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Everyone I meet asks me the three same questions:

• Where are you from?
• How old are you?
• Why are you traveling?

While the first two answers are pretty simple (I tell people I’m from Chicago, for the record), I struggle to summarize the third in a way that doesn’t make me seem unimaginative or cliché. “To see the world” isn’t a good answer. Neither is “To learn Spanish.” To be honest, I don’t think I completely understood where I stumbled upon this insatiable appetite for travel until relatively recently. Sure, it’s fun – but it’s a hell of a lot more, too.

Guests at Twin Fin aren’t just here for surfing; hiking, scuba diving, paragliding – it’s all up for grabs. I try to tag along whenever possible. On Wednesday morning I vaulted out of my tent, grabbed my swimsuit and joined a small group on their trip to kayak with dolphins. I’ve gawked at dolphins in the zoo and spotted one once when I was surfing, but aside from that my one-on-one dolphin time was relatively minimal.

For those of you who haven’t tried it recently, kayaking isn’t that easy. I grew up on lakes and rivers so I know my way around a paddle, but for most of our guests it’s a relatively new concept. The double kayaks that we rent are comfortable, but they require a certain sort of finesse when embarking and disembarking. We were in the water for 15 seconds before someone took an unexpected swim.

Nestled comfortably in a neighboring valley, the small town of Los Christianos shrunk behind us as we haphazardly paddled towards the dolphin’s favorite breakfast spot. I was awe-struck from the moment we left the harbor. Giant cliffs streaked white with salt towered over us in a magnificent display of prehistoric landscaping. The snowcapped peaks of Teide gently reminded me of my insignificance, and my kayaking partner repeatedly reminded me to pay attention.

Once we got closer to the fish harbor, fins began to pop up all around us. I repressed the urge to shriek as over a dozen dolphins swam under our kayaks, launched themselves out of the water and eyed us curiously. Miniature dolphins (or baby dolphins, I’m not really sure) swam nestled in the fins of their keepers, and I cried. Surrounded by one of the most beautiful landscapes I’ve ever seen, I experienced a moment of passionate reverence for everything and everyone around me. It was incredible.

In part, it’s these moments that I travel for. But there’s more.

I’ve always held a great deal of respect for the ocean. It’s massive, unpredictable, and the waves can seriously crush you if you let them. My uncle took me surfing in California when I was younger and I flopped around on a few tiny waves in Vigo, but yesterday was my first time heading out with an instructor. I was terrified but determined.

As soon as I stepped into the ocean I was met with an exhausting and constant barrage of waves. Yes, I understand that this is how the ocean works, but I didn’t fully comprehend it until I was neck-deep and sputtering for air. I swore and flailed my arms into the chop until one of our instructors yelled “Turn around!” and I was eaten by a wave.

To my pleasant surprise, I’m actually pretty good at surfing. Maybe it’s all of the yoga and snowboarding, but I spent a fair chunk of time standing up and pretending like I knew what I was doing. I felt comfortable enough, in fact, that at one point I decided I was going to swim a bit farther out and tackle some of the larger surf. I sat on my board, waiting excitedly for my wave until I saw what appeared to be something that I should try and jump on. Paddling inland with all of my might, I glanced back to see a massive wall of water barreling towards on me. I didn’t have time to turn around and duck under it, so I had no choice but to continue paddling and prepare for impact.

The beast let out one last roar behind me before engulfing my board and hoisting me into the sky. I was, miraculously, standing atop the wave and let out a victorious shriek before realizing that I had to somehow make my way from the crest of the 5-foot swell to the base below. I was catapulted downward and for a brief moment found my footing before entering a 10-second rinse cycle and swallowing a gallon of water. When I finally surfaced I felt an unstoppable sense of euphoria and accomplishment that resulted in hysterical laughter and a desire to spend the rest of my days perched on a surfboard, waiting for my next adventure.

And who’s to say that I can’t?

