The following guest post about a woman's first time to Europe comes from a dear, dear friend of mine. Her name is Sally Grace, and she serves as my confidante, my diary, my existential crisis partner, my journalist buddy and my introverted soulmate.
I used to take Atlases to bed as a child.
I’d spend hours at a tiny plastic desk in my room, quietly tracing maps. I competed in the regional geography bee in third grade. For my tenth birthday, my mom said we could do something special, on account of I’d reached two digits. I begged for a trip to Russia or Panama. She took me to Chicago, which was just as good.
One winter afternoon,16-year-old me drove four hours to the ocean to take a walk on the beach, only to drive four hours home before my midnight curfew. I didn’t tell anyone about it for years and thought too highly of myself for the whole ordeal.
17–year-old me wanted to go to college in Oregon, because… Oregon. It was new and unfamiliar. Vermont and New York were also high on the list. In the end, I went to school next to the beach I’d road tripped to the year before.
In college I majored in English and minored in anthropology. “But…why?” People would ask about my random minor. “I like earth,” I’d say with a shrug.
That’s what it all comes down to. That’s it. I really, really like earth. So when an older, travel-savvy friend suggested a backpacking trip and I said yes and bought some plane and train tickets, I couldn’t wrap my head around the fact I was finally, actually going to travel.
I’d spent my entire life saying things like, “Someday when I go to Spain…” and now, I was going. I’d toted posters of Paris and Venice from dorm room to dorm room through all four years of college to remind myself of who I wanted to be and where I wanted to go, and now I was going.
I’d spend hours at a tiny plastic desk in my room, quietly tracing maps. I competed in the regional geography bee in third grade. For my tenth birthday, my mom said we could do something special, on account of I’d reached two digits. I begged for a trip to Russia or Panama. She took me to Chicago, which was just as good.
One winter afternoon,16-year-old me drove four hours to the ocean to take a walk on the beach, only to drive four hours home before my midnight curfew. I didn’t tell anyone about it for years and thought too highly of myself for the whole ordeal.
17–year-old me wanted to go to college in Oregon, because… Oregon. It was new and unfamiliar. Vermont and New York were also high on the list. In the end, I went to school next to the beach I’d road tripped to the year before.
In college I majored in English and minored in anthropology. “But…why?” People would ask about my random minor. “I like earth,” I’d say with a shrug.
That’s what it all comes down to. That’s it. I really, really like earth. So when an older, travel-savvy friend suggested a backpacking trip and I said yes and bought some plane and train tickets, I couldn’t wrap my head around the fact I was finally, actually going to travel.
I’d spent my entire life saying things like, “Someday when I go to Spain…” and now, I was going. I’d toted posters of Paris and Venice from dorm room to dorm room through all four years of college to remind myself of who I wanted to be and where I wanted to go, and now I was going.
In a little under two months, I saw London and Oxford and Glasgow and Inverness. I drank beer in Brussels and Prague and Munich. I ran through the streets of Seville and Berlin and Budapest late at night and ran to catch trains to Vienna and Venice and Windsor early in the morning. I hopped on planes to Barcelona and Paris. I went swimming in the Mediterranean Sea and floated in the Adriatic Sea. I took boat rides on Loch Ness, the Danube, the Themes, the Seine, and whatever you call those murky canals that wind through Amsterdam and Venice.
In retrospect, my trip was just that doable. And I promise you, you can do it too. DON’T tell me you don’t have the time or the money, because obtaining both of those things in order to travel is only a matter of rearranging your priorities. I met so many people who worked and saved for years in order to travel for one.
So what if I wear the same pair of shoes to work pretty much every day? Often I’m hyper aware that in the present setting, it’s kind of weird. Weird enough to trade traipsing down a cobble stoned road in the Dutch countryside for the sweet relief of not feeling like an outfit repeater? Nope. It’s about priorities, people.
