks of envy still linger, I’m learning to make peace with them. Because they are simply reminders that travel still matters to me. That it still brings me joy, that it still pulls at me in the best way. And so I will keep dreaming, keep planning, and keep cheering you on when you go somewhere new, even if a small part of me wishes I were packing a bag too.

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I wake up still feeling the buzz of the previous night, trying to piece together how we ended up belting “Somebody to Love” at two in the morning on the streets of Galway. Someone in the bunk above me groans, and the cold Irish air seeps through the thin hostel windows. I’m dreading having to get out of bed and face another grey March morning, but when I look around the six-bed dorm filled with women I met only three days earlier, that familiar spark of adventure returns.

The giggles start quiet at first, then louder as the others begin to stir. “My legs are killing me,” someone whispers. “Worth it though,” another chimes in. We all knew we had indulged a bit too much.

We’re in Galway on day three of a six-day Paddywagon bus tour around Ireland. A bus full of strangers, mostly in their 20s and 30s, who would soon bond over Guinness, 80s rock, and the wildly unpredictable Irish spring. I’m traveling with my friend Saman as part of a longer trip to London for my graduation ceremony. I’m 21, just out of university, and life feels like it’s only just beginning.

We arrived in Dublin by ferry in the wee hours of the morning, and needed to get to our pick-up point. We had no idea where to get the bus, or even which bus to take. This was before easy access to Google Maps and affordable mobile data on phones. We decided to ask an old Irish lady nearby for help. She must have been at least 80, and she was so kind and tried to give us directions. When she saw that we were still confused, she not only walked with us to the bus stop, but also waited until the bus came and spoke to the driver, asking him to tell us when to get off. That act of generosity was just one of the many moments on this trip when near strangers offered assistance. Even the bus driver, seeing we did not have any change, didn’t charge us for that journey. We were greeted with Irish warmth and hospitality from the moment we arrived.

I was grateful to have Saman beside me on this trip. Having her there made it easier to step into a bus full of strangers. These tours always begin awkwardly. The introductions, the scanning for potential friends, the polite small talk. But by day two, you start to sense the people you naturally drift toward. For us, that was Julia and Tanya, two teenagers fresh out of high school on a gap year in Ireland before heading back to Germany and Austria. There was Sinead from Australia, who was working and travelling her way through Europe. There was Rachel, a PhD student, and a mix of other travellers whose paths briefly intersected with ours.

Barry, our tour guide, was the heart of the bus. He was full of stories, legends, jokes, and a passion for Ireland that got the whole group excited about our journey. He helped break the ice, got us talking, sharing, singing, and even dancing. The long hours on the road didn’t feel like much because he kept us all engaged.

Every night as the bus rolled into a new town, we checked into our hostel and were assigned a four or six-bed dorm. That first night, we bunked with Julia and Tanya and bonded instantly. We shared ramen in the hostel kitchen because we were all on a budget. Besides, we preferred saving our money for the nights we spent in a pub, since in Ireland pubs were where everyone seemed to gather. We attempted the Irish jig with alcohol-fuelled enthusiasm and almost no skill, ending the night in laughter and shared embarrassment.

I had only recently started drinking, and Guinness was not my cup of tea. But when in Ireland, you try. As we drank, we shared stories. Listening to these women, each living in ways I had never seen growing up in India and Dubai, shifted something in me. Back home, I had not known many women who travelled alone or took gap years. Hearing their stories showed me versions of adulthood I hadn’t been exposed to.

Ireland in March is not for the faint-hearted. Coming from Dubai’s endless sunshine, the grey skies and biting cold were a shock to the system, especially since I was spectacularly underdressed. At Giant’s Causeway, I was convinced the wind was going to blow me straight into the Atlantic. It didn’t, but at some point the wind snatched my beanie and sent it flying into the ocean. I stood there laughing, hair whipping across my face, feeling strangely alive.

I had never before seen so much green in my life, stretching out for miles in every direction. I remember being mesmerised by the pastures dotted with sheep, trying to capture it all on my digital camera. Even wrapped in mist, Ireland felt vast and wild and impossibly beautiful, and for me, it represented freedom. The joy of exploring a new place and meeting people from around the world, each on their own path of self-discovery.

We kissed the Blarney Stone hoping to gain the gift of eloquence, though I doubted it worked. We walked around Dunguaire Castle because legend said it could restore your virginity if you circled it counter-clockwise, and laughed about that for days. We went to pubs hoping for a rom-com-worthy meet-cute with charming Irish locals, only to be hit on by very old men with questionable charm. Still, after a day in the cold, nothing beat warming yourself up in a pub with some Irish cider. I switched to Magners or Bulmers pretty quickly after giving up on stout.

One night, in a crowded little pub in Derry, I absentmindedly began peeling the label off my cider bottle. Julia and Tanya exchanged knowing looks. When I asked what that was about, Julia explained that peeling bottle labels or shredding coasters was a sign you were sexually frustrated. For the rest of the night, we watched everyone else in the pub with a new set of eyes. To this day, if I catch myself doing it, I stop and laugh because it takes me straight back to that night.

Our craziest night out was the pub crawl in Galway. The cover band was incredible, loud and fully committed to every 80s rock anthem, and we were committed to shouting back the lyrics and singing along. Sinead introduced us to Baby Guinness shots, which were basically Kahlua topped with Baileys and looked like mini pints of Guinness. They tasted nothing like Guinness, but they looked close enough, and honestly that was all I needed.

