It’s hard to know how to start this piece, as I’m feeling the same awe and overwhelm in writing about it as I felt my first day in Asia. The process of flying to Taiwan felt too easy, after taking a couple other international trips this year. The airplane ride that had felt so impossible just a year ago, was now something that was uncomfortable but not completely intolerable. It made my brain feel like I had “cheated” when I got there, simply because I wasn’t at a 5 alarm panic. Maybe this is just life for people without OCD— maybe this could be my life in OCD recovery.

By the time we landed, my brain had also normalized the idea of no drinkable tap water thanks to the Peru trip, something that had previously terrified my OCD and held me in place. Also throwing toilet paper in the trash instead of flushing it? No problem (something that had tortured me a few months ago). Neuroplasticity is an unbelievable thing. However, that first day still had a few OCD challenges in store for me- taking a elevator up one of the tallest buildings in the world, taking a boat across choppy waters, trying quail eggs on the street and more.

I was with my dad and his friends in Taipei for a couple days, then I was taking the train around the island of Taiwan by myself. Over the next eight weeks I’ll take you on my journey of the island including visiting a Buddhist monastery, getting lost in a small rural mountain town alone, trying “stinky tofu”, using squatting toilets, trying my hand at Chinese divination and enjoying lots and lots of dumplings.

Setting the scene

My dad’s Taiwanese friends picked us up that first morning, and we sped off toward our first stop of the day, a Chinese folk temple (Dalongdong Baoan). The temple was active— full of incense heavy with prayers, wooden moon blocks thrown to the ground for divination, fortune sticks drawn to receive messages, money burnt and food offered to the gods. This particular temple was for the Emperor of Health, but also included shrines to lesser gods such as the god of gambling, drugs and alcohol. Many Taiwanese temples blend Chinese folk religion with Taoism, Confucianism and Buddhism.

The first inhabitants of the island now known as Taiwan were the Austronesians, the same people who first inhabited Madagasgar to Hawaii. Chinese explorers then came upon the island in 1300s, Dutch and the Spanish briefly established colonies in Taiwan in the 1600s and then China expelled them and established its own state on the island later in the 1600s.

Changing hands

Despite China discouraging immigration to Taiwan, Han settlers from China moved to the island and Chinese soon became the ethnic majority. In the late 1800s Japan won a war against China and took control of Taiwan, and then in 1937 Japan went to war with China again and began promoting Japanese culture in Taiwan and suppressing island customs and language.

In WWII Taiwan was bombed by the US and most Japanese left Taiwan. Civil war also broke out in China around that time and Mao and the People’s Republic of China (PRC) took over the mainland government. The former mainland government, known as the Republic of China (ROC) evacuated its government to Taiwan, where it still exists today. In 1955 the US provided foreign aid to Taiwan (ROC) with the Formosa Resolution, and later in the 1990s Taiwan held it’s first democratic election.

Boat ride

After a dim sum lunch we went north of Taipei to Tamsui, the former “red haired city” (a neighborhood that the Dutch had colonized before being kicked out). We then took a boat across the Tamsui river, watching it feed into the Pacific ocean. My OCD was worried about sea sickness on the choppy water right by the ocean, and I asked for a reassurance or two, but ultimately had to tell myself “maybe”, and, buoyed as well by group pressure, hopped aboard.

On the other side of the river we found a night market with scallion pancakes, all the fried sea food you could think of, and strong whiffs of Taiwan’s traditional dish, “stinky tofu,” which I would get the guts up to try toward the end of my visit.

Rainbow Road

In 2019 Taiwan became the first Asian country to legalize gay marriage, with Thailand becoming the second country to do so in 2025. Taiwan is widely seen as one of the most progressive countries in Asia, and you could tell the Taiwanese people were proud of this fact. Taiwan also elected their first female president in 2016, Tsai Ing-wen, who was also the first unmarried president, as well as the first president of indigenous Taiwanese descent. Tsai Ing-wen was part of the Democratic Progressive Party, which in recent years has emphasized Taiwanese sovereignty, which has agitated China.

Over the years, connection to Taiwan over mainland China has grown with about 63% of the island viewing themselves as exclusively Taiwanese, and only 3% viewing themselves as Chinese (compared to 26% in 1994).

The other side of the rainbow road

Only 12 countries in the world have official diplomatic ties to Taiwan and recognize it as separate from the One China policy, and the US has an unofficial diplomatic tie to Taiwan like many other nations. Why does the US have an interest in Taiwan, you say? Because we value democracy? That is always the stated reason, but when the US began supporting Taiwan it was a dictatorship and there are other undeniable reasons.

Over the past 70 years, Taiwan has been one of the US’ top buyer of arms, despite China’s requests for the US to stop arms trade with Taiwan. This past year trump sold the largest ever arms deal to Taiwan (11 million USD), which including HIMARS rockets that can strike up to 300 miles away (China is 100 miles from Taiwan). This deal prompted China to launch sea and air drills around Taiwan.

While geopolitical posturing and and arms sales might have been the original interest the US had in Taiwan, Taiwan has in recent years become the world’s top manufacturer of semiconductor chips (making 90% worldwide), which make the modern world go round (smartphones to computers to cars to weapons systems). This has helped Taiwan’s economy become the 22nd largest in the world, but they still continue to rely on trade with China.

China hasn’t ruled out force to achieve reunification with Taiwan, and the US hasn’t ruled out responding if necessary to this force.

Modern Toilet

Much of Taiwan’s infrastructure is made of concrete, a material strong enough to manage the prevalence of earthquakes. For dinner, we went to “Modern Toilet”, a novelty restaurant that serves food out of little toilet bowls. Why, you ask? Ce la vie. I promise I ate appetizing and delicious food the rest of the trip.

Tapei 101

The 11th tallest building in the world, standing at 1,667 feet, was recently climbed in Taipei by rock climber Alex Honnald. Taking all of 30 seconds seconds to get to the top via the elevator, my ears popped three times on the way up and down due to the speed of elevation change. The building, named Taipei 101, has as many floors, and is designed to resemble a bamboo stalk with elements of a modern pagoda and Feng Shui elements.

Visiting Taiwan was set to be a really special trip to as this was somewhere my dad had been many times, but I hadn’t. The smell of tea eggs cooking in convenience shops, salt in soda and vinegar in juice, monkeys in the mountains, bao steaming in wooden baskets and practicing saying “xiexie” in gratitude would soon come more natural in a few days.

Thanks for reading this densely educational post about Taiwan— I wanted to set the scene so the rest of my travels in Taiwan have context. See you as I take the train solo to the south of the island next week!

P.S.

Placing a hold for this story on my writing calendar before I actually went was a form of Exposure and Response Prevention (ERP) therapy. My OCD has told me my whole life that if I count on something, I’ll up the odds of jinxing it and something will go wrong. So placing a hold for this story was a test for my OCD. And I went to Taiwan, even though, but maybe even especially because I had counted on it.

You Might Also Like…

Sitting in the aptly named “Gringo Bar” by our hostel our last night in Peru, I reflected on what a big hurdle it was to get here, and be here. How unimaginable it had all felt before I came, and now a week and a half into my time in Peru things were getting easier. The power of diving off deep ends and letting yourself be changed by the world, forged in the fire. Queen’s “I Want to Break Free” played in the bar and I felt like I was right where I needed to be.

Months later, back at home the night before leaving for my next big trip to Taiwan, I was feeling nauseous and trying to convince myself that all I really want to do is sit still in a safe room and read forever without any “unnecessary” risk. Is travel really worth it?

These two moments above feel so different, but they are both me and they are both part of the process that is OCD recovery. The measure of recovery is not how you feel in any specific moment (in confidence or in fear), but how you are working overall to continue the process of challenging your OCD and sitting with all the feelings as they come, without using your compulsions. I’ll get more into this later in the piece, but first I want to finish my Peru series with my final days in the country.

