Lotus fields in Southern Vietnam, February 2023
[This deeply personal reflection draws inspiration from a series about encounters with strangers that leave a lasting impact. I’ve crossed paths with many during my adventures, but none linger in my thoughts more than a couple I met on the Tube in London. Decades later, their words resonate with me as I prepare to return home after 6.5 months exploring 15 countries.]
To the Couple on the Tube:
It was an uncharacteristically warm June day, and the Tube was stifling as we departed from Heathrow Airport. You sat across from me, surrounded by your two large suitcases. I recall your dark hair, but the details of your appearance have faded.
If I hadn’t been a struggling college student, we likely wouldn’t have connected. Taking the Tube was the most economical choice to reach the city from the airport, albeit the slowest.
In 2002, without smartphones to distract us, conversing with strangers was the norm. Your American accents caught my attention, prompting me to ask where you hailed from—New York. You shared that you had both studied abroad in the U.K. and were back for your honeymoon. I recounted my semester in Northern England and mentioned my imminent return home.
I can’t recall who among you said it, but your words remain etched in my memory: “People prepare you for studying abroad, but no one prepares you for going home.”
Those five months in England were transformative and set me on a path of continuous travel. I was often the outsider—first as the girl with glasses and braces, then as the one eager to travel in my small South Carolina town. Over time, I realized my discomfort in my hometown was why I adapted so easily to life on the road. I felt more at home in distant lands where I stood out. Walking through the streets of Bangkok or Delhi felt more natural than my own neighborhood.
Returning home after our encounter, I faced a barrage of questions. “How was the trip?” “What did you enjoy most?” Summarizing five months of experiences in a few sentences felt impossible, and even if I could, no one would truly grasp it, except for you.
Claiming I struggled to readjust would be an understatement. Nothing had altered except for me. Friends labeled me “the girl who’s always talking about England.” This pattern repeated after every trip—whether it was a year in Australia, five summers in India, or seven months backpacking through South America. After years of various jobs, I shaped a life that allowed me to travel professionally. Home became the road, yet the anxiety of returning to America never faded.
After a year in Australia, I found myself questioning a Walgreens clerk in Los Angeles about why my $2.99 mints didn't ring up correctly. Sales tax. I had forgotten that in the U.S.—unlike elsewhere—tax isn’t included in the price until checkout. Everything felt alien. I felt more of an outsider than ever.
Years passed as I grappled with the idea of home until I realized it could encompass various locations—my parents' farm, my favorite khao soi restaurant in Chiang Mai, or sharing drinks with an old friend in Rome.
Travel altered me in ways I didn’t fully understand for years. Since that pivotal moment, I’ve encountered others on journeys—like you—who connected with me more deeply in a brief exchange than those I’ve known for ages. The toughest aspect of travel isn’t the travel mishaps; it’s returning to a birthplace where I often feel I don’t belong.
Your words echo in my mind during evening walks in Buenos Aires this late February. Fleeing the harsh American winter and nearly two years of pandemic isolation, I sought refuge in my beloved city.
As I walked toward the verdant parks of Recoleta, air conditioning units dripped above me. It was sunset, and every green space was alive with exercise classes and couples—young and old—relaxing with blankets and sipping matte, a traditional tea.
I paused to enjoy a saxophonist playing on the street near the decorative arts museum. He provided a pleasant distraction from the impending return to the U.S. in two weeks when my visa expires. As I dropped a $100 peso note into his case, he gave me a knowing wink.
My time in Buenos Aires over the last two months—where I first fell in love with this city during a backpacking adventure in 2015—has been my happiest in years. It offered a glimpse of my pre-pandemic, location-independent lifestyle. I worried that boarding a flight back to America would plunge me into the deep despair I felt during the last two years, trapped in a world where I was misunderstood and work was scarce. I shook the thought from my mind, lifting my gaze to the blue sky peeking through the trees, inhaling deeply, and trying to imprint every moment—the orange hues of the sky, rustling leaves, and the saxophone's melody—into my memory.