Sinead also had a collection of Aussie drinking songs that she delivered with complete sincerity. Before long, “300 Bottles of Beer” had become our unofficial anthem, much to the dismay of the rest of the bus the following morning. The song followed us for days. Someone would start the first line, and the rest of us would groan or laugh or reluctantly join in. It was ridiculous, but it was ours, and we managed to get to 45 bottles of beer before we were finally shut down.

It is funny how quickly you bond on a trip like this. The friendships are instant, intense and fleeting. Travel shifts the rules of friendship. Everything moves faster. You learn each other’s rhythms, fears, and histories not over months or years but over shared bunk beds, shared hangovers, and shared moments of vulnerability. We did not have much in common except a shared desire to see more of the world, and for six days, that was enough.

We danced for hours that night, feeling young and untethered. The whole world felt like possibility. And when the pub finally closed, a group of tipsy women spilled onto the quiet Galway streets, leaning on each other as we tried to sing “Can anybody find me somebody to love?” under the streetlights. Someone took a photo. It is blurry and chaotic, filled with movement and warm yellow light, and every time I see it, I remember the lightness of that moment. These are the moments you cannot plan for.

On the last day, as we headed back toward Dublin, the mood shifted. We knew this little world we had built was ending. At the Guinness Storehouse, we learned to pour the perfect pint and toasted our final Guinness at the Gravity Bar, while the city spread out below us. We talked about our future plans and what came next. Rachel was considering staying in Ireland a little longer. Sinead had another country waiting. Julia and Tanya would return home for university.

We took our last photos together, added each other on Facebook and promised to stay in touch. For a while, we did. A few comments, a few messages. And then, slowly, the connection faded as we moved back into our separate lives. These friendships were never meant for forever. They were meant for that exact moment in our lives.

Travel friendships burn fast and bright. They leave a lasting imprint on the places we visit, and the city or trip is forever intertwined with the people you met and the brief friendships you formed along the way. Ireland, for me, will always be tied to these women and the six days we spent discovering the world and ourselves. And while I cannot remember every detail of the itinerary, I remember the wind at the Cliffs of Moher, the laughter in the pubs and that walk home singing Queen.

That trip in 2012 showed me that there were countless ways to live a life, and these women were living proof. I did not leave Ireland changed in any dramatic way, but something quietly shifted. A door opened. A path appeared that I had not known I could choose.

Even now, when “Somebody to Love” comes on, whether on the radio or a shuffled playlist, I am instantly back in Galway. I am 21 again, shivering and laughing, surrounded by women who, for a brief and brilliant moment, felt like my whole world.

Whenever I travel now, no matter how planned the itinerary is, I try to leave a little space for moments like that. The unexpected ones. The fleeting ones. The ones that stay with you long after the trip is over.

This piece was originally written for a travel writing competition a few months ago. It was my first attempt at longer-form travel writing, and it marked the moment I realized I wanted to keep writing. I hope you enjoyed reading it!

If you’ve enjoyed reading and would like to support this work, you can buy me a coffee. It’s always appreciated.

That trip to China didn’t look perfect. Still, it gave me everything I wanted from it. Travel these days is often all about aesthetics and perfectly curated trips, with “fit checks,” Instagram-worthy pictures, and a whole lot of editing. When you spend all that time fussing about your outfit, the perfect angle and the right vantage point, all for a couple of hundred likes on Instagram, are you really present and experiencing the place around you?

Don’t get me wrong, I love watching travel reels, especially the ones that look so beautiful they make you want to book the next flight out. My Instagram has lots of saved reels of hikes to do and places to eat at, and I get a lot of great ideas from them. They’ve also helped bring visibility to places people might never have discovered otherwise. A lot more people are traveling outside of their home country partly because of travel on social media. Yet what they fail to show are the early morning wake-up calls to get a shot without the crowds, the time spent waiting for your turn to click the perfect photo, or the need to carry multiple outfits and spend hours getting ready. That’s time that could have been spent actually seeing a place and getting to know it.

Over time, this kind of social-media-driven travel has led to everyone having nearly the same itinerary, clicking the same photos, going to the same Instagram spots, and eating the same meals, all in the name of checking things off a list. I have done this too. I’ve stood in line for the sandwich that everyone raved about, only to walk away underwhelmed.

Another side effect is that so many restaurants and cafes now curate their spaces to become Instagram hotspots. That might make for a good photo, but does the food actually match the hype? I have often found these places to be overcrowded, with poor service and average food.

Sometimes, I catch myself judging the over-curated style, and wonder how someone manages to have a different bag or pair of shoes every day. Where is the luggage space? How did you carry all of that across Europe on cobblestone roads? How much did you pay for extra baggage? Aren’t your legs hurting in those beautiful but clearly uncomfortable shoes? But then I remind myself that everyone travels differently.

While I would love to get some Instagram-worthy shots and have the perfect outfit, I don’t have the patience to spend that much time on it. I want my travels to have depth. I want to witness history, spend hours learning about a culture in museums, walk into the local restaurants, and absorb as much of that place as I can.

I need shoes that I can walk 20k steps in and still be comfortable. I need a practical bag that can fit everything I need and be pickpocket-proof. I need clothes that keep me warm or cool depending on the weather, so my focus stays on the place and not on myself. I don’t think I can enjoy a trip if I am performing. I would pick experience over aesthetics any day.

That doesn’t mean I don’t take photos. I want a good picture just as much as the next person. But if the perfect shot means waiting in line, count me out. The photos are not the goal. They are a snapshot of the place and my experience there. Sometimes I look at friends’ travel photos and feel envious of the perfect angle and outfit. But then I realize that probably meant less time to see everything else. And maybe for some, the photos are the goal, their primary reason for traveling.