Community, animals, history

Peruvian culture seemed much more suited to community life than US culture; public squares with libraries, churches and government buildings were designed for people to hang out and build community in, much different than city design in the US.

We learned that the llamas and alpacas around Peru are the domesticated version of the wild guanaco and vicuñas which are native to South America. Unlike cashmere, vicuñas/alpacas don’t need to be killed to gather the wool. The Incas had a special festival every year where they gathered the vicuñas, sheered them and released them again into the wild which is still practiced in some communities in Peru today.

Dogs continued to be a huge part of Peruvian everywhere we went. While most the dogs we met in Peru were off leash, dogs were leashed in Lima due to the massive amount of people (over 10 million). Parrots in the trees also continued to amaze me.

Environment

There was a sheen of sweat covering me my whole time in Lima, but there were no bugs due to the coastal desert environment. There were also very little bugs in the Andes, due to the altitude. Once you cross west over the Andes however, you need vaccines for insect bites in the Amazon climate including yellow fever and malaria. We got to learn about historical indigenous remedies for diseases, such as the bark on Peru’s national tree, Cinchona, which is able to treat malaria.

I’d always heard that the way to really learn a language is immersion, and as I began to subconsciously think and repeat Spanish words I heard during my trip I came to respect the human brain in being able to learn language. I also came to respect the siesta, as it was very hot during the day, and I love to sleep. Because of the siesta culture, the streets were lit up and busy far into the night, with a drum circle happening around our hostel at 2 in the morning the night before we left.

Time

My OCD therapist told me that anytime I feel a sense of urgency, to assume it’s OCD and try to delay it. There are definitely times that it’s not OCD I’m sure, but I was surprised to find the majority of time my feelings of urgency are OCD related for me.

In Peru my partner and I noticed our own internal anxiety in waiting for drinks, hostel rooms or dinner, and how the waiters were not as hurried in the way we were used to in the US. It seems that the US and Western European nations are in the minority in being time obsessed. In learning to be more relaxed in waiting and taking our time, I noticed a shift in my mental health as well.

Toilets

Embarrassingly, one of of my biggest culture shocks in Peru was not being able to flush toilet paper. Now that I have been to a couple more countries since this trip I understand that US water and sewage system standards are probably more the exception than the rule across much of the world when it comes to drinkable tap water and flushable toilet paper. However, Peru was my first experience throwing toilet paper in the trash after using it.

It was also my first time having to bring toilet paper with me into bathroom stalls as some bathrooms just had a roll of paper at the entrance (which definitely made you ration toilet paper better, as you didn’t want to be that person taking an armful of toilet paper into a stall).

Transportation

Traffic in Peru (Lima and Cusco in particular) was like nothing I had ever experienced. A much more vibes based flow of traffic with honking as communication and packed streets.

We were back and forth from the Lima airport multiple times throughout our time in Peru, as travel is very flight based in the country (the LATAM hour flight we took to Cusco would have taken 26 hours to drive). As we were getting coffee and waiting for our flight home on the last day, we saw the same family that we rode the train deep into the Andes mountains with a week ago.

A worldly couple with an eight year old kid, they seemed to show up just in time for my panicking, magical thinking mind to have some “sign” to grab onto. They turned out to also be on our flight back to the US, so whether we were all going to die together, or whether it was good luck that we were seeing them again, that was none of my business. Through this trip I had flown the most I had ever flown in a short period of time, and it became easier to push down my panicked brain’s OCD meaning making. This trip made a substantial impact on my compulsions around flying, even if I didn’t feel like it when I was panicking in the moment.

Flying back to the US

On the flight back from Peru I sat next to a man I’ll call Jhon. A native Peruvian who split his time there and the US, he was excited to hear about our experiences.

“People think we all live in huts in Peru. People need to visit Peru to see what our reality is really like.”

He also talked to us about immigration difficulties with his wife being able to come to the US. This has been and will probably continue to be a theme on my travels over the next year or two. People around the world are either unable or scared to come to the US because of the current administration. For those who can come, they are upset by the very real fear of gun violence and lack of accessible health care that we as US citizens, who know no other reality, have normalized.

ERP got me here

I know I’ve talked about it a lot on Substack, and unfortunately I’m going to have to be talking about it for the rest of my life with OCD. But ERP (Exposure and Response Prevention) really is the best thing I’ve ever done for my OCD, and after initial intensive therapy it’s now a lifestyle I have to enforce for myself. At times it really sucks and feels like I’m continually being asked to dive off new deep ends, explicitly without any reassurance that I’ll be okay when I land in the water. Other times I find myself having more power over my compulsions than I knew I did, and turning it into a kind of game of saying ‘fuck you’ to the rules in my head— sometimes even getting a exhilarating rush that overrides the panic feeling. Other times still, all I need is to take an intentional 10 minute space between the triggering thought and the demanding compulsion, and I miraculously quickly forget about something that felt earth shattering and compulsion demanding moments before.

I’ve also come to really appreciate the difference between exposure therapy that lots of people without OCD do, and ERP. ERP is specifically for people with OCD, thus it adds the “response prevention” component to exposure therapy. The response prevention is the real bread and butter for getting better when you have OCD, and I had truly never thought about it that way. For so long I focused on OCD recovery as “getting over my fears” when it is in reality much more like withholding from an addictive substance. In the case of people with OCD the addictive substance is the illusion of certainty via compulsions.

Addiction

If an alcoholic feels they will do anything for the substance, the OCD mind similarly feels it will do almost anything for certainty and a release from the panic inducing fight or flight it regularly experiences. Similar to alcohol, the more an OCD brain engages in compulsions, the more compulsions they feel they need as it is being used as a crutch in the mind. I should honor that as being fucking hard, and also important to work through as a lifelong journey.

The unfortunate part of a lifetime of OCD recovery is that if I’m not working on intentionally getting better by facing my triggers and fears, I’m getting worse. Engaging with compulsions as a person with OCD gives momentary relief and long term pain. The only way to feel safe for an OCD brain long term is to accept the risk that is life and learn to live with it, without doing anything extra about it.

Anxiety without the urge to fix it

I asked an OCD therapist recently is she had OCD, and she said she just had really bad anxiety, without the compulsions. WTF is that like? Anxiety without the demanding urge to fix the problem? Just sitting in anxiety without trying to get rid of the feeling? My OCD brain literally can’t understand what it would be like to naturally do that, and that’s why I have a diagnosis. I’ve come to acknowledge the “compulsion” part of my OCD more, and doing so has given me a window into more self compassion for my OCD spirals.

Overview of series

Travel is usually hard on some level, or at least good travel is. Peru was the perfect level of challenge, both manageable and exciting. It helped drive home that OCD recovery for me is about getting over my triggers instead of avoiding them, but also taking time for breaks to self sooth.

Our last night in Lima in Peru, there was a celebration for Chinese New Year in Barranco’s public square. It was a serendipitous bookend or the trip, hinting at where I’m headed next. Can you guess?

Peru helped me learn that South America was accessible, and I hope to visit other places on the continent again sooner rather than later. Thanks for following along on my Peru series, and if you missed any of my stories you can find links to all of them below! See you next week in Asia!

You Might Also Like…

I wasn’t planning to read Lena Dunham’s new book, Famesick, but then I started seeing reviews of the book online and was reminded that watching Girls in college was the first time I felt seen in many ways. Dunham the writer and the actor helped me realize that unpacking myself, and reading about others doing the same thing, was the most interesting thing to me. She helped me clarify that if I say the vulnerable thing about myself first, you can’t hurt me with it as bad. She also helped me come to terms with the fact that, for better or for worse, I was living a life to write about it, not just to experience it.

