By someone who packed more than a suitcase—she carried questions, stories, and the soft ache of becoming.
When you travel as much as I have—across time zones and timelines—it becomes hard to define a “vacation.” Was it the trip to Copenhagen that turned into a second home, or Istanbul, where I lost myself in the swirl of history and honey-sweet baklava? Was it a train ride through Sweden where silence spoke volumes? Or was it simply a weekend in a foggy corner of San Francisco, rediscovering a part of me I thought I’d left behind?
But if I had to choose—if I had to circle one memory on a map of a life stitched together with flight confirmations and emotional turbulence—it would be the summer I wandered through Northern Europe, not as a tourist, but as a woman learning how to just be.
It began in Copenhagen. A city that didn’t scream for attention—it whispered. I was there for work initially, a few weeks stretched out in hotel rooms that smelled like cedar and quiet. But something about the place slowed my breath. The bikes, the bakery windows, the way strangers respected space and yet smiled with their eyes.
My days were routine but somehow still magical. After work, I’d stop at the Indian joint on the corner, pack my favorite rajma-chawal, and bring it home. I’d eat it on the couch while watching Friends, laughing at lines I’d heard a hundred times. Then, I’d head out again—rolling a quiet joint and sitting on the street bench facing the party alley, just across from the bars. From there, I’d watch Copenhagen’s own real-life version of Friends unfold: people hugging, dancing, shouting last orders, smoking in groups, falling in and out of love right in front of me. I didn’t need to be in the scene to feel part of it. Some nights are best lived as a spectator. And those were my favorite kinds—ritualistic, peaceful, a little high, and incredibly human.
From there, I hopped on trains, each journey less about distance and more about pace. I arrived in Oslo, where the air was so clean it almost felt rude to exhale. Then to Bergen, where the rain didn’t dampen—it cleansed. Norway taught me the beauty of solitude. I was alone, but not lonely. I journaled for hours, watching clouds shift over the fjords like emotional weather. No Instagram. No itinerary. Just presence.
I fell for Sweden’s restraint, too. Its soft minimalism mirrored the emotional decluttering I was going through.
And then came Germany, where two cities gifted me two vastly different but equally unforgettable nights.
In Berlin, one afternoon I set out with no destination and found myself accidentally stumbling into a Goth concert. The music pulsed through the cobbled streets, the people draped in black velvet and moonlight. I stood there, caught in the thick of it, completely absorbed. Later, I wandered off and found a cozy little Indian restaurant tucked near the train station. The spices warmed me, the quiet steadied me. I got back to my Airbnb at a decent hour, full—not just with food, but with something else. Freedom, maybe.
And in Hamburg, I bunked at a youth hostel for a night that turned into a blur of laughter and long conversations. We were a motley crew—backpackers, interns, lost souls, and hopeful romantics. We shared cheap beer and expensive dreams. That night, we drank until the sky began to lighten, swapping stories and playlists, and pretending that morning would never come. There was no pretense, no filters, just that rare, fleeting intimacy you only find when no one is trying to impress anyone. I don’t even remember everyone’s names, but I remember how I felt—open, electric, infinite.
Brussels was a surprise too. I expected politics and precision; I found pralines and poetry. A local bookstore owner gave me directions that led me nowhere, and somehow, that detour ended up becoming the highlight of my day.
And then there was London—gritty, grand, and unforgettable in its own dark, glittering way.
One afternoon, I lost my way and took the wrong bridge. It got dark early—the kind of thick winter dark that wraps around your ankles. Church bells began to ring in the distance, announcing Christmas Eve. Families were hurrying home, coats pulled tight, their arms filled with parcels and cheer. I had no GPS, just a soaked coat, aching feet, and the stubbornness to keep wandering through rain-slicked alleyways. But that’s the thing about London—you don’t panic. You find a café tucked behind some bookstore or beside an old church, and you get a cup of hot coffee, and everything changes. The world tilts back into place. Of course, I got home safe. And that night, with wet socks and a warm heart, I had an evening to remember.
And then came Istanbul—the city that cracked me open. The call to prayer echoing at dawn felt like someone ringing a bell inside my chest. I lit a candle in a church one morning and danced with strangers at a rooftop bar that night. I remember sitting by the Bosphorus, sipping strong tea and realizing: this… this is the in-between space where I feel most alive. Where continents kiss, where logic and mysticism coexist.
That trip didn’t offer luxury in the traditional sense. No five-star spas, no grand shopping hauls. But it gave me something rarer—a pause. A chance to meet myself again, outside of my roles, resumes, and routines. It was a conversation with the parts of me that don’t show up on Zoom calls or dating profiles. The girl who once stood overwhelmed in the aisles of a Chicago Trader Joe’s. The woman who rebuilt her life after San Francisco gave her both everything and nothing. The version of me who said yes to a flaky croissant in Copenhagen and no to a man who couldn’t hold her depth.
It was never just a vacation. It was a homecoming.
And I’ve been carrying pieces of that journey with me ever since—in the way I light incense, in the way I choose stillness over hustle, and in the way I write my stories now: not to impress, but to express.
Kay’s Odyssey 
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