I’ve made the error of packing impractical shoes on a trip because they looked good, only to regret it the rest of the journey, with aching feet and a constant sense of misery. Never again. As I grow older, I seek comfort. I need practicality. And more than anything, I want real experiences, not staged ones.

One of the reasons I didn’t share much of my travel on Instagram was because it didn’t look like the other curated content out there. I believed that if I didn’t have the perfect reel or those perfect shots, why would anyone care? I also felt that a photo or a reel could never fully capture the experience, the learning, the emotions a place leaves you with. Substack changed that for me. It gave me a space to share not just the photos, but the story, and the way a place made me feel. It has also introduced me to so many others sharing their real travel journeys. The messy, the chaotic, and the honest ones, and I am all for it!

Lately, I’ve been reading so many honest, thoughtful travel stories on Substack. A few that really stayed with me:

• Thailand Highlights - Alex Laffey

• Nobody Gives a Sh*t if You Travel - Caroline McCarley

• On a Bus in Managua - Stephanie Mork

• Dominos and Tea in Baku - Andrew L Brodsky

There are so many more, but these were a joy to read this week.

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This is Georgia the country, not the state. Sitting at the intersection of Eastern Europe and West Asia, it was a place I knew very little about before I went. In 2016, it was just beginning to appear on the radar as a short, easy getaway from Dubai, with visa-free entry and a favorable exchange rate. It felt like the perfect destination for a girls’ trip to celebrate my 25th birthday. We were there for only four days, yet it left a deeper imprint than I expected.

I’ve often tried to pinpoint why Georgia stayed with me. Maybe it was ringing in my 25th year in the air as we flew into Tbilisi. Maybe it was my first experience of snow, making snow angels, and tasting snowflakes as they fell. Maybe it was the warmth of the people, welcoming us everywhere we went. Or the fact that I arrived with no expectations and no preexisting ideas, only to be surprised at every turn. It was likely a confluence of it all.

Dariko took us around Tbilisi on our first day, showing us the city with a passion that was impossible to miss. As she spoke about the old town, its architecture, and the contrast with more futuristic bridges and buildings, the city began to take shape for me. Standing below Kartlis Deda, the Mother of Georgia, and looking out over Tbilisi, you could sense the layers of influence from the countries that border it. Russia, Turkey, Armenia, and Azerbaijan. Wine, cheese, and religion woven deeply into everyday life.

When the tour ended, we invited Dariko to join us for lunch. She ordered for us, guiding us through the meal the way she had guided us through the city. I still remember the pull of the khachapuri as the cheese stretched and dipped into the egg yolk at its center. The smooth, silky Kindzmarauli, a semi-sweet red wine that remains one of my favorites. The pork belly, so tender it seemed to melt as you ate it. It was the kind of meal that stays with you long after the plates are cleared.

We spent almost three full days in Tbilisi, and it still felt like only an introduction. There was always more to see, more to sink into, than time allowed. Afternoons at the sulfur baths, alternating between the heat of the mineral-rich water and the shock of the cold pools, waiting for the mekise, the bathhouse attendant, to scrub away the day. Evenings wandering the old city, slipping into underground clubs, lingering in hookah bars, passing casinos and restaurants, letting the city unfold at its own pace.

Beyond the city, the landscape changed completely. With Lasha as our guide, we drove toward the ski region of Gudauri and the Kazbegi Mountains. The city gave way to Soviet-era buildings on the outskirts, then to open plains dotted with lakes. The farther we drove, the more the weather shifted, and soon snow began to appear along the road.

Lasha kept us entertained with Shah Rukh Khan dialogues and Hindi songs, stopping often to take photos and making sure we all had our moments captured. By the time our four-wheel drive climbed the icy slope toward Kazbegi, the Gergeti Trinity Church came into view, perched high above the landscape.

The 14th-century Georgian Orthodox church felt suspended in time. We covered our heads with scarves and stepped inside, and in that quiet, surrounded by snow, everything seemed to slow. Even though the fog hid much of the mountain range that day, I still remember standing there, struck by the stillness, and by Georgia itself.

We spent the entire day with Lasha, getting by on sandwiches for lunch and growing hungrier as the hours passed. By the time we headed back toward Tbilisi, we were exhausted and starving. Lasha took us to eat at a place that felt less like a restaurant and more like someone’s home. It was warm and unassuming, and the food was some of the best I’ve ever eaten.

We ate chakhragina, a regional variation of khachapuri filled with cheese and chopped chard leaves. For someone like me, who usually gravitates towards meat, this simple vegetarian dish was a revelation. Lasha then ordered plate after plate of khinkali, traditional Georgian soup dumplings, showing us how to hold the knot and sip the broth before eating the filling. He even took us into the kitchen to show us how they were made. He made us feel like guests rather than tourists. Maybe that’s why I still remember the food clearly and seek out Georgian meals whenever I can.

When I went to Georgia in 2016, I expected little more than good sightseeing, good food, and a few days away with my girlfriends. What I found instead was something deeper. The warmth of the people, the richness of the culture, the way food and hospitality were woven into everyday life, and a sense of place that lingered long after I left.

I want to go back to explore the wine regions, see the valleys in summer, and sit down to another meal that asks nothing of me except presence. Until then, I step into a Georgian restaurant whenever I find one, order khinkali and a glass of Kindzmarauli, and return to those days again.