The team at Twin Fin is remarkably international. We are all from different countries, and we all share a love for living outside of our comfort zone. Our driver, Mauro, is from Italy. Mauro swears constantly, gestures a lot with his hands and doesn’t smile when he’s happy. Our masseuse, Sasha, is from Russia. She makes everything sound sexy and sashays when she walks. Listening to them interact is one of the most enchanting things I’ve ever witnessed.

The other day I sat in the car while Sasha attempted to give Mauro directions. She wasn’t sure where she was going, and cooed, “Okay, Mauro. Eet’s okay. Don’t vwoory. Just turn right.” Mauro honked his horn and threatened to drop her off on the side of the road. I suppressed my laughter as they continued to bicker and we drove in circles, sweating, because the van windows won’t roll down.

I revel in these little moments. When three people from entirely different places, cultures and languages are crammed into one space, our glaring differences become similarities. We were all just a bunch of lost idiots that refused to ask for directions.

I’m traveling so I can experience the culmination of all of the feelings expressed in this blog post. Does that make sense?

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After 4 days in Tenerife, I’ve already been forced to cycle through a handful of hellos and goodbyes. Most people at the surf camp tend to stay around a week, so I have plenty of time to build friendships, make memories and wave them off into the unknown quickly thereafter. This is a brilliant way to meet people from all over the world (I haven’t bumped into an American yet), but I’ve quickly realized that I’ll need to get used to saying goodbye.

Twin Fin is a modest surf camp wedged between some banana trees on a mountain of volcanic rock. It’s dry, hot, and you can see miles of ocean curving along the horizon whenever you glance up from your hammock. The guest house is in a state of relative disrepair, which is about what you’d expect from a weather-beaten surf bungalow. A carpet of ruddy astroturf serves as a lame attempt to apologize for the dust storms that frequently blow over from the Western Sahara, and a cockroach the size of my palm sent me squealing out of the bathroom last night. That being said, I’ve never been happier. The people are beautiful and the love is palpable.

Every morning I wake up, grab breakfast from a banana tree and make a pot of tea with the pregnant camp cat, Hummus. I asked the staff why they named the cat Hummus, but nobody can seem to give me a solid answer. There’s also speculation that she isn’t actually pregnant but just has a serious case of worms from eating so many lizards.

The majority of my time is passed by cooking meals, practicing/teaching yoga, hiking and floating belly-up in the ocean. Once dinner is finished and I’m physically drained, I head down the dirt pathway to my tent and collapse amidst the crickets and owls. I don’t know the last time I slept this well.

Yesterday we made the trek to “Hippie Beach.” The beach probably has another name, but after seeing the countless makeshift shanties, dreadlocks and drum circles I would hesitate to call it anything else. After weaving our way through a mountain of cacti, we arrived at a patchouli-scented coastline of black sand. Now I’ll admit… I’ve seen a penis or two in my lifetime, but nothing like the dazzling array of manhood that swung before me. Men of all ages partook in various beach activities, seemingly unhindered by the freedom of their extra appendage. Most of the women were topless, too, but I found a few pairs of boobs less distracting than the glistening pubic hairs of the guy doing naked handstands next to me. There also seemed to be a designated urination rock, where people stood and pissed into the ocean without actually stepping in the ocean. I’ll be taking guests to Hippie Beach next week, and I’m really looking forward to watching them get acquainted with the locals.

It’s strange, knowing that I’ll say goodbye to everyone I meet in Tenerife and – in all likelihood – never see them again. But by sharing stories, space, and time, I think we all leave a little imprint on the people we meet along the way.

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My sister recently told me to check out a show on Netflix called the “Kindness Diaries.” It features a guy who is traveling across the world relying entirely on the kindness of strangers. He asks people for food, a place to sleep, and even gasoline for his motorcycle. He’s frequently turned down, but there’s always someone who comes along and offers their help. It might seem as though these scenes are forced, unreal, or that the giver expects something in return, but that’s not the case. These people are everywhere, and I see them every day. In a way, I sort of feel like this guy. I’m not completely broke, but I am constantly given the gift of kindness – and it’s beautiful.