I had two pairs of underwear and about as much spare money. I went and saw the world in one pair of jeans, one sweater, two pairs of shoes and some tops I never, ever want to see again. If I say, “I did the whole hostel, backpack across Europe thing,” you get the idea. If you do want to know more, check out the blog my friend kept throughout our trip. She shares a lot of cool facts and history and I eat a lot of pizza. All trip photos included in this post are hers.
I experienced so much on my trip, and the worst part is, I am a storyteller. I tell my boyfriend long, drawn out epics about my Saturday morning trip to the grocery store – the types of people I saw and what the air smelled like and what I learned about the world and myself after the whole experience. So I will not be telling you “how it was.” I’d break Marie’s blog.
I am here to tell you about the trip my mind went on, no drugs necessary. I figured that was more yoga-ish anyway, as is the word yoga-ish.
In retrospect, my trip was just that doable. And I promise you, you can do it too. DON’T tell me you don’t have the time or the money, because obtaining both of those things in order to travel is only a matter of rearranging your priorities. I met so many people who worked and saved for years in order to travel for one.
So what if I wear the same pair of shoes to work pretty much every day? Often I’m hyper aware that in the present setting, it’s kind of weird. Weird enough to trade traipsing down a cobble stoned road in the Dutch countryside for the sweet relief of not feeling like an outfit repeater? Nope. It’s about priorities, people.
I had two pairs of underwear and about as much spare money. I went and saw the world in one pair of jeans, one sweater, two pairs of shoes and some tops I never, ever want to see again. If I say, “I did the whole hostel, backpack across Europe thing,” you get the idea. If you do want to know more, check out the blog my friend kept throughout our trip. She shares a lot of cool facts and history and I eat a lot of pizza. All trip photos included in this post are hers.
I experienced so much on my trip, and the worst part is, I am a storyteller. I tell my boyfriend long, drawn out epics about my Saturday morning trip to the grocery store – the types of people I saw and what the air smelled like and what I learned about the world and myself after the whole experience. So I will not be telling you “how it was.” I’d break Marie’s blog.
I am here to tell you about the trip my mind went on, no drugs necessary. I figured that was more yoga-ish anyway, as is the word yoga-ish.
The Beginning
I was in Belgium and certain I would starve to death.
I didn't realize how little control I'd have over culture shock. Two weeks into the trip, as I walked through the streets of Brussels on my first day in a non-English speaking country, I hated myself for the uneasiness I felt. I didn't want to buy dinner from the grocery store because I didn't want to attempt to interact in French. My reasonable conclusion was to plan on not eating for the remainder of the trip.
A few days prior, in Glasgow, I Facetimed with my boyfriend for the first time since leaving. When I saw him I burst into tears. When bed time would finally arrive, I'd feel a guilty sense of relief because I was drained. I was not a fan of Travel Sally Grace.
I used to embrace my inability to commit. I'd fancied myself a roaming soul and imagined a life that would double as a music video to Freebird. When I got to Europe and missed my friends and family more than I ever imagined, I assumed I'd simply matured. Certainly I had, but I was also experiencing culture shock whether I wanted to or not.
But something clicked in Berlin. Though Berlin (tied with Budapest) would become my favorite city, the click didn't happen during any significant moment. I was just in my hostel, getting ready for bed, when I felt it. I looked across the room at my friend. "Hey," I said. "I'm good now."
Suddenly, I was comfortable. I accepted that I missed my family and friends almost painfully much but was less emotional about it. I was happy to be traveling while simultaneously looking forward to Life After. Life After consisted of returning to the states to secure a long-term job, long-term residence and long-term relationship with my boyfriend. The normalcy of it all was appealing.
I assumed this would be the attitude I'd keep the remainder of the trip, which is hilarious. You'd think I'd have learned to stay away from expectations by that point.
The Middle
"Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?"
I was on a train when I read those words by American poet Mary Oliver. I read the words, looked out the window at the Czech countryside hurdling past, and slipped straight into an existential crisis.