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For most people, a trip begins when you land in your destination city or country. For me, however, it always began months before, when I sat down at my computer to plan my itinerary. This usually involved countless hours of research, reading travel blogs, checking reviews for hotels and tours, and creating an extensive Excel sheet where every tiny aspect of the trip was mapped out. Routes, modes of transport, tours, hotels, restaurants, tickets, reservations, nothing was left to chance.

I prided myself on my attention to detail and my tightly packed itinerary. I was prepared for every scenario, with backup plans ready in case something didn’t go my way. I liked to wake up early and go to bed late, determined to make the most of every day and every chance at seeing a new city. I wanted to see and do it all. When everything fell into place, it was exhilarating. But when even a couple of things didn't, there was a nagging anxiety at the back of my mind.

You would think all this planning would mean I wouldn’t be stressed during the trip. But often, I was still on edge, watching the time, thinking about what was next on the list, making sure my travel companions were having fun. Any comment or feedback felt personal, as if it meant I hadn’t planned enough. While I was enjoying the trip and the city, I often returned home exhausted rather than refreshed, carrying the weight of having tried to manage every detail. That doesn’t mean those trips weren’t joyful. They were. They showed me the world, built my confidence, and taught me how much I love exploring new places. That was the way I moved through the world then.

While this has changed over time, the need for control and the unease with uncertainty still lingers. As I’ve been learning to let go, I’ve been taking the time to think about why I was so meticulous with my plans. I can trace some of this back to my childhood. Who could have guessed?

As a child, I often felt this sense of helplessness shaped by circumstances beyond my control. I wasn’t shielded from adult realities like money worries or job uncertainties, and when you’re a child, that awareness can quietly settle into your bones. It creates a feeling that you need to be prepared for anything, because no one else will be. Some of that turned into a habit of planning for all eventualities. When I started traveling, it became another area of my life where I could exert that control.

Now, don’t get me wrong, every trip needs a planner. Someone to make decisions, do the research, and take charge. But at the same time, I’ve learned that you also need to leave space for uncertainty, for the unexpected. When I look back at my trips, the moments that stay with me most are often the unplanned ones, the restaurant stumbled upon by accident, or the place a local insisted you visit.

Over the last few years, as I’ve started traveling more, I’ve actually planned less. Part of it comes down to time. When you’re taking multiple trips a year, you can’t spend months planning each one. Another change has been access to tools like AI. I’ve found it’s helped ease some of the anxiety I once felt around travel planning. I use AI to create a broad itinerary, a rough framework, tailored to my preferences. It gives me a starting point and, more importantly, a sense of reassurance that if I’m ever lost or unsure, I have somewhere to turn. Traveling around Europe has also made this easier. The accessibility of trains, last-minute bookings and nearby destinations has taught me that plans don’t need to be fixed to be functional.

The biggest change in how I travel now is my acceptance of an open day. I book my accommodation and main transportation in advance, and I plan one main activity per day (I can’t go completely cold turkey, the Type A in me wouldn’t survive). The rest of the day, meals, wanderings, smaller decisions, remain open. I take each day as it comes, ask for local recommendations, and decide what I feel like doing in the moment.

Some days I just walk around the city. Some days I read a book in a park or a coffee shop. And while the discomfort of not knowing exactly what I’m doing used to feel unsettling, it now feels freeing. I can linger longer than planned, take an extended lunch, duck into small shops, or even do nothing at all. The old version of me would have filled that time with more sights. Now I let the day unfold on its own.

I’ve also started thinking differently about the idea of seeing everything. I’ve accepted that travel is part of my life, it’s not going anywhere. I can return to cities, experience them differently, and let them reveal themselves over time. That urgency to see it all, to do it all, has slowly faded.

I am still learning how to fully let go. How to let uncertainty exist without discomfort. That will take time. I still love researching new cities and saving itineraries and Instagram reels, but for now, I’m letting go of the Excel sheets and the rigid plans. I’m learning to travel with curiosity instead of control, and to see where that takes me.

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It’s 2010, and my two best friends and I are on a short girls' trip following a Model UN conference we had just attended in Beijing, where we represented our high school. We are barely twenty, speak no Mandarin, and are navigating our travels without phones, mobile data, or translation apps. What could possibly go wrong?

We are in Guilin, on the last leg of our trip through China, and our feet, specifically mine, are desperate for a massage. At the hotel, we ask the receptionist, who thankfully speaks some English, if she can recommend a place. She writes down a location on a small piece of paper and tells us to hand it to the taxi driver, who will take us there. When we finally arrive, we collectively let out a huge sigh of relief. We thank our driver with a nervous but enthusiastic “Xiè Xiè,” one of the few Mandarin phrases we know, and step out of the car.

Inside, we learn that the massage place is staffed by visually impaired masseuses. By this point, we are too exhausted to protest or even consider going back to the hotel. Both of them look at me, a silent reminder that this was entirely my idea. When I wrote this, I wanted to confirm that my memory was right, and learned that massage places staffed by visually impaired practitioners are not unusual in China and parts of Southeast Asia, often shaped by long-standing training traditions that value touch and sensitivity

As we sit in our chairs getting our feet massaged, giggling and talking away like only someone with youthful abandon can, I count myself lucky to have experienced this moment with my friends. To this day, it remains the best foot massage I have ever had! Maybe it was the skill of the masseuse, or maybe it was our age, or the simple relief of having made it there safely. More likely, it was all of it combined.

After high school the three of us went our separate ways, as one does, each of us pursuing our own dreams. Long-distance friendships before Zoom and video conferencing apps meant a lot of back-and-forth emails. This trip ended up being the only real trip the three of us ever took together. They are still my closest friends, but as we grew older, life, work, partners, and responsibilities got in the way, and we never managed to travel together again. We still try to meet as often as we can, but when you live in different parts of the world, Zoom and video chats have to do. They know the version of me from before I knew who I was, the awkward high school teen with big dreams, and they remain among the few people I trust to have my back even today.