Lena wasn’t the beginning of my love of “unlikeable” women, but she was the first one to do it in a way that so similarly mirrored the writers’ life I envisioned for myself from a young age. Something I’ve recently been self conscious about is the self centeredness that seems to embody the creative nonfiction and memoir form—the writing that comes most naturally to me. For awhile I tried to write hard hitting journalistic or political think pieces, but I kept coming back to writing what flowed out of me naturally, which was my thoughts on my day to day life.

In some ways writing about myself again feels like I’ve given up my morals, as I know there is so much else happening in the world that needs light shed on it. Then I read a book like Famesick and am reminded that being inside an author’s head is exactly what I love to read, and it makes sense my writing would embody that too. As Cartoons Hate Her recently wrote:

“…personal essays and memoirs are subject to what I will hereby refer to as the “Lena Dunham test.” If you receive a mix of tangible success (even in a non-monetary form, such as views or approving comments) alongside a wave of people calling you any of the following: insufferable, annoying, narcissistic, mentally ill, or self-obsessed, then congratulations, you’ve written a great personal essay,” Cartoons Hate Her

So lets dive into it.

OCD

Lena’s representation of OCD on “Girls” was the first time I felt seen for something I had been trying to hide my whole life. While Dunham has gotten a lot of press in the past decade about being a bad person, she ironically has “moral” OCD. For much of her career she acted on compulsions to meet others needs, which I resonate with. She writes:

“As someone whose obsessive-compulsive disorder had me asking, from an early age, whether I was a good person— and, if not, then what would happen to me— I found that these accusations and random attacks from people who had previously seemed to care about me had a profoundly corrosive effect.”

She writes about how one favor begets another, and then the asks multiply to a level where you have to start disappointing people, because you cannot keep up with the pace you have set for yourself. And due to your fear of failing in moral standing, you actually create a self fulfilling prophesy as you fail to take care of yourself, and quickly the others around you. She continues:

“OCD is nothing if not a disease that envelops the family whole, as the sufferer ropes everyone they love into their obsessions and compulsions, checks and checks again, demands assurance no one can give.”

Dunham began experiencing OCD at 7 years old, and writes about how getting paid for the pilot of Girls was the first time she had hope that she wouldn’t forever be dependent on others due to her mental illness.

Hyper Vulnerability

It makes sense for an OCD brain to decide, okay, we’re not hiding it anymore, we’re going all in and showing it all. Whether a compulsion, a symptom of all-or-nothing thinking, or part of the healing process— the need to be honest is something that I am proud an OCD brain has eventually helped me do in a society that is scared to talk about mental health.

Dunham had parents who believed in her, regardless and sometimes in spite of her limitations, as I also do. She writes that “imperfect as they were, they would defend my right to imperfection to the death,” which is quite a gift to have, but could also be used as a crutch. When your parents encourage you to do anything you want, and you have an OCD brain that takes many things to the highest stakes, it also makes sense the pressure placed on oneself, solely by oneself. Dunham writes:

“My obsession with mortality had always defined me— I spent a lot of time wondering why we try when we’re all just going the way of dinosaurs.”

I had similar thoughts as a kid, and rebelling and agitating became a way of “living a life” because staying in line didn’t make sense if we were all just practicing for death. Dunham was the first person I heard say that she lived life to write about it, not the other way around. And I resonated so hard, needing lots of alone time, writing and reflection time to feel like I was fully “living” life.

Mind Body Connection

Famesick details what the production process of Girls had on Dunham’s mind and body in her twenties, and the fall out impacting her mind and body after the show was over. She details surgeries for severe endometriosis, injuries from Ehlers Dandlers Syndrome and rehab for addiction. She connects her physical chronic illnesses to the mind body connection of the nervous system; stress, fame, drugs and mental illness play a part in her declining physical health.

The book details the chain of relationships and events that happened to her during and after Girls, as her body seemed to turn on her in tandem with the public. While she takes responsibility for her actions, the book also reads like a recounting of a life she is watching from the outside that is happening to her.

Cancelled

When Dunham got collectively cancelled a decade or more ago, I backed away and was embarrassed of my love and connection to her and the show. Then I watched Girls again a few years ago and the show still held up for me. That’s not to say that Dunham herself hasn’t made mistakes. But are they big enough mistakes to have all your past, present and future work be boycotted, or are they human mistakes that we all make in different ways, and grow from?

While Dunham became a symbol of 2010s feminism, it seems she cornered herself into a political identity when she was always more interested in art and exploring boundaries. This doesn’t excuse her lack of political throughline in regards to feminist issues she came out publicly on the wrong side of, but it does explain it more.

Although I wish it wasn’t so, I can resonate with wanting to be more of a political figure, but actually being more of an artist at heart. And we need both for the revolution, but maybe we can’t judge them by the same standards. One is saying, this is how you should live, this is what we need to do! The other is saying, what if this? To the boundary breaking artist saying what if, should we judge their moral character in the same way we judge political leaders who stake their life’s work on morality?

In interviews about Famesick Dunham notes how there is lot of space for white male public figures to screw up in work or outside of work, and much less for people of color, women or queer folks.

Revolution

After attempting to throw myself into leftist activism and organizing for the past 10 years, I’m burnt out and also realizing that I’ve always been better at writing and reflection than trying to shove ideas down throats through debates, protests and petitions. It’s not that I don’t care about politics anymore, but I’m looking for sustainability and a place for my strengths to flow easier, which more often lands in reflection and culture change instead of legislative mobilization strategies. While we need organizing, we also need hope, reflection, healing and art to fuel the revolution.

I could understand if Dunham got carried away with others inviting her into the heady self righteousness of movement work, without it really being her true focus and calling- and without her truly understanding the politics she was committing to. That being said, I noted in Dunham’s book and in my own life- it’s easier to be self aware on the page than in real life decisions and interactions. Repeating the same old problematic patterns with people in your life, and wanting the limelight of revolution but not necessarily the messy work of getting there is something to sit on.

Accountability

TW: sexual assault

Referring to it as the “Big Bad” in the book, Dunham takes responsibility for publicly siding with a man accused of the sexual assault of a 17 year old in 2017. In Famesick she writes that the damnable public statement with her writing partner, Jenni, went out while she was in a drug haze the day after surgery. Throughout the book, Dunham reflects on her relationship with Jenni, and hints that she feels it wasn’t always healthy or consensual.

“This isn’t to say that Jenni or any of the colleagues who were around for Girls meant me harm, only to say that I had no idea how not to harm myself,” Dunham writes.

Coming back to life

Realizing that people can be hurt by your actions regardless of your intentions, and also that you are allowed to have human problems like mental illness can be hard to hold at the same time, especially for an OCD brain that uses all or nothing thinking. Having a mental illness like OCD can make you so empathetic to others who also experience pain in the world, but it can also make you more selfish at times because you are operating in a fight or flight reality that doesn’t leave room for the impacts on other people.

Taking a beat is always helpful for me. Identifying guilt and working with it while trying to give self care to the shame that flares up. Toward the end of the book Dunham writes about how her now husband coaxed her out of the hole:

“He pushed me little by little, knowing implicitly that to come on too strong would be to lose me— maybe, just maybe, I was capable of getting up for a walk on my worst day, just as I was capable of working sixteen hours straight at the computer or barking form a director’s chair for months on end. Somehow my mind had done a flip-flop, where the hardest aspects of my life (work, interpersonal challenges) seemed breezy, and the things most people do by instinct (walk, drink water, sleep) had been rendered impossible.”

Writing about our lives

To pull it back to the beginning of this article— the thing that puts Lena Dunham in her own league with writing and vulnerability— is it connected to her OCD diagnosis? And if so and writing is a compulsion, has it been healing or hurtful in her life?

