What's It Like Being Stranded in Your City? (Part 1)

(Source: Unsplash/Shobhit Sharma.)

My birthday is at the end of February. Every year, I take time to celebrate not just a new trip around the sun, but also the anniversary of completing one of my most notable (and perhaps craziest) life adventures: a solo, sparsely funded, six-month walk across 12 countries in Europe. 

The adventure began late fall, 2017, when I decided to accompany a friend to Ireland who was traveling for an artist’s retreat. A few days later, I learned I’d need to change my living situation, which would add a few hundred dollars to my monthly budget and received a call offering me a remote job teaching writing for an online school. The stars, so to speak, seemed to be aligning. Why take on more expenses if I could just travel with my new job, instead? 

Let the adventure begin! 

We bought our tickets (mine one-way) one Saturday morning over homemade blueberry pancakes, rejoicing at low fares. After a few weeks of prep, we left for Cork, Ireland. We traveled together for about a week, then parted ways: my friend for Galway, Ireland, myself for London. And with that began an experience that deeply shaped me as a person, not least in my perspective on cities and urban design. 

Navigating around a dozen countries alone, without a car or much money, forced me to experience each city with a unique sensitivity to things I would perhaps have overlooked had I been more materially comfortable. My tight budget made me sensitive to the walkability of each city, the availability of public transit, and the presence of affordable street food and hostels. Although happy to simply walk around each new city and take photos, I was also constantly on the lookout for perks like free museum days and donation-based walking tours. 

But perhaps more importantly, as a solo traveler, I was sensitive to any opportunities to connect with other people. Despite being an introvert, traveling alone can take a toll. Finding people to talk to and spend time with became a top priority for me. I quickly came to rely on the conviviality and inclusivity of hostel culture: co-travelers have a habit of immediately banding together. I also came to appreciate sites like Couchsurfing, where hospitable strangers host travelers in their homes for free in exchange for conversation or some other cultural-exchange-like experience. 

Due to a now-amusing series of budgeting hiccups, I found myself relying on this informal economy of generosity more than I thought I would. It was in London that I ran into my first dilemma. My paycheck was late and without much of a buffer, I was counting on that check to buy my next ticket to Amsterdam. I literally had to wait for a bank transfer from my dad in California before I could leave the airport! Fortunately, I had Couchsurfing arrangements for a few days but became extremely nervous about where I would go after that time period if the check didn’t arrive. 

I finally explained my delay to the young ladies I was staying with. Unfazed, they assured me I was just fine and could stay with them. That weekend, we walked to a grocery store and bought ingredients for brunch; they braided each other’s hair with Destiny’s Child playing in the background while I worked on lesson plans. The check finally arrived. I bought everyone drinks during one night of long conversation, thanked them, and headed off to my next stop: Amsterdam, where I stayed with an expat American family.  

Next up was Belgium, where I had plans to work at a hostel in exchange for lodging. But I ran into conflicts with the hostel owners for whom I was enrolled in a work-trade program. It boiled to the point where I fled during my break for a walk around town. I ended up at a local falafel shop, where I broke down in tears. The owner’s wife, who spoke English, came out and gave me a big hug, a free coffee, and her number in case I needed help. I did end up needing help: the hostel owner proved too hostile for me to feel comfortable staying. Immediately there to help was Pierre, a young Frenchman traveling to Belgium to write his thesis at our hostel, but who ended up spending that evening walking around the town with me in the rain, sipping gin and tonics and debating about culture until I calmed down enough to head back and start quietly packing my bags. 

I had counted on that job to give me a chance to save money from my remote job, but now I would have to make ends meet for two more weeks. A friend’s reply on a desperate Facebook post landed me at the home of a French family with mutual friends in the U.S. They prepared a room for me in their loft despite having a house full of three children and a busy schedule. I stayed there for nearly two weeks, helping them around the house while working on a “Plan B” and securing a second remote writing gig. 

In Paris, I ran out of money, literally due to banking delays. When I confessed this to Katherine, a Russian girl and fellow writer whom I met on Couchsurfing, she dispelled the encroaching shame by grabbing me by the shoulders with a pep speech, handing me $20 and buying me a glass of white wine. I would eventually stay with her for a few days, during which we’d live our best attempt at la vie artistique: lots of wine-sipping, angsty writing, blaring Lana Del Rey, and walking to bars for free jazz shows. 

In Rome, my phone was stolen just before a trip to Montenegro, where I’d work at a hostel in exchange for free lodging. The only contact I had was a woman with whom I’d made plans (over Facebook) to share a taxi from Tivat. Miraculously, I made it to the airport shuttle on time thanks to the help of gruff Italian men pointing me in the right direction. It turns out the woman had my same flight from Rome, spoke English, and knew the hostel owner in Tivat where I’d be working. Not only did she accompany me on the flight and share her taxi, but bought me fries and soup during a pit stop for food, ushered me onto the right ferry, and gave me a ride in her own car up the mountain to the hostel, accepting no cash along the way. I never saw her again but will never forget her and shudder to think how I would have made such a journey without her help. 

There are too many more stories to include here. I don’t have space to write about Pierre helping me again in Paris or the second Monsieur Pierre, an older Parisian man, who bought me my only restaurant meal in the city; my hosts in Munich; or the hotelier in Sarajevo who personally drove me around town. Looking back on these memories and the experience at large, I wonder: What is it about these cities that such an informal culture of hospitality can thrive? 

I’m sure that the history of these cities, their age, and their years of popularity as tourist destinations play a part in cultivating such a culture, but I also wonder if the design of these cities is part of the explanation. It’s clear that attractive, walkable places with affordable public transit and centrally located, everyday amenities like hostels and drug stores make it easier for people to visit. I suspect the constant presence of travelers inspires a whole slew of new businesses and services. Perhaps, for some people, it also inspires a uniquely high level of social openness and curiosity, which is how you end up with sites like Couchsurfing and the hospitable encounters they facilitate. 

My formula isn’t air tight, but I think there’s something to be said for thinking about our cities through the lens of the traveler, perhaps even the stranded traveler, as I was several times. Yet each time, the city offered amenities to ease my plight, whether that was a park to sit and calm down in, cheap public transit, or simply an abundance of beautiful streets to walk and pray (there was a lot of praying). Looking at the design of your city, what would it be like if you were backpacking and needed to get across town without a car? What if you needed to find a meal for under $10 or a place to crash under $30? What if you were feeling lonely… Could you find welcoming social events like dancing or live music?  

It’s been five years now since my journey and it’s stayed with me ever since. When I reflect on this experience, I am tempted to judge myself harshly for not having more savings or a better plan. But the other part of me doesn’t regret it. I’m glad for what I learned, for the people I met, for the plans that fell apart and for the stories I will treasure for the rest of my life. I’m also grateful for the way that experience shaped my view on cities. Cities should be hospitable places capable of catching and holding people, no matter where they are in life. I don’t know what magic formula fosters the kind of hospitality I experienced, but I am grateful for the walkability, the affordable street food, the cheap overnight buses, the hostels (despite the snoring!) and the people I met who were able to see in me an opportunity for friendship and hospitality.  

American cities can learn from this. With the absence of an affordable train or bus network and the sprawled-out nature of cities, demanding a rental car, traveling in the U.S. requires a baseline level of income and self-sufficiency. Traveling in these places, even if you have all the money you want, can be quite lonely: transactions, pre-planned itineraries, and sightseeing are only part of what we need as human beings exploring the world. We also need aimless walks, adventures, and spontaneous, kind encounters with strangers. 

In Part 2, I’ll share my experience with being stranded in an American city, so stay tuned!

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