This morning I woke up and went to the fruit market next to my hostel in Seven Sisters, London. I grabbed some juice, a sparkling water and an orange for breakfast and gave the woman my card to pay. She told me there was a 7£ minimum. I fumbled around looking for a little change that I hadn’t already donated to a bartender, but ultimately told her that I would have to find more things to buy. (I really wanted that sparkling water.) She handed me my items, looked at me and said, “No, I pay for you. It’s okay.” I looked at her incredulously and tried to hand her my card again, thinking that I must have misheard her. She continued digging through her coin-purse, pulled out a few pounds and waved me away. The guy behind me laughed and said, “Talk about customer service.”

I spent this weekend in Oslo staying with Eivor, a family friend. I say “family friend” loosely, because I met this woman when I was 2 years old – she lived with her family across the hallway from us in the Twin Cities. When I went to Denmark in November she took a flight from Norway to come meet me, so I wanted to make visiting her a priority this time around. Because of the unpredictability of my travel plans, I wasn’t able to give her much of a heads up… four days, to be exact. When I arrived she welcomed me into her home with open arms and a heap of avocados. I couldn’t have asked for a warmer reception.

In the following days I was shocked by how “homey” Norway felt. The people were polite and friendly. The weather was cold and shitty. It could have been Minnesota if it weren’t for the hills and the fact that everyone was constantly walking around in ski boots. Norwegians love skiing. Eivor’s sons made me dinner and took me to a death metal concert, and her extended family came over on Sunday afternoon for tea and homemade cinnamon rolls. For a moment I felt as though I had been in Norway my entire life.

Eivor told me a story about a homeless man that sits outside of her office. Every day he has a sign with a positive sentiment that he shares with passersby, and every day he is provided with ample food and beverage. One person brings him coffee, another brings him breakfast. This goes on throughout the day until the evening when he retires to his unknown abode. I think this sums up Norway perfectly – the citizens are healthy, happy, and share what they can with those in need.

It’s not the large acts of kindness that stand out, but rather the small ones that flow in a steady, heartwarming stream. A film editor I met on the plane bought me a glass of wine. The surly bus driver gave me a student discount. An aspiring actress from my hostel offered to share her dinner roll. The more I travel the more that I believe in the power of empathy and the inherent good of humanity. I can’t wait to brighten someone’s day.

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On Saturday morning I met two strangers for a fishing trip. I was running a little late because I tend to overestimate the length of a minute, but my ride, Andres, waited patiently while I popped two Dramamine and mentally prepared myself to spend the entire day speaking in Spanish on a sailboat. We made polite conversation on the drive to the pier and I informed him that I would be able to bait my own hook.

Andres greeted the ship captain, Angel, with a big hug and a bottle of wine. We haphazardly grabbed handfuls of fishing equipment and made our way to the sailboat, barbed hooks and fishing line trailing behind us.

Angel represents everything that’s right with Spain. His face proudly wears the lines of a thousand days at sea, and his constant, inquisitive smile begs that you join him in the joke of the moment. He fires a stream of rapid, infinite chatter. I probably understood 50% of what he said.

Calamari, canned clams and mussels scraped directly from the dock served as bait for the day. I think Angel made a joke about diving in and grabbing the mussels from the ocean floor, but I can’t be too sure. According to the gentlemen our sailboat was aging and modest, but to me it felt pleasantly loved and lived-in. The intimate sleeping quarters beneath the deck were accented by delicately embroidered pillows and the sand of past adventures.

With the assistance of an outboard motor we left the marina and made our way into the Ria de Vigo, which is essentially a large, long bay surrounded by land on three sides. The sun warmed the back of my neck and I probably looked like I was having a manic episode because I was grinning so emphatically. Angel exchanged brief hellos (and possibly insults) with the marauders in nearby boats, nimbly moving from bow to stern to release the weathered sails.