Only she knows the answers to these questions, so I will speak from my own experience. I think that while vulnerability in writing and life may be connected to my OCD and a compulsion to tell the truth, it’s also a thing I’m really proud of in a world that tries to tell us that we need to hide parts of ourselves to be loved.

That being said, I do think it’s important to reflect on boundaries, and how much power my OCD has on my need to write and be vulnerable about life. I would venture to say that anytime something is a compulsion it’s harmful, and the more you practice ERP (Exposure and Response Prevention) therapy and gain more ability to regulate your compulsions, the more beautiful honesty can shine without having a gun to it’s head by OCD.

It’s the difference between OCD driving the ship, or the kindly ghost of OCD taking a backseat and just adding flavor to my steering of the ship. In ERP (Exposure and Response Prevention) therapy, the goal is not to get rid of the thoughts, but to learn to have control over your compulsions. When I feel the need to write or share something, I have started waiting a bit to make sure that I am saying or writing something out of my desire to do it, not my OCD’s.

Lena Dunham, thanks for sharing some of your brain with us and showing me a path forward 10 years ago. I see you in solidarity in writing as a way to engage with, process and fully live life. I’m glad you’ve realized that you don’t owe us your brain though, and there are some things you can keep, just for you. Hope you’re doing well, and to everyone else whose mind wants to torture them- solidarity in the journey. <3

You Might Also Like…

Checking into our hostel host greeted us: “Welcome to the most delicious country in the world!”

Pre-Panic

We landed at a “Chifa” restaurant; classic Peruvian-Cantonese dishes found all around the country due to the Chinese immigration to Peru in the 19th and 20th centuries. My OCD seemed satisfied with the choice of restaurant, with happy locals eating all around us and a friendly server with a kind and intentional smile. I decided to be adventurous with my order and got a dish called the “aueropuerto” (airport), which turned out to be something similar to the American “kitchen sink” dish- all the favorite ingredients in one place: fried rice, noodles, sprouts, veggies, eggs.

I knew before my dish came out that this probably wasn’t going to be a good time for me and my OCD. As the waiter came out and cracked open a fancy glass water bottle, my OCD started shouting at me and ringing the all-hands-on-deck fire alarm.

You didn’t hear the crack of the bottle opening because of the noise in here! That could be a reusable glass bottle, and it could have tap water in it that could make you so, so sick!

Panic

I then begin googling the type of bottled water it is, and have now convinced myself that even if it was bottled correctly, this fancy “mineral water” is different from the other cheap water bottles I’ve been drinking thus far in Peru. And could potentially be dangerous.

What if it’s not filtered, what if it’s so fancy that it’s organic water that is going to make you sick!

Meanwhile, my food comes out and things continue to deteriorate from there. It’s a beautiful dish- scrambled egg laid over the mountain of rice and noodles. I try to eat some, but the egg is wet (in a fancy way, but a way that my OCD hates) and I eat around it. I then realize that I’ve been eating sprouts with the rice and noodles, which are definitely not cooked and are already a huge source of bacteria to begin with in the US, and now I’m on a new continent without safe tap water to wash the vegetables. My OCD decides that I am in danger of being sick from the sprouts, and my body feels like a ticking time bomb vibrating in place.

The waiter comes over with his beautiful and genuine smile, asking us how everything is. My social anxiety and shame kicks into overdrive and I feel so bad for not digging into my food, or the fancy bottled water he’s brought out. I smile and say it’s great, but he looks at my food and sees I haven’t really touched it.

“Is something wrong?” he asks.

Shame and Panic

I assure him everything is amazing, and when he leaves I realize I need to leave. I let my partner Carp know I think I need to run out of the restaurant, right now. My food is piled high in a tiny bowl, so I can’t even move it around the plate to make it look like I’m eating. Instead I’m just staring panicked at the table as my heart goes a million miles a minute. Looking at the sprouts that I’m sure will be the end of me, looking at the waiter who I desperately don’t want to disappoint and seeing myself from the outside, who I am so ashamed of in that moment. Self compassion, who?

Since I started ERP Therapy for OCD, Carp has been great about helping me stay accountable, and in that moment in the Chifa restaurant he says I should try to wait at least five minutes before leaving, for exposure therapy. I agree, but my panicked body and shifty eyes flick up and down, anxiously looking at my partner as I barely wait from him to slowly enjoy his dish, and looking out the door to freedom from this situation, and the overwhelming thoughts, outside.

Sitting through it

My panic is almost at a 10 and I’m bursting out of my skin about having eaten some of the food, about making the workers feel bad for not eating, about feeling like I’ve ruined Carp’s dinner, and feeling ashamed of my OCD and my own inability to fight it this time, and all the times before that this has happened. My compulsion is to run, and staying seated is progress for ERP even if I feel like a complete failure right now.

In a desperate and compulsive move, I ask Carp to eat a bean sprout so he can be in the same situation as me (aka potentially sick) and he refused with “nonhostile noncompliance” which is our agreed on answer for when my OCD is asking him for reassurance. Instead, he asked me to name three things that I did that were brave that day instead. I love him. I named the fact that I flew today, I ate an empanada and espresso for breakfast and I didn’t ask for a new room change at the hostel when OCD came knocking at my door.

After five minutes Carp finishes his dinner, and we go back to the hostel. I’m exhausted and ashamed and still hungry. Back in the hostel room I find multiple new “dangerous” things to worry about, and have a meltdown of shame and fear. I don’t want to be this person, but this is the person that I am sometimes.

The come down

I watch a Youtube video to calm down and regulate my breathing with belly breathing, and then head out to buy a Little Caesar’s pizza from next door and eat whole thing thing. I’m not saying anyone else should go to Lima and eat Little Caesars, but for me it was exactly what me and my OCD needed that day- a fully cooked piece of bread with marinara sauce and cheese, complete with different spices to put on top than we have in the US.

I couldn’t go to Peru and not write about the food scene as it is one of the best food cuisines in the world, but also I would be dishonest if I didn’t explain how my contamination OCD makes eating out hard to do sometimes, especially in new continents.

Recentering

That being said, the times that my OCD didn’t win and I enjoyed the food in Peru, it was amazing and lived up to the hype. So let’s take a food tour through Lima, post panic attack, in the Barranco and Miraflores neighborhoods.

Potatoes

The Incas and Quechua cultivated 3,000-4,000 potatoes in the Andes mountains, most of which are still used today in the culture. Our tour guide in Lima told us that some are even poisonous, but Peruvians still try to find uses for all potato varieties- similar to how poisonous puffer fish is made to work.

Causa is the famous potato dish in Peru, and originated in 1820 when women sold it for “the cause” of Peru’s independence from Spain. Causa is now also is slang for “friend”, representing the value of community and the comfort food dish.

Coffee and Chocolate

We visited Ciclos Café just looking for a morning cup, but soon realized they sourced local Peruvian beans and roasted them in house. I got an espresso flight with beans from the North, Central and South of Peru. Our barista asked me which espresso I liked the most, and embarrassingly my palate couldn’t tell much of a difference and they were all delicious. I told her the Central one was hitting the most, and she told me she actually just drove eight hours up 13,000 feet mountains to get these beans last week. I asked her if they get Americans coming in from cafes in the US and trying to replicate what they do here, and she said,

“Yes. And they can try, but they can’t do it like us.” Period.

Carp’s espresso flights was paired with chocolate, another locally grown Peruvian specialty from the Andean foothills and Amazon basin. And we didn’t have time to try it, but maca is a popular Peruvian root vegetable powder added to drinks for extra energy.