When I look back on those earlier trips, I realize how our lack of experience allowed us not to take everything so seriously. We laughed and sang our way through China, unconcerned with posting Instagram stories, translating every interaction on our phones, or double-checking our routes on Google Maps. We trusted our tour guides, and for those few days, we were fully present and immersed in the country.

We got on each other’s nerves constantly, but we also had the most fun. We climbed the Great Wall, walked past the preserved terracotta warriors, cruised down the Li River, and explored villages and rice terrace fields. I still look back on that trip with a fullness of memory that surprises me, even now.

But memory is such a fickle thing. The three of us went on the same trip to China, followed the same itinerary, visited the same cities, and shared the same experiences, yet we returned with completely different versions of that journey. Nearly 15 years later, the moments that stayed with me are not the ones my friends remember. As I have been revisiting my travel memories, I am often surprised by what my brain chooses to hold on to, and even more so by what it lets go. Whenever I ask my travel companions what they remember, their stories are entirely different from mine.

Maybe each of us carried away exactly what we needed from that trip. The incident that became most memorable for me was not the biggest or most dramatic moment, but the one that quietly imprinted itself and refused to fade.

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For a country known for its very strict noise laws, New Year’s Eve felt like I was momentarily transported to some foreign land. In Germany, you’re not allowed to mow the lawn, vacuum, or do anything loud during quiet hours or on Sundays. Even the glass recycling bins in the neighborhood come with signs instructing residents to dispose of bottles only Monday through Saturday, between 8 a.m. and 1 p.m., and again from 3 p.m. to 7 p.m., and never on Sundays or public holidays. So you can imagine how silent my village usually is. No music blaring and no raised voices. It often feels like you could hear a pin drop.

But come December 31st, starting at around 6 p.m., the random fireworks began in earnest, building steadily toward a deafening crescendo at midnight that didn’t stop for at least an hour. I looked on in equal parts wonder and shock at the sheer scale of it all. It was disorienting not knowing where to look, or even where to point my camera, because fireworks were exploding in every direction. I kept asking myself the same questions: how was this even allowed? What happened to all the noise laws?

It’s funny how much you can research a country before moving there, and still be completely unprepared for moments like this. The planner in me likes to think I can anticipate everything, but some things can only be understood by actually living in a place, or by accidentally finding yourself there at exactly the right moment.

Having grown up in Dubai, I was used to the most extravagant fireworks displays, carefully choreographed and put on by the city and the government. If you love fireworks and haven’t been to Dubai yet, New Year’s Eve is a must-experience. So when I later moved to the U.S., even the 4th of July or NYE fireworks rarely impressed me. I had seen bigger, better, more polished shows. Dubai had spoiled fireworks for me forever. At least that’s what I thought until I moved to Germany.

What shocked me the most was that this was not a firework show organized by the city, a business, or a single event. It was everything, everywhere, all at once. Regular people were spending hundreds, if not thousands, of euros on fireworks. You didn’t have to go to a designated viewpoint or gather in one specific place. From what I could tell, no matter where you were in Germany, there was no escaping it. That’s what made it so different from any other fireworks display I’d seen before. It was immersive and all-consuming, chaotic and intense. Fireworks went off in every direction, close enough to feel both thrilling and unsettling. You didn’t know if one might land on your balcony, but you couldn’t look away either.

The orderliness and quiet Germany is known for are completely contradicted by the chaos and noise of New Year’s Eve. Fireworks are set off on roads, in residential neighborhoods, with cars and people all around. In bigger cities, the chaos is even more intense. In recent years, this has led to injuries, property damage, littered streets, increased noise and air pollution, and serious distress for pets. This year, I came prepared and had to medicate my dog, who is terrified of fireworks. So it’s not all good, and there have been growing calls to restrict or ban fireworks altogether.

But this contradiction, the good and the bad, exists in every city and every place you call home. There are things that make a place wonderful, and others you simply learn to live with. And then there are moments that surprise you, that no amount of Googling could prepare you for. Some things can only be understood by experiencing them firsthand. Every city has its own contradictions, its own balance of order and chaos, and the only way to truly know a place is to remain open to experiencing both.

I’ve been lucky enough to witness a few unique moments during my travels. Those unplanned instances where timing places you right in the middle of something specific to a city or country. I usually try to plan around major events and avoid crowds, but sometimes it doesn’t matter how carefully you plan. Life has a way of leading you toward new learnings and discoveries anyway.

Here’s hoping 2026 brings more of those serendipitous moments for all of us. One of my goals this year is to plan a little less, and let life lead the way more often.

Further reading:

If you’re curious to learn more about the wider conversation around New Year’s Eve fireworks in Germany, including the growing concerns and debates around safety, this article offers additional context:

• Starting the year with a bang: Germany’s New Year’s fireworks and tradition turning to trauma - Euronews

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2025 for me was a year of constant movement, adventure, and travel. I was in another city or country almost every month, visiting over 14 countries. It was also a year of firsts — my first proper northern lights show, Dutch tulip season, a European summer road trip, and many first-time countries. However, more trips didn’t always mean more wonder. As an Econ major in another life, I now realize that the concept of “diminishing returns” can be applied to travel as well.