I began reexamining what I wanted out of Life After through Munich, Regensburg and Budapest. It wasn’t that the life waiting for me in the states was scary. The problem was, I didn’t actually have any set life waiting for me; I could completely reroute if I wanted to.
Sure, I can always rearrange my life. I can switch careers or geographical locations at any age, but it wouldn’t be easy in the way it would now. All paths were more easily accessed than they would ever be again. I didn’t have a lease. I didn’t have a lot of furniture or material possessions. I didn’t have a job and my parents were not going to kick me out if I stayed with them several months instead of several weeks in order to land a travel-based job. My boyfriend was in Missouri, I could call him and say this just wasn’t going to work – it’s not you it’s me – then I could recite a few lines of Freebird, hang up and never have to face him.
I was on an overnight train from Vienna to Venice when the questioning peaked and I had a meltdown. It was one o’clock in the morning. I pressed my face into the corner of the window as we sped through the Alps and small, twinkling towns shimmered by, blurry and dreamlike through my tears.
I cried for what would never be, but mostly for what I was considering giving up. Also, the two Spaniards in the train car were snoring so loudly I believed they were the ones making the windows rattle, not the train tracks. That was upsetting as well.
In Venice, I was as high as I was low in Brussels. I loved going into grocery stores and interacting with people who didn’t speak my language. I hadn’t been so tan and fit since high school. I had reached a point where showering only did so much. Maybe it was just grime from endless train and bus and subway stations, but I felt radiant. I didn’t want to ever be anyone but Travel Sally Grace.
I was in Belgium and certain I would starve to death.
I didn't realize how little control I'd have over culture shock. Two weeks into the trip, as I walked through the streets of Brussels on my first day in a non-English speaking country, I hated myself for the uneasiness I felt. I didn't want to buy dinner from the grocery store because I didn't want to attempt to interact in French. My reasonable conclusion was to plan on not eating for the remainder of the trip.
A few days prior, in Glasgow, I Facetimed with my boyfriend for the first time since leaving. When I saw him I burst into tears. When bed time would finally arrive, I'd feel a guilty sense of relief because I was drained. I was not a fan of Travel Sally Grace.
I used to embrace my inability to commit. I'd fancied myself a roaming soul and imagined a life that would double as a music video to Freebird. When I got to Europe and missed my friends and family more than I ever imagined, I assumed I'd simply matured. Certainly I had, but I was also experiencing culture shock whether I wanted to or not.
But something clicked in Berlin. Though Berlin (tied with Budapest) would become my favorite city, the click didn't happen during any significant moment. I was just in my hostel, getting ready for bed, when I felt it. I looked across the room at my friend. "Hey," I said. "I'm good now."
Suddenly, I was comfortable. I accepted that I missed my family and friends almost painfully much but was less emotional about it. I was happy to be traveling while simultaneously looking forward to Life After. Life After consisted of returning to the states to secure a long-term job, long-term residence and long-term relationship with my boyfriend. The normalcy of it all was appealing.
I assumed this would be the attitude I'd keep the remainder of the trip, which is hilarious. You'd think I'd have learned to stay away from expectations by that point.
The Middle
"Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?"
I was on a train when I read those words by American poet Mary Oliver. I read the words, looked out the window at the Czech countryside hurdling past, and slipped straight into an existential crisis.
I began reexamining what I wanted out of Life After through Munich, Regensburg and Budapest. It wasn’t that the life waiting for me in the states was scary. The problem was, I didn’t actually have any set life waiting for me; I could completely reroute if I wanted to.
Sure, I can always rearrange my life. I can switch careers or geographical locations at any age, but it wouldn’t be easy in the way it would now. All paths were more easily accessed than they would ever be again. I didn’t have a lease. I didn’t have a lot of furniture or material possessions. I didn’t have a job and my parents were not going to kick me out if I stayed with them several months instead of several weeks in order to land a travel-based job. My boyfriend was in Missouri, I could call him and say this just wasn’t going to work – it’s not you it’s me – then I could recite a few lines of Freebird, hang up and never have to face him.
