Stranger Danger

Should I be scared to travel outside the country?

So, maybe I am not invincible.

Notwithstanding having three siblings well into their nineties, even at the tender age of 82 (just weeks away from 83) I have needed a few relatively minor repairs. Cataract surgeries. A cyst removed. Treatment for a genetic quirk, courtesy of some marauding Viking in the distant past, that causes fingers to curl (inconvenient for a writer).

Those fixes have kept me homebound in Louisville, KY a couple of months past the holidays and into the new year. It has been a reality check.

So far, my reality contains nothing that makes continuing my travels no longer an option. I will likely add a third maintenance medication to the small pharmacy I carry. My mortality will travel with me, just as it does wherever I am in the US.

I love my family here and have relished time with my three granddaughters, all exceedingly cool. I am treated far too well. With that said, it is time to get on the road again. My family is fully supportive.

One granddaughter is currently traveling in Italy with a friend. Another granddaughter and her boyfriend leave for Italy in a couple of days and will fly back from Prague. A third granddaughter and her boyfriend are planning a future trip. My daughter and her husband have their twenty-fifth anniversary celebration trip to Italy booked and ready.

Travel runs in the blood.

Without owning a car, I have met a remarkable number of Uber drivers, never the same one twice. Some have lived here all their lives. Many have come from elsewhere in the world. Occasionally a language barrier has shortened the ride’s conversation, but more often I have enjoyed getting to know them as we travel through the city.

Two came from Iraq and have lived here for years, raising families. One driver had a newborn the day before. Another had a two-week-old baby at home. One told me about his father’s life in Cuba and his own journey to the US. One was from Togo and taught me about it.

Those encounters remind me how small the planet is, how filled with interesting and remarkable people.

I found a Meetup group called Those Interested in All Things International. It meets monthly in an upstairs room at Mellwood Tavern here in Louisville. The group includes people who have traveled the globe and others who have moved here from elsewhere. They are vivacious and thoughtful, each bringing an international perspective to life on this planet. At the last meeting, a young man had arrived from Genoa, Italy the day before, in the US for the first time for work. Being with this group reinforces my sense of connection to other places and the perspective that connection brings.

Stranger Danger

Should I be scared to travel outside the country?

When I tell people here that I travel alone most of the year abroad, that is often the first question they ask.

Traveling alone forces me to interact with the people who live where I am staying. Cruises and group tours are wonderful and beautiful and offer knowledgeable guides who teach travelers about the places they visit. They provide curated experiences and visits to historic sites but the way I travel is different. I stay anywhere from days to weeks to months in one place. Airbnbs. A bunk in a hostel. Rarely hotels. Sometimes with people who have become friends. Most often with strangers. This kind of travel gives me the chance to learn what people are like, what matters to them, the rhythms of daily life in their country. Far from making me afraid, those experiences have quieted the tribal fear of the other embedded in the primitive brain.

• Should I be afraid of Lawrie in Australia, with whom I have stayed for weeks, who sends me photos of his grandchildren and his garden in its various stages, and updates about cricket matches with his mates?

• Should I be afraid of Andy in Tobermory, Scotland, who posts images of plankton from the bay when he is studying the health of the waters there?

• Should I be afraid of Tanja, whom I met on the Camino, who now sends photos of her year-old twins? Of Masood from Iran, a music major who sings in a glorious choir, whose friends watched out for me and shared their food on a hike?

• Should I be afraid of Marko in Tivat, Montenegro, who shares wine and traditional meals with me when I stay in his Airbnb? Of Gaby, Barbara, and Victor, who made me feel at home there?

• Should I be afraid of Lorenz and Trixi from Helmstedt, Germany, who housed me for weeks and taught me the Cold War history of their town beside the former Iron Curtain? Of Vega and her college friends from Stockholm, who welcomed me into their circle while studying in Porto?

• Should I be afraid of Claudia from Italy, now living in Vienna, and the ten members of our German class from eight different countries? Of Dave from Galway, tent-camping his way across the world after losing his wife? Of Dragan, Tanja’s brother, a giant of a man with a full beard, with whom I walked on the Camino and who is now a Serbian Orthodox priest?

Gary and Rowena. John and Christina. Margaret. Ilora. Kevin. Elsabeth. Henning and Bjorg. Marek, now deceased.

In fifteen years of traveling outside the country, I have met far more people than I can name here. Many have become more than acquaintances, even if we do not see each other often. In cities large and small, I have found people to be less on edge, less quick to anger, than we often seem at home. The cultures have felt more relaxed, less intense. With fewer guns in daily life, there is less fear that someone’s anger will erupt into violence.

Even in hostels among strangers, I have never felt unsafe.

Anything can happen. But the places I have traveled have felt at least as safe as home.

For now, I am eager to finish the small tasks at hand and be on my way.

The Destination is Now,

Peter