As the year passed, it all started to feel repetitive. I was often busy planning and packing for the next trip before the previous one had even ended. There was no time to reflect on what I had just experienced, and I found myself wondering why I wasn’t feeling the familiar excitement that usually comes with a new city. It all began to blur together, especially in European cities. I could no longer remember which square I ate that perfect pastry in, which church held the beautiful murals, or which tower offered the most spectacular view.

These are, without question, first-world problems. But as you see more of the world, it’s possible to lose the spark and wonder that those initial trips once filled you with, even when the experiences themselves are incredible.

Part of the reason I found myself traveling so much was simple access and time. After moving to Germany last October, Europe suddenly felt wide open. I was also on a sabbatical from work. For the first time, I had both the freedom and flexibility to take full advantage of being centrally located, without having to apply for a Schengen visa each time I wanted to cross a border. Fellow holders of weaker passports will understand the mental load of planning and applying for a visa every time you want to visit another country in the EU, or anywhere in the world for that matter. What I didn’t fully realize at the time was how much this constant movement was quietly eroding any sense of routine.

I tend to eat and drink my way through a city, and when I’m traveling, health routines are usually the first thing to go. My attitude on trips is “Treat Yo' Self” (any Parks and Rec fans?), which means you won’t find me ordering a salad, or wasting precious luggage space on gym clothes. Ask me to walk 30k steps to explore a city and I’ll happily oblige. Ask me to work out while on holiday, and I’d much rather stay in bed. Over time, both my physical fitness and overall health took a backseat.

Somewhere along the way, the idea of slowing down felt more appealing than planning the next trip. So as I think about what I want to see and do in 2026, I find myself wanting something different. A break from the constant travel, and more time to reflect, to write, and to take better care of my health.

Writing has given me a creative outlet I didn’t know I needed. I’ve always loved sharing my travels, but Instagram often felt surface-level. When I write, I can share not just the pictures, but the experiences that shaped me, how I felt, and what I learned. So this year, rather than focusing on making new travel memories, I want to spend time writing about the old ones.

I also want to get better at building and sustaining healthy habits and routines, especially since some of the places on my travel bucket list will require stamina and endurance. If I want to see and do those things, I know I need to be in better shape.

That is not to say there will be no trips in 2026, that would be depressing. But I do want to leave space for other things, and to explore more locally. This past year, I didn’t set aside much time to explore the small towns and cities around me. Germany is filled with history and charming places, and I’d like to spend some time discovering what’s in my own backyard. I also want to finally focus on learning German, which has been a challenge of its own.

So 2026 won’t be a year defined by constant travel. Instead, it’s shaping up to be a year of self-growth, reflection, and travel writing, drawing meaning from both trips gone past and the ones still to come.

Here’s to a slower, more intentional 2026. I hope you’ll stick around.

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Christmas has always been my favorite time of year. Baking Christmas goodies, listening to carols, decorating the house, watching sappy Hallmark movies, buying gifts, hosting family, sipping hot chocolate. It all makes me giddy with joy, usually leaving me wearing candy-cane-tinted glasses where anything feels possible.

But this year feels like a blue Christmas. Not dramatic or tragic, just quieter, heavier, a little off-key from the ones I’ve known before.

Maybe it’s everything that’s been going on in the world, or the things happening in my own little bubble, or just seasonal depression. Whatever the reason, Christmas feels muted this year. I also find myself homesick, not just for a home, but for the Christmases I once had.

Growing up in Mumbai and Dubai, Christmas was less about spectacle and more about tradition. We attended Mass, spent time with family, exchanged a few gifts, but mostly gathered around lots of food and even more Christmas parties. Santa was never a part of the picture. In Indian families back then, you had to know it was your parents buying the gifts. How else would you learn gratitude? Still, I loved the season deeply.

When I moved to the US, I was introduced to a very different kind of Christmas. The mega-sized, Costco-scale version, galore with thousands of lights, giant trees, endless gifts, and Christmas-themed everything. And I loved it! Over time, my traditions grew, my circle grew, and Christmas became my time of year.

Especially in the Midwest, where a white Christmas often feels guaranteed, it was truly magical. Snow blanketing entire neighborhoods, houses lit up to the nines, fireplaces glowing. Christmas felt inescapable in the best way. Even daily dog walks turned into little rituals of admiring lights and exchanging cheerful greetings with neighbors.

When I moved to Germany last year, Christmas felt a little sad at first with no family or close friends nearby. But it was also my first introduction to European Christmas markets. I consumed so much Glühwein (German mulled wine) that I joked my blood must be “glüh-positive.” I spent most of last December traveling, hopping between markets, and keeping homesickness at bay through movement and novelty.

This year though, the novelty has worn off.

Most days are grey, cloudy, and rainy. And once you leave the Christmas markets, there’s little indication it’s the holiday season at all. Even though I decorated the house, bought gifts, and watched the movies, that familiar Christmas glow hasn’t arrived.

I miss the snow. I miss neighbors who became close friends. I miss houses lit up so brightly that evening walks felt magical. I miss people smiling at strangers, greeting each other with holiday cheer.

Christmas for me was also baking. So much baking. Cookies, Indian Christmas snacks (called “kusvar” where I’m from), and my signature Christmas rum cake, the kind that takes months to make, and even longer to give away. As my circle grew, so did the number of cakes. It was never really about the cake though. It was about having people to share it with.

This is the first year I’m not baking it. I didn’t send Christmas cards either, another small tradition that quietly fell away. And I think that says more about this Christmas than anything else.

I think what I really miss is home. Or more accurately, I miss the last place that truly felt like home. Starting over in a new place takes time, and some days feel harder than others, especially around the holidays.

Still, I’m not letting that feeling win.