The fishing rig and style was relatively simple, but it took me a while to get the hang of it because of the language barrier. I’m not sure why the University of Minnesota failed to include fishing terms in the Spanish curriculum, but Andres happily used his broken English to get the point across. Each line had a large sinker and three barbed hooks, one for each type of bait. We dropped the bait until it landed on the bottom, and then gently jigged the line until we felt a bite. If we didn’t land a fish within 30 seconds, Angel ordered us to reel up the lines and hastily changed our location.

After discovering a spot that consistently provided us with small, silver fish, Angel set up shop for the day. He tossed us beers and pulled out dusty wooden speakers. Roughly translated, the lyrics of the first song were: “We are in a boat, without a destination. We are in a boat, with no captain.”  

Angel thought this was hilarious and insisted that I wear his captain’s hat. Hour by hour and sock by sock, he slowly stripped to his skivvies.

We continued fishing until hunger consumed us, finally letting the sails take us across the Ria de Vigo near the shores of Cangas. Tucked away from the wind, the fishing area was turned into a comfortable bed of pillows and we enjoyed a few glasses of Portuguese port. As is the plague of bodily function, I subsequently had to pee in a bucket below the deck.

After enjoying an empanada Andres and I sunned ourselves while Angel cranked up some electronic music and performed a magic show. Coin tricks seem to be prevalent in Spain, but these ones were exceptional – if not for their smoothness, then for the showmanship they were accompanied by. Angel danced, clapped, spun in circles and sang while a few people on the neighboring beach watched in amusement.

The beautiful thing about the Spaniards is that they seem drunk long before their lips have touched the bottle. They live every moment with this intimate, ineffable zeal for life that makes me both envious and embarrassed; I spend far too much time concerning myself with the unvoiced opinions of others. Don’t get me wrong – Angel was thoroughly enjoying a few cocktails, but I have a sneaking suspicion that he’s always unabashedly himself.

Fishing is a universal language. I was able to share a blissful day with two people from entirely different walks of life, despite a communication barrier and relatively substantial age gap. Our shared passion for catching, eating and admiring the creatures of the deep made it easy to understand one another, and I loved every minute of it.

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There’s something subtly beautiful in the art of traveling alone. You’re not really alone at all – you’re simply willing to reach out and cultivate new, unused avenues of human connection. And it’s easier than you think.

When you’re traveling alone, you suddenly realize that there are thousands of people that will inevitably become a part of your story. The bartender at the local pub, the quiet girl in your hostel, or even the gruff old man taking tickets for the ferry have already written themselves into the narrative of your travels – all you need to do is keep reading.

In these moments where we’re looking into one another’s eyes, across cultural and experiential boundaries, we discover a deep and irrevocable bond beyond what we’re able to find in the predictability of daily life. Our willingness to defer judgement and find our own likeness reflected in the life of another person triumphs over petty differences, language or skin color. It’s an immediate, authentic attachment.

You don’t have to travel far to be traveling alone. Globetrotting isn’t an option for the majority of the human population – and that’s okay. It’s not the destination of your travels, but the mentality that you adopt when traveling. Appreciation, understanding and patience forge pathways for life-changing experiences, no matter how far you are from home.

We were all born with an innate desire to be loved, and oftentimes we overlook the obvious when searching for a source of comfort. The brief, honest exchange that can occur with a stranger is strikingly similar to experiencing unrelenting, unconditional love. When people we’ve never met open their hearts, their minds and even their homes to us, we see that humanity is still what permanently binds us together.

I haven’t been traveling alone for very long, but already I’ve been met with such unimaginable kindness and I’ve found that, for every moment of heart-wrenching, deplorable human interaction there is someone else that is willing to write you a page in their book.

Whenever you feel lonely, don’t worry. You’re not traveling alone.

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