I was on an overnight train from Vienna to Venice when the questioning peaked and I had a meltdown. It was one o’clock in the morning. I pressed my face into the corner of the window as we sped through the Alps and small, twinkling towns shimmered by, blurry and dreamlike through my tears.
I cried for what would never be, but mostly for what I was considering giving up. Also, the two Spaniards in the train car were snoring so loudly I believed they were the ones making the windows rattle, not the train tracks. That was upsetting as well.
In Venice, I was as high as I was low in Brussels. I loved going into grocery stores and interacting with people who didn’t speak my language. I hadn’t been so tan and fit since high school. I had reached a point where showering only did so much. Maybe it was just grime from endless train and bus and subway stations, but I felt radiant. I didn’t want to ever be anyone but Travel Sally Grace.
One night, we were on the canal in a boat docked outside a restaurant. We were sitting in a circle with our new Italian friends we’d been running around with all evening, drinking wine and talking and laughing. The boat bobbed gently and I blinked at the dark Venetian buildings looming in front of me. A huge light danced across one of the windows, from another boat, I presumed. I searched for the source. It wasn’t a boat, it was the moon. I looked at the moon and at the people in the street and the boats around me and I smiled, because I was never going home.
The End, which turns out to just be the beginning (see what I did there)
I did go home, though.
Within one month of my return, I accepted a job as a reporter in central Texas, packed what would fit into my Toyota Corolla and headed south.
I’ve been in Texas about four months. Recently, my boyfriend finished his army engineering school, moved in and has become part of my daily life.
I love small-town Texas. It is new and different and wild and that is exactly what I wanted. My job is interesting and purposeful and I genuinely enjoy the people I work with.
Despite all of this, for a while I was downright cranky about the fact I wasn’t in Europe anymore.
Travel hangovers are the worst. They don’t set in the morning after you return. When you get back, your journey isn’t done yet. Seeing everybody you’ve missed and seeing familiar sights anew, that’s still part of the adventure. But eventually, everyone has heard your stories, you’ve cleaned your feet and it is truly over.
It’s hard not to glorify a trip in retrospect. I had to remind myself it wasn’t all beer in a new bar every night. Days spent on cramped, smelly, hot trains were long and exhausting. Most encounters with people were interesting, but some were creepy, and yeah, I missed my family. Of course, the good still outweighed the bad; But that’s just it -- there was good AND bad. Just like in regular, not-traveling life, but for some reason that’s hard to remember in the days after the backpack has been shoved deep into the bowels of the closet.
But fear not, yoga people – I achieved balance.
I thought after I’d been “settled” for a while I’d resent my house and town, but the opposite happened. After traveling, I appreciate my slice of earth more than ever and I am proud of my clean, comfortable home void of unnecessary material items.
There was a romantic element to the fleeting encounters I had with people from around the world for two months. It was amazing to get snippets of so many lives, if only for an evening. But I treasure the people in my daily Texas life. I see my new coworkers every day. The lady ringing up my frozen pizza at the drugstore is the same one who was there last week and she will be there next week. Her name is Yolanda.
I found my priorities in Europe. I do love to travel, and I will save money for my next trip, but, well, insert cliché about all of life being a journey.
If I were in Paris right now, I would not go home around 5 p.m., watch Netflix and scroll through my phone until it was time to go to bed. So why should I do that here in Texas? Alternatives include putting on music and baking something weird, taking a walk, writing a long email to an old friend and taking an atlas to bed.
Sally Grace Holtgrieve (the human, not the cow) is a reporter living in central Texas with her boyfriend, her cat Bella and her dog Oscar (who is not really hers -- she's a cat person, after all). Sally enjoys staring at maps, planning her next adventure and learning everything there is to know about everything.