I’ll dress my dog in something ridiculous. I’ll sip hot chocolate, bake cookies, watch more sappy Christmas movies, and drink as much Glühwein as I can. I’ll channel the Christmas spirit this year, even if the candy-cane-tinted glasses are gone.

I hope your holidays feel a little jollier than mine this year.

Merry Christmas! Here’s to finding small moments of warmth, wherever we are.

P.S. I don’t know if “Travel Tuesday” is officially a thing, but it’s going to be my thing here. I’ll be sharing a new travel story or reflection every Tuesday, and if you want to follow along, hit subscribe so it lands straight in your inbox.

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I’ve always loved a good spa day, especially ending it in the sauna. The sweat dripping down my arms. The heat opening my pores. The focus on my breathing as the minutes pass by and the heat slowly builds, until it becomes unbearable and I step out. I usually last about 15 - 20 minutes, before I head to the shower, relaxed and ready to move on with my day.

But when I visited Finland early this year, I realized there was far more to sauna than I had ever known.

My first visit to a Finnish sauna was at Löyly, which sits right on the Helsinki waterfront. I had done my research about sauna etiquette and felt prepared for what to expect. I don’t think I was quite ready to fully embrace the nudity part of Finnish saunas (more on that some other time). But thankfully since this was a mixed public sauna, swimsuits were mandatory.

I entered Löyly, got the key to my locker, showered and changed into my swimsuit. This is a popular sauna, usually crowded, and I had to scoot in to find a seat. Over the next 2 hours, I stepped into the sauna until I felt like I might melt away, stepped out to cool down, and then rinsed and repeated the cycle. Since this was late April, it was still pretty cold outside, so I sipped my Long Drink (a Finnish gin cocktail) by the fireplace indoors between the sauna sessions. I watched as others stepped into the cold Baltic Sea during their breaks, but I didn’t dare. Maybe it was the Long Drinks, or the heat slowly removing my inhibitions, but just before my final round, I decided to take the plunge.

I got my body as hot as it could possibly get, hoping it would make the freezing sea more bearable, before walking down the steps into the Baltic. I tried to count to 10 and stay in the water, but I think I only made it to 6 or 7 seconds before I had to get out. Those few seconds seemed like an eternity, the icy coldness reaching deep into my very core. But when I stepped out of the water, it felt like a revelation. It was exhilarating. I could feel every single nerve ending tingling, as warmth slowly returned to my skin. My mind was clear, focused only on the present moment. That final sauna after the cold plunge was deeply relaxing. By the time I got back to my hotel, I carried with me a sense of calm.

The sauna is an integral part of the Finnish culture. While the word itself means “bathhouse”, it is also where people meet and socialize, and where families and friends gather. Historically, it was a place where mothers gave birth, and where the dead were cleaned before burial. In Finland, people go to the sauna at least once a week, and many go even more often. Nearly every residential building or house has access to a sauna. Universities and libraries come equipped with one, and there is even a sauna on a Ferris wheel, if you’re so inclined. So if at any point during your trip you felt like a sauna, all you had to do was look around.

The best experience was in Sipoonkorpi National Park, at the traditional smoke saunas along Lake Kuusijärvi. These are heated over several hours, and because there are no chimneys, smoke and soot coat the inside walls, raising the internal temperature of the sauna. They are used mostly by locals, who like their sauna hot, so temperatures often reach 80–100 °C (176–212 °F). And because water is constantly poured on the stones to create “löyly” - the Finnish word for steam - the sauna feels even hotter. Our guide joked that when the sauna gets too crowded, the locals who can tolerate extreme heat keep adding water to the stones until it becomes so steamy that most people are forced to step out.

This time around, I didn’t wait until the end to take a dip in the freezing lake. Instead I spent the next couple of hours alternating between the insanely hot, steamy sauna and the cold water, taking breaks to hydrate in between. Sitting on the wooden bench with people sweating beside me, I tried to focus on my breathing, let my mind settle, and stay present in the here and now. I don’t think I have ever felt as refreshed and energized as I did during my time in the sauna.

During my time in Finland, I experienced different types of sauna, from traditional smoke and wood-burning saunas to electric ones. I dipped in the cold Baltic Sea, freezing lakes and ice-cold plunge pools. Now, I don’t think I can ever go back to a plain old sauna. I need the rush of the cold after the heat. I need that meditative calm that settles in after a few hours in the sauna.

No wonder Finland is consistently ranked among the happiest countries in the world. I would be too if I went to the sauna once a week.

P.S. I don’t know if “Travel Tuesday” is officially a thing, but it’s going to be my thing here. I’ll be sharing a new travel story or reflection every Tuesday, and if you want to follow along, hit subscribe so it lands straight in your inbox.

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I love a good list, the planner in me always has. So when I started traveling, of course I wanted to see all the top sights. I wanted to visit all seven continents, see the Seven Wonders of the World, and check every other “you have to see this before you die” list out there. Although, lately, I’ve been questioning why checking off these lists matters - to me and everyone else.

One of the most famous travel lists is the Seven Wonders of the World. Let’s talk about what they are, who chose these seven, why only seven, and whether we should care about them at all. I went down the Google rabbit hole, and here’s the short version. While the idea of the wonders of the world has been around for about 2,200 years, the earliest version of the ancient list was created around the 2nd century BC and is credited to Greek historians like Herodotus. The only remaining ancient wonder still standing today are the Pyramids of Giza. And why “seven”? Because the ancient Greeks considered it a “semi-magical number”.