Ceviche

I’m vegetarian, so I wasn’t as adventurous with my food eating as Carp was, but he immediately got the classic ceviche when we landed in Lima. Raw fish marinated in lemon juice which “cooks” it in the acid. The dish was served with sweet potato, plantains, onions and peppers. There was also “choclo” corn, which is seen in many dishes around Peru, and is a large kernel corn grown in the Peru’s Sacred Valley.

Chicha

Chicha is an ancient Andes drink made from corn. There is a delicious purple corn drink that is non alcoholic (chica morada), and then there is alcoholic yellow corn drinks (chica de jora). While chica de jora traditionally involved chewing the corn and letting saliva enzymes ferment the drink over time, modern brewing methods are now mostly used.

My drink of choice in Peru was the Cusqueña Dorada, a golden lager made in Cusco when I did have drinks. Carp’s drink was the traditional Peruvian Pisco Sour, which involved raw egg whites, lime, simple syrup and pisco. Bars had stacks of eggs on the counter for this exact drink.

Aji Amarillo

A chili pepper used in many dishes in Peru, on our trip Aji Amarillo was most notably used to season the potatoes for Causa, and also to make the classic Curry Chicken dish. Aji Amarillo is grown in the area and is a staple for Peruvian and Bolivian cuisines. I tried some of Carp’s dishes and it was absolutely delicious, I wish I could have found this in a vegetarian dish.

Quinoa, corn and plantains

Thinly sliced fried plantains with dipping sauce was a popular appetizer at restaurants, similar to chips and salsa. On the LATAM airline flights in Peru, we were served Quinoa bars, with toasted quinoa and chocolate.

Toasted corn (cancha) was usually brought out with beers at bars, as well. There are over 50 different corn varieties in Peru. Due to the large variety of indigenous heirloom produce, Peru has a ban on importing or growing GMO products, which threaten these indigenous varieties and lead to monocultures.

Chifa

As I began this post, Chifa is very popular in Peru and is thanks to the large influx of southern Chinese worker immigrants to Peru after the abolition of slavery in Peru in 1854. The Chinese men who came to Peru worked on sugar plantations, guano mines and railroad construction, and married Peruvian women and started lives there, bringing their food traditions with them.

Isolina’s

Recommended by Peruvians as soon as we landed in the country, we had to check out Isolina. Seen as a “living archive” of Peruvian home recipes, from the home recipes of South American born descendants of Spanish settlers for a cultural fusion of flavors.

While food is a huge draw to visiting Lima, there is so much else to explore in the city of 10 million people. In the middle of the city is an ancient adobe and clay Pre-Incan pyramid ruin (Huaca Pucllana), the epic beach stretching along the desert city, beautiful parks along the malecón (stone seawall), and surfers, joggers, swimmers and dog walkers all out and about and enjoying community.

Transfer of Government

Lima is the seat of the Peruvian government, and while we were there the current interim president was removed due to “Chifa gate”, where he was caught allegedly negotiating business deals in a Chifa restaurant a few months before. The scandal fueled tensions on how Peru will handle relationships with China, while the US is against Chinese influence in Peru.

While taking a tour of downtown with our hostel mates, our tour guide let us know there have been 9 presidents over the past 10 years and many have been deposed and many sent to jail. While we were there we saw a rally in the plaza for another candidate.

World Weary Traveler

Our last day in Lima, I was ready to go home. A few days before we had been in an airport line behind a family with a 3 year old Peruvian girl, and she had her own little tiny suitcase she was pulling behind her. She looked like she had traveled the whole world, and was unfazed by anything.

“Ey, mochilla!” her dad nodded at her when we were ready to move again, as she had accidentally left her little suitcase behind.

As we prepared to fly back to the US from Lima, I drew inspiration from this little 3 year old traveler and her nonchalance to help balance out my panicky brain. Something that I learned that really turned the corner for me in OCD recovery a few years ago is ACT (Acceptance and Commitment Therapy), which helps you learn to rewire panic as excitement and lead a values driven life with psychological flexibility. I think ACT really primed me for ERP Therapy, and ERP Therapy is priming me for whatever is coming next.

You Might Also Like…

The fear of altitude sickness was the reason I almost didn’t follow through on my plans to visit Machu Picchu. Sitting at 11,152 feet in elevation, “soroche" (altitude sickness) is common in Cusco, and is especially bad when you are flying into the city from sea level. However, flying from Lima at sea level to the mountains of Cusco is basically the only way to see this wonder of the world, so we were en route.

Values over Fear

It’s embarrassing to admit, but my OCD has historically held no tolerance for throwing up (myself or others around me). The base level risk of stomach issues many first time travelers in Peru experience, paired with the new fear of getting altitude sickness while stuck at 11,152 feet (with the only option to get to lower altitudes risking car sickness through the Andes mountains) had me all kinds of panicked.

These fears were also in direct contradiction of my values of being a person in the world who wants to experience more of it. And also my values as a person who is able to push myself to do scary things.

Continuing the grind, opening up my world

Flying is another one of my big OCD triggers, so it’s taken a lot of work to get me up in the air again. I’ve been practicing Exposure and Response Prevention (ERP), which works because it is paired with what you value. ERP pushes you to reclaim what OCD has taken from you, which for me has been travel, among other things.

My trip to Peru was a continuation of this quest of how to travel with intention, and Cusco represented the height of my OCD fears. Cusco was also the city that I finally allowed myself to engage in self compassion and self care, but I would also feel a nagging guilt about it when I returned home, as I’ll get into later.

Arriving in Cusco

When we landed in Cusco we immediately took a taxi deeper into the Andes to decrease elevation and help with acclimatization. This helped my OCD, while also still facing my OCD. After three days in Aguas Calientes and visiting Macchu Picchu, we headed back to Cusco to stay for a few days and experience the city.

On the way into Cusco city limits we passed Sacsayhuamán, a sacred Incan fortress ruin. Entering the city we passed outdoor markets cooking cuy (guinea pig) over spit fires, fresh chuta bread, fruits and vegetables. It was then a steep downward slope on winding stone cobbled streets into Cusco city center in the mountain valley.

We passed multiple public squares with Peruvians of all walks of life enjoying the beautiful weather, and drove down narrow alleys that had Incan built stone walls that seemed to be made yesterday. Happy dogs coexisted in the crowds, usually soaking up the sunshine and taking a nap, but others were on walks with their human counterparts with no leashes, and no problems.

Breaking the Seal on the Global South

Cusco was immediately more metropolitan than the small indigenous towns we had been in the days before, and I would also feel the impacts of colonialism more clearly. The first day we visited the Qorikancha (Temple of the Incan Sun God), which the Spanish later desecrated, melted and then sold the Incan God inside. The Spanish then built a Catholic convent on top of the Temple, which I wrote about in my last post here. While I had learned about the sins of Catholic conquistadors in history books, I had never been exposed to Catholic colonialism so clearly.

Maybe it was just wishful thinking, but even with the colonial history lurking around every corner, the sheer distance from the United States still made Peru feel freer from current imperialism in a refreshing way. But then again, the US had in recent months shockingly kidnapped Venezuela’s president, which lurked behind every interaction for me when people asked where we were from.

My partner, Carp, had spent time in Honduras when he was younger, but this was my first time in the Global South. I wanted to be gentle on myself with gradual OCD exposures so that I made progress, and also didn’t want to overextend myself and scare myself into never coming back.

San Pedro Market

There were limited street lights in the city, and sometimes it felt like a “choose your own adventure” as pedestrians and cars navigated tight spaces and intersections together. Heading to the market later that day, we passed vendors selling everything from quinoa drinks to quail eggs. Inside was an overwhelming amount of booths selling everything: homemade chicken soup, ceviche, empanadas, beef hearts (anticuchos), juice stands, vegetables, fruit, bread, cheese, and on and on.

The meat to be sold was sitting on counters and not refrigerated, which was a culture shock- and would have also probably upset my OCD if I wasn’t already a vegetarian. Travel is uncomfortable sometimes and that’s what you’re there for! There were also hanging dried lama fetuses at some stands, which are used for important Pachamama offerings.

My OCD brain

As I wrote in a separate piece, Peru was my experience breaking the seal on visiting a country without drinkable tap water. My world is bigger now, which is thanks directly to going against what my OCD told me to do. When there are spiraling “what ifs” in my brain, I am supposed to say “maybe” to it, instead of continuing to argue with OCD. It’s not as easy as a it sounds, and I’m still building on the practice.

That being said, the adventure we were on did come with real risks of altitude stickiness, and stomach issues for gringos. There was lots of warnings and advice from people without OCD, so it was hard for my brain to find the line between OCD and not many times.

“Don’t eat a lot your first night in Cusco, you’ll regret it,” a local in Lima told me before we flew there.

“Don’t ever drink water that is not bottled, even if a restaurant says it is filtered,” an American told me.

To some extent, it felt like all Americans visiting South America had OCD around the water reality. Except of course for my partner, Carp, who was carefree and drinking water that had handwritten labels of “filtered” on it (and was also shitting himself daily, due to many reasons probably). I didn’t want to be an annoying American that didn’t trust the food that was put in front of me, but I also didn’t want to get sick if I could help it.

As I encountered OCD road blocks, I reminded myself that the goal is getting over my looping fears, instead of trying to figure out all potential avenues to avoid my feared outcomes. But it was also time for a break, to take time alone in a clean hostel room so I could be the best version of myself to continue to learn.

The Hostel that Saved my Brain

Viajero Cusco hostel gave my brain, and my OCD, the break it needed. Welcoming, clean, stocked with a restaurant, bar and supply shop all in a compound in downtown Cusco, this hostel had everything I needed to reset my nervous system.

There were people from all over South America at hostel, and I made friends with the bartender named Claudia from La Paz, Boliva, the world’s highest capital city. We learned “Viajero” had hostels all over South America, which we would definitely stay at again. We went to bed and woke up every morning to noises of laughter and joy, and that’s why I always choose to stay in hostels when traveling if I can.

Enjoying Food Again

Do I feel embarrassed and like I cheated my way through Peru because I ate quite a few pizzas? Definitely. Did it help to compromise a little with my OCD when navigating a new situation that I didn’t think I could do? I think so. Gradual recovery is what I have learned actually works, not just pushing yourself, pedal to the metal, all the time.

It was healing overall for me, and slowly raised my bar for what sends me into a panic. For example, there was construction happening next to us at lunch one day, which my OCD would usually need me to evacuate the premise immediately for, however I was just happy to have food to eat that felt safe, and stayed.

Visiting Cusco we were nearing the end of our trip in Peru, and I felt like I finally understood “the rules” as far as food and water went, and could distinguish the rest of the chatter in my brain as OCD. And as I said, even tourists without OCD were having the same culture shocks of getting used to not being able to drink the tap water.

Gringa Touristica

When I studied abroad in college and told people I was majoring in “International Studies”, I remember being shocked when my peers from around the world laughed and said “Of course you are, you’re American. Americans want to see, and control, everything in the world.”

For the past 15 years since then, I’ve tried to live a life without embodying “that” American, at home or abroad. For a bit I thought it wasn’t worth visiting a place unless you were committing to live there for awhile, then I was fixated on the colonial nature of the modern tourism industry. I then got more involved with the international community here at home, and this, timed with the pandemic, gave me another excuse not to think about actually going abroad myself.

A couple years ago I had the chance to travel back to Europe and meet friends from my study abroad days, which lit me up in a way I had forgotten only international travel can.

Trying to Travel Ethically

While there is no way to escape being a “tourist” in some ways when you are traveling abroad, the main thing I do is try to be mindful of my place as a newcomer in the country. Striving to balance the humility to ask for help and information when I need it, but also the awareness that people are not here to service my needs and it’s my responsibility to figure out my own path.

While I had been attempting small Spanish phrases my journey so far on my journey, Cusco is where my “Spanglish” really started to pick up confidence. Locals in every corner of the world really appreciate the effort, not at all needing perfection, when foreigners try to speak their language.

That being said: Did we get tattoos in the hostel? Yes. Did we get free shots poured in our mouth at the hostel instead of going out into the city as much as we should have? Also, yes. Did I learn so much about the city and enjoy the local culture at a pace that felt right for me at the time? Yes. Do I wish I had done more and been more adventurous outside of the hostel in Cusco? Yes, hindsight is always there. And it’s there as a reminder for the next time I’m traveling. But also, every single day of travel doesn’t have to be one hundred percent.

What I know, and what I don’t know

Being a tourist, and especially being a white tourist from the US, always makes me very conscious of colonialism and power imbalances around the globe. My place in it, and also what I represent as a white English speaking woman. I’m on a continual journey of how to better travel in the service of learning about the world, not playing into the colonial stereotype and problem.

Throughout our time in Cusco I was reminded of all I didn’t know about the world. For example, seeing shirts with “Tupac” on young people and on wraps on buses I initially thought it was a reference to the U.S. rapper. However, Carp visited a radical bookstore in Cusco, and was recommended a biography of Túpac Amaru. We learned he was the final leader of the Incan empire and led a massive rebellion against the Spanish colonizers.

Regrets

So did I do self care right in Cusco, or did I do too much self care and not enough living? The questions themselves haunting my mind do not have an answer, because they follow the familiar loop of OCD in my brain. So, maybe I wasted my time in Cusco, but also maybe I did it just right. Maybe I’ll do it different next time I travel, and maybe I won’t. The main thing is we’re not having an argument with OCD about it today, or in the future.

I also appreciate this writing community for accountability. As I write this piece about Cusco, I'm about to leave for another international trip that my OCD says I can't talk about. So for exposure therapy: I will state that I am going to Taiwan, and I will sit with that weird and bad feeling of breaking OCD’s rules.

I’m learning from people on ground this year instead of the news, and I’m learning from uncertainty instead of trying to find all the “right” answers. Travel has been helping me lend perspective to current world crises, and also allowing new problem solving in my brain as I remember that my country is the not the first to have a nasty presence in the world. I’m working on how to balance out my social anxiety, OCD, and need for reflection time with my responsibility, and desire to witness the world.

Thanks for being here, and join me next week as I wrap up my trip in Lima, Peru!

You Might Also Like…

Sometimes, and especially in my leftist circles, I begin to think that my secular religion is guilt. Is it unrelated that I also grew up Catholic with a healthy dose of teachings on how to feel guilty?

When we are talking about “Catholic guilt” in mainstream society, we are usually talking about feeling bad for things we don’t really need to feel bad for. However, what I experienced in Peru was true Catholic guilt for things the Catholics really should feel bad for: colonialism, torture, mass murder, genocide. This guilt was made heavier with more recent and current U.S. imperialism (in South America and around the world) into a big guilty sandwich. But first I needed to travel to Cusco, Peru for it to really hit.

A wild ride

We were just expecting transportation, but the train from Machu Picchu to Cusco included an Inca heritage performance, complimentary coffee and cookies and a concert onboard the open air train car. Far away from anything I would hope for on a train riding across my home country in the US.

Later, as the train passed soot covered men working on the tracks, I was reminded of what a privileged view of the country, and the world, we were experiencing right now. I was reminded that we as tourists will never begin to understand the life of everyday people in a country unless we are seeking it out.

We transferred to a bus in the Sacred Valley and drove a couple more hours through the mountains and farm land. We passed a family sorting fruit in their barn, abuelitas walking hunched over with packs on their back, a man peeing in the wide open sunshine, young women in formal Quechua dress, young men on their phones taking a break in the fields and a glacier in the distance.

The landscape of the Sacred Valley reminded me of California a bit- dusty mountain farms with scattered animals: pigs, donkeys, sheep, dogs, cows, llamas. One specific llama we passed was tied up on a short rope, obviously agitated by the rope and yanking its body against it repeatedly. This was in comparison to all the other llamas who had more area to roam, and the dogs in cities who weren’t on leashes. It made my heart squeeze and I had to look away.

Visiting the birthplace of the Sun

Climbing up to 11,152 feet we arrived in Cusco, the heart and spiritual center of the Incan empire in the 15th century, designed in the shape of a puma. Our bus happened to drop us off in front of the most important temple in Incan culture, the Qorikancha. Translated to “Golden Enclosure”, this temple was regarded by the Incas as the birthplace of the Inti, the Sun God. It housed a gigantic gold disk which was deified as Inti and the walls of the temple were once covered in sheets of gold, a physical manifestation of the Sun God on Earth.

When the Spanish colonized Peru, they stole the Inca’s gold god from the temple, melted it and sold it in the name of the Catholic church. The Spanish proceeded to brutally colonize the people in the Inca empire, and spread smallpox which killed most of the indigenous population over the next 100 years.

The Spanish also kidnapped and tortured defied Incan kings (human descendants of the Sun God), killing these defied leaders in captivity only when they finally converted to Catholicism. The Spanish then built a nun’s convent over the Incan Temple, which is still maintained by Catholic nuns today.

Hiding in plain site

The mortar free masonry that was used to build Machu Picchu was also used to build the Temple of the Sun, which was able to withstand earthquakes. Thus, it felt like some kind of small cosmic justice that while the Spanish had to keep rebuilding their convent walls due to earthquakes, the original Incan walls remained firm.

While Peru is now a predominately Catholic country, the indigenous beliefs of the Incas was blended into the Catholicism that was forced upon them, thus retaining important aspects of their culture under colonialism. Called religious syncretism, we see this happening all over the world where colonial Christian forces violently pushed their religion on others.

As a person with Irish Catholic ancestry, I’ve recently been thinking about how a Catholicism bred out of threat and resistance to colonialism is different than a Catholicism entitled with the colonial power over others. However, while I have ancestry in Ireland, I am not the Irish resisting the English. I am a U.S. citizen whose country recently kidnapped Venezuela’s leader, is funding a genocide in Palestine, and is now waging an unprovoked war on Iran, and is in general a destabilizing, racist and colonial force in the world.

My religion

As I said, sometimes I begin to think that my personal religion might be guilt. In the context of social movements, I believe that guilt is useful, and guilt is a compass to action for a better world. It’s tricky though because guilt can also immobilize you (as has unfortunately recently happened to myself and most people I know living in the US right now in this time of rising fascism).

Seeing the llama distressed at being tied up earlier that day in the Sacred Valley, and having to look away, reminded me that freedom is also my religion. Travel provides a sense of freedom from being tied up that I have yet to feel or compare anywhere else in life. But also, if we’re not careful travel also provides us with the freedom to “look away” and not focus on the things that we are responsible for.

Responsibility

As a US citizen, what has my responsibility always been as I live in a country that exports and profits off war, death and waste? And what is my responsibility now, as the quiet colonialism has become loud, and heartbreaking to look at.

Being in Peru was my first real experience being in a country where Catholics were not the oppressed minority, but the violent authority that shaped a country. It is the same same violent history that the Protestants enacted in my home country the US against the indigenous population.

As someone who struggles with an OCD diagnosis, and specifically “responsibility” themed OCD at times, where is the line between obsession, and needed justice?

And what “mental illness” we all must possess in a colonizer nation to be able to commit such atrocities continuously, and look away.

Are humans all the same, or are some of us worse than others

“I just keep realizing what a truly psychotic culture the US is. And I don’t use that word lightly,” my partner kept saying as we made our way through Peru.

I was so tired, and going through my own struggles with contamination OCD that day. And it was a shock to see the convent built on top of the scared Inca temple, especially after being deeper in indigenous culture in Aguas Calientes the days prior. We stumbled upon a courtyard with a llama and baby alpacas after visiting the Temple of the Sun, and I sat down next to them and cried a little bit.

There is something so nice about being with animals that don’t share the same social norms that humans do, and we can just exist in a space together without all the other human bullshit.

Moving past guilt into action

How do we as people with privilege move past guilt to action? Last year I did a six month program focused on anti-racism, specifically for people with white privilege. I have to say that I don’t know that it made me hopeful, but maybe that wasn’t the fault of the program, but just the season of life.

I just wanted a social justice baddie to explain exactly what we all need to do, and be free of nasty human drama and betrayal. But what I actually needed to learn to do was kill my heroes and learn to trust myself as I move and learn in the world. This learning curve was another leftover from my Catholic upbringing, and also my OCD wanting to just be told the “right” way to move in the world.

Part of taking responsibility for privilege is not telling other people how to do things, but also recognizing that no one is going to walk you through how best to utilize your life in the work of justice, either. That’s on each of us, and particularly those of us who come from countries that are pillaging the world. Once we move past the stickiness of guilt, we can find motion forward. But what that looks like, I’m still working on right now.

In my second piece about Cusco next week I will dive more into my attempts to travel and live with intention, as well as being okay at “failing” at it sometimes. We’re all sitting with the messiness of the world right now, while also trying to keep alive a hope of future. Action is needed, but also a lot of the time quiet reflection is, too.

I was not expecting the ride up Machu Picchu to feel so harrowing, until I saw the buses reversing with their back ends hanging over the rushing river Urubamba.

Though I trusted these skilled mountain drivers much more than drivers on any other road I’d been on, my OCD did not like seeing that at all. But when at the base of a world wonder, I can’t quit now, right?

If you’ve ever thought about visiting the famous Machu Picchu in Peru, I’m going to walk you through what it’s really like and why it’s worth the effort to get there. I’ll also circle back to the adrenaline fueled bus ride up the mountain, and my own internal “summit” through OCD ERP (Exposure and Response Prevention) practice.

How you get there

To get to Machu Picchu you need to fly to Lima, fly to Cusco, take a bus or taxi to Ollantaytambo, take the train to Aguas Calientes, and then take a bus up to the top of the mountain. You need to book your tickets in advance through the Peru Ministerio de Cultura. I’ve heard booking tickets for the adventure is as mysterious as the site itself, and that proved true for our booking journey. It helps to book the tickets in Spanish on the website and the best experience to be able to actually walk in the ruins is Route 2 (A or B).

Once you arrive at Machu Picchu there is a little cafe with outdoor seating, bathrooms and then three entrances to the archaeological site. You go to the entrance you booked with your ticket (we had 2B), they check your passport and ticket, then you have three hours to wander by yourself or pay a guide to lead you.

What it’s like

Our hike started out slightly rainy, and everyone was bundled up in plastic ponchos. After walking up multiple stone staircases, we soon saw the ruins from afar.

Built as an Incan stronghold against the Spanish around 1450, it was likely abandoned during Spanish conquest 100 years later. No one knows for sure what happened to the Incas once the Spaniards began colonizing the area and introducing small pox. However the indigenous Quechua people who were led by the Inca are still thriving in Peru and other parts of South America.

We did not hire a guide, so we walked the hour and half hike at our own pace. It was continuously intoxicating- the ruins, mountains and cloud forest. At times the clouds fully enveloped us, momentarily decreasing visibility to what was right in front of us. I would hear guides talking along the way, and when they were speaking English I tried to catch a few bits of information. My favorite thing I overheard was that Machu Picchu’s outline from afar is built in to resemble the profile of a face.

Collective Genius

Something my partner Carp and I kept coming back to as we walked among the ruins was “how much smarter the people who lived here were than us”, as we could “never conceive of building something like this”. It was interesting that our U.S. born minds went there, such individualistic centric thinking focused on ourselves alone building this.

