“I woke up every day and went through the motions, but I felt lifeless. A passionless life was a safe life, but it was a boring life. It was scary to want something. Wanting something meant feeling the pain of not having it, and feeling the pain of chasing it down.”
Allison Vesterfelt, Packing Light
Excerpt from my travel journal while on the plane from Dubai to Zurich (en route to Rome), August 3rd, 2016:
Passion. I spent years pushing it down, afraid of what it would do to me. I’d gotten hurt so many times because of it.
And so I bought into the lie that following Jesus meant abandoning my God-given desires, to focus on societal norms instead: settling down, getting married, having a family, putting down roots.
And it killed my spirit.
God is a God of variety. He created some to seek stability in family…and others to run wild and free. Don’t feel guilty for wanting a life of passion if that’s what He created you for.
The sun is rising over the horizon right now, turning what little sky I can see through the nearest airplane window into brilliant shades of orange and purple.
I think we’re flying over Austria now. It’s surreal. I still can’t believe I’m on this plane right now. When is it going to sink in?
I’m still a little scared. I have no idea what God has in store for me during this trip.
Over a month after the end of my trip, I am now finally organizing my thoughts and can begin telling the story of my first (and definitely not the last) solo trip.
Getting off the plane at Fiumicino Airport in Rome was anxiety-inducing for me. I struggled with my heavy backpack at first – not quite having figured out how to carry it comfortably, I was confused about how to get to the train, and absolutely nothing looked familiar. I was thrown way outside my comfort zone.
Eventually I figured out where to go, and the helpful lady at the train station counter (who spoke English well) patiently explained how to activate and use my Eurail pass.
I got on the train and I felt extremely self-conscious as I loaded my pack onto the overhead rack, with stories about solo travelers being mugged swirling in my head. I sat in a window seat and clutched my day pack to my chest like a life preserver.
Other travelers boarded the train, and I watched them curiously. There was a stylish 20-something with designer luggage, an elderly couple wearing matching straw hats, and a group of giggling, breathless teenage girls who had barely made it onto the train before it pulled away from the station. A friendly American tourist helped them stow away their huge travel packs, and as they settled into their seats they chattered away in rapid-fire Italian. I wondered where they had just come from, and where they’d be going next.
The train ride was uneventful, though I did enjoy the scenery. There was only one stop, Termini station, which was walking distance from my hostel. I had already used Google Earth to scope out the neighborhood beforehand so I walked confidently, with my huge pack strapped to my back, and my smaller pack against my chest.
The hostel was a small one, taking up one floor of an old 3-storey building. When I finally made it to my room, I was relieved to find that it was empty. I was NOT in a mental state to socialize yet.
There were 4 bunk beds in the room, so I’d be sharing with seven other people. As I unpacked my luggage into my tiny locker, I noted the distinct smell of dude coming from some of the unmade beds, and just knew that some of my roommates were male. Because I grew up with only sisters (and spent about 5 years of my adult life being terrified and suspicious of men), this was something completely alien to me.
I went outside for half an hour just to get a late lunch lunch and a local SIM card, but immediately felt overwhelmed with fear at being alone in a strange place, surrounded by strangers. I didn’t make it past a couple of blocks before I raced back to the hostel, into the safety of my bunk.
Not much later, I emerged from the room to go to the bathroom, and I nearly bumped into two guys who had just checked in.
“Hey, roomie!” one of them said. He sounded American. I managed to mutter a “Hey” back.
After washing my face, I took a deep breath and walked back into the dorm room. The guys were busy making their beds and sorting out their luggage, so I huddled into a corner of my bunk and started reading the book I had brought with me (Packing Light).
Corey plopped himself onto a bean bag in the middle of the floor and managed to coax me into a lighthearted conversation, and Blake sprawled himself on the top bunk in the opposite corner, occasionally making comments. They were old football buddies, and they both worked as nurses. They were pretty friendly and harmless, it turned out.
A little while later, we met three more of our roommates who were traveling together: John and Kru from the UK, and Toby from Sweden. They also seemed like nice, decent and fun people. The guys wasted no time becoming friends, and they started making plans for dinner. Then they invited me to join them.
I wasn’t expecting them to, so I was surprised. And worried. My hyper-suspicious mind kept saying “No, stay here! It’s safe here!”
But my defiant inner adventurer won in the end. I didn’t come all that way just to stay indoors!
That was the start of a series of bold strides I would take over the course of three weeks, each step getting bigger and bigger as I slowly let go of baggage and fear.
We are taught not to talk to strangers, and to be wary of strange places. And yet friends always start out as strangers, and strange places can turn into home with time.
So I threw myself into the great unknown, leaving fate in God’s hands. And I realized something – it wasn’t so scary after all. The strangest thing about flying solo…is how totally aware I was that I was never, ever alone. Not even for one second.