Since then, there have been various versions of the Wonders of the World. I guess we have had a thing for making lists and checking them off long before social media. Did you know that USA Today had a version too? The current version of the Seven Wonders started with the New 7 Wonders Foundation, which was established in 2001 to find the seven wonders of the modern world. They had a contest, yes, you heard that right. People voted online and via telephone (SMS and phone calls), and just like choosing an American Idol winner, over 100 million votes were cast worldwide (reportedly). And in 2007, the seven wonders as we know them today were decided.

Was this some scientific poll conducted by historians, architects, and researchers who visited each of the almost 200 monuments they were shortlisted from? No. It was just an online poll conducted globally, where people like you and me voted, and could do so multiple times. Did the voters even visit the shortlisted sites? It feels a bit unbelievable when you realize how arbitrary the list actually is. And we are now basing what we want to see in this lifetime on that one poll.

Why are we so obsessed with trying to fit everything there is to see into condensed versions of bucket-lists, places-to-visit lists, and travel wish lists? Maybe it helps some people choose what to see, or where to go. When I start to think about all I want to see and do in this world, it can feel overwhelming, like I’m never going to be able to see and do it all. So having these lists, and checking them off, made me feel like I was getting closer to seeing all the big, wonderful, and awe-inspiring places out there.

I visited my first Wonder of the World, the Taj Mahal, in 2010 and was excited to get started on this list. At the time, I remember thinking this list existed for decades, and not merely three years.

For the longest time, I was excited whenever I got to check one more Wonder of the World off my list. However, I have now seen things not on the list, places that have blown my mind, confounded me, and thrilled me. Like the Sagrada Família, the Milan Duomo, the Sistine Chapel and the Pantheon. Just because they were not on this list, does it lessen the significance of these places? I don’t think so.

As my travel style changes, I am shifting towards slowing down, getting a feel for a place, and spending more time in each city. I am starting to realize the need to check a place off an arbitrary list no longer applies. I know no matter how many times I visit a particular city, I always discover something new and fall in love with it all over again. And yes, I still want to go to Jordan and see Petra, and visit Brazil, and hike Machu Picchu, but not just to check off a list. I want to explore the city and country, learn about its history, eat the food and immerse myself in the culture.

Am I still checking off mental lists in my head? Yes, I cannot stop! Four out of seven Wonders done. But they don’t drive my travel decisions anymore, and their significance has lessened, especially after all my reading this week. I guess I’m learning that a wonder isn’t something you check off, it’s something you keep discovering every time you travel.

Further Reading

• What Happened to the 7 Ancient Wonders? - The Culturist

• The New 7 Wonders Official Page

• What Are the 7 Wonders of the World? - The Collector

P.S. I don’t know if “Travel Tuesday” is officially a thing, but it’s going to be my thing here. I’ll be sharing a new travel story or reflection every Tuesday, and if you want to follow along, hit subscribe so it lands straight in your inbox.

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Picture this… you are visiting a new city/country and taking a walking tour. The guide asks everyone to introduce themselves, and you freeze. The question “Where are you from?” always stumps me. So what do I say? Honestly, it depends on how I feel that day. Here are all the versions of that answer, and somehow they are all true and not true at the same time.

Hi, I’m Jacky, and I am from…

India — This is the country I was born in (Mangalore), where I spent the first 10 years of my childhood (Mumbai), where I got my grad degree (Bangalore), and I still hold an Indian passport. But why does this not always ring true? Because I haven’t lived there for over 20 years and don’t feel like I can ever live there again. I still love Indian food, music, and the culture, and I love going back every year to visit family and friends. However, it is not my entire identity, and I don’t feel fully Indian in the ways people expect me to be.

Dubai, UAE — This is the city I spent most of my life in. I went to school here, I did my undergrad here, and I worked here for a few years. This is the city that shaped a lot of my identity; it’s where most of my friends live, and where a lot of my family still lives. But why does this not ring true either? Because even though I love to go back and visit, in some ways I feel like I outgrew the city, and the city outgrew me. Dubai felt like home, but more in a nostalgic kind of way. Dubai today is not the same Dubai I grew up in.

USA — I moved here to start my married life, and spent close to 7 years in the US, living in Pittsburgh, New York, and Cleveland. I am most invested in this country because I built a life here: I have a house here, I see myself living here in the future, and I have family, friends, and neighbors who live here. But why does this not ring true anymore? Because after 7 years, we no longer live there. I have no status there, and the minute I left, I became a tourist.

Germany — I moved here over a year ago, and while I love my life here, love that I can hop on a train and be in another country in a few hours, love the access to public transportation, and love the great food, this doesn’t feel like home yet. I do not speak the language, I do not have any German friends, and integrating has been a challenge. I also don’t know how long we are going to live here. Maybe, someday soon, it will start to feel true.

Which is why this one question has stumped me for most of my life, and I feel like I am nowhere close to answering it. I don’t think I’ll ever stay in one city long enough, and if anything, I’ve realized that home is just wherever I am in that moment. What I say depends on who’s asking, how I feel that day, who I am with, and where I am living at that point in time.

So on that walking tour, if you ask me where I’m from, for now, I’ll say — Hey, I’m Jacky and I’m from Germany.

Ask me again in a few years and we’ll see what my answer is then…

P.S. I don’t know if “Travel Tuesday” is officially a thing, but it’s going to be my thing here. I’ll be sharing a new travel story or reflection every Tuesday, and if you want to follow along, hit subscribe so it lands straight in your inbox.

Subscribe now

Jacky of All Travels is a free publication. If you’ve enjoyed reading and would like to support the time and care that goes into these essays, you can buy me a coffee below. It means more than you know!

Buy Me a Coffee