A realization throughout our Peru trip was catching ourselves in this thinking trap, and attempting to expand our minds to a more collectivistic culture mindset. To let the reality sink in that collective mentality and generational knowledge went into building Machu Picchu, and maintaining Quechua culture.

No steel tools, wheels or mortar were used to construct this palace in the sky. Because the rocks were made to fit together so perfectly, it was even able to withstand being built on fault lines and enduring earthquakes over the centuries. The stones can bounce when the earth trembles, and then fall back into exact position. You are able to touch much of the stone ruins, and truly feel the moment of where you are. This stonework is present across the Incan empire.

Awe and Horror at Human Nature

While Machu Picchu was probably built as a stronghold for nobility or the military against Spanish colonialism, the real reason for the site is a mystery. Ceremonial practices are built into the site, with great astronomical significance as well as other significant features that are undetermined. Human culture is complex, and the Incas also practiced human sacrifice in their culture.

The Incas were a colonial force, expanding from Ecuador down to Chile. However, their agricultural based empire was based on reciprocity between the Inca royalty and the peasants (work in exchange for security in times of crisis due to famine or other natural disaster such as volcanoes). This same reciprocity was seen between them and the gods, and they believed the children and adults they sacrificed went to a better world, and also helped to make this one more secure.

When the Incas colonized people they let the communities keep their own gods and folded them into Incan practices. When the Spanish colonized the Incas they melted and sold their god (which I’ll get into in my next piece about Cusco).

Colonialism sucks

The horrors of colonialism were present during this trip, which is something I want to reflect on more as a U.S. citizen living in a country that continues shadow, and blatant, colonialism of Central and South America.

Although the local Quechua people always knew about Machu Picchu, a U.S. man named Hiram Bingham came across the site in 1911. He then stole artifacts on an “18 month loan” for Yale university, but they were in fact kept for the next 100 years and only returned to Peru in 2011.

In the Andes, the luxury train going to Machu Picchu is named after Bingham. I recommend taking Inca Rail or Peru Rail.

Limits

“No. I’ve had it,” an elderly British woman jokingly, and not jokingly, shouted about an hour into the hike through the ruins. Her guide joked that they just had to climb one more mountaintop, and she mumbled to me, “No. No. I’ll kill him,” and stumbled on with her group.

I was feeling really good at Machu Picchu, and really proud of myself for getting here. It was a long road here, and I hope for many other long roads to experiencing life like this. However, the evening after Machu Picchu, I let my brain relax completely and changed directions to watch meaningless Netflix.

Self Compassion

Having a mental illness can make you feel so alone, and like you are the only one struggling in this way (as the people of the world walk by with seemingly no issues). I have to remind myself that everyone has their own issues, some of them the exact same issues as me.

While my partner does not have OCD, he was severely struggling with travelers’ diarrhea the day we hiked Machu Picchu. There are no bathrooms on the sacred site, and thankfully I had packed Imodium which got him through the two hour hike without sparking international controversy.

While Carp needed Imodium to get through the day, I needed to wear a mask on the bus and periodically clutch the seat in front of me as we sped down the mountain later that day on switchback roads. I give myself so much shit for not being “like other people”- for being scared, for clutching the seat instead of being “fearless”, for being distracted by OCD when I should be enjoying Peru.

I don’t give myself credit for all the other fears I push past to get here, to this exact moment in time everyday. It’s something I’m working on- self compassion and accepting that my OCD will need to make compromises with me throughout my life at times. However, on the whole I am aiming to say “maybe” to it and continue on without compromise when I can to build a brain that is directed less by fear.

My own Machu Picchu

The ephemeral nature of fear means that it can fully consume you for a time, but then seemingly disappear when a bigger, surprise fear comes up close to stare at you in the eyes.

Throughout the trip I had been obsessing about the tap water contamination and potential for altitude sickness, so I hadn’t even thought about what transportation up a mountain to Machu Picchu would look like. Once I saw the bus backing up with it’s tail end hanging over the river on the tiny incline streets of Aguas Calientes, the intrusive thoughts hit my brain. I met them with “maybe”, and was able to let them sit on the back burner.

Once enroute, the fear of falling backwards on a bus into the river and to my death was eclipsed by the all consuming fear of someone throwing up behind me (as a girl started popping Dramamine like her life depended on it). Then after driving 1,000 feet of switchbacks up the mountain, the new fear of going back down the mountain on swichbacks and the potential for the brakes to give out obliterated the fear of vomit.

The thing with OCD is I’m not supposed to fight it. I’m not supposed to try to reason out of my fears, and I’m not supposed to be mad at myself for having the thoughts in the first place. Doing these things only makes OCD stronger by continuing the loops and strengthening the neural pathways in the brain that I’ve been cruising along for 30+ years.

When I do have to compromise with OCD, I need to accept the choice I’ve made. And then I need to proceed to say “maybe” to my thoughts as they tell me that I am too mentally ill, I am getting worse, and I’m a lost cause. This is strangely hard to do, as anyone who has any experience with time-to-time self loathing can imagine. It feels important in the moment to take stock of how I’ve sold out, how I’ve met a limit, how maybe I should have pushed myself more. But ironically, these types of thoughts are actually the ones continuing OCD’s loops, not helping me understand or escape them.

I made a compromise with OCD at Machu Picchu, but I also made it to Machu Picchu. And when OCD feels like it forces me to react in a certain way, I can fight back by intentionally “contaminating” myself later.

Thankfully my time wandering the Machu Picchu ruins wasn’t directed by OCD as I was so distracted by the beauty and wonder. My intrusive thoughts (of our imminent death as the brakes went out on a bus and we all plunged off the mountain cliff) only came back as we started our descent down the mountain.

However, we won’t always get Machu Picchu views to distract us from our current mental mountain climb, so that’s why it’s important to for me to write about my life. So that I can remember the times that I am swept away from my thoughts with the world, and then times when I sweep myself away from my thoughts all on my own.

Most guidebooks will tell you to skip Aguas Calientes when you are planning your travel to Machu Picchu. General rule of thumb is to acclimate to the Andes mountains in Cusco for two days, and then leave early in the morning to take a bus, a train, and another bus up to Macchu Picchu, do the two hour hike and then go all the way back to Cusco by the evening.

We chose to acclimate in Aguas Calientes (Machu Picchu Pueblo) at 6,000 feet instead of Cusco (11,000 feet), and thus got a different experience than many visiting Machu Picchu.

Enclosed by the Andes

There are no airports or roads into Aguas Calientes, the only entrance is by train or by hike, which lends a feeling of claustrophobia. Throughout our time there I was very aware of the ambulance parked on the Urubamba (Amazonian headwater) river running through town. I was very thankful we didn’t need to use it as there was no way for that ambulance to leave the town of 4,525 people.

Throughout my time in Peru, this little town was the biggest culture shock, and also the biggest learning experience. The indigenous local people in the town predominately make their money off of tourism. But for being at the base of one of the seven wonders of the world, the people who lived there were not wealthy. The town is a strange mix of luxury coffee shops and bars for tourists, as well as small bodegas with local people just trying to make ends meet and drinking homemade coca tea.

Andean cosmology built into place

Quechua people are an indigenous people of the South American Andes, speaking a language of the same name which originated in Peru but is spoken in Boliva, Ecuador, Chile, Argentina and Colombia. People who speak Quechua call themselves “Runa”, translated to “the people”, and the Incas were their royalty and government. While the Incas collapsed, the Quechua are still thriving Aguas Calientes proudly displayed their culture.

While most Quechua people have been Catholic since colonialism, they have blended traditional beliefs, such as that of Pachamama, into their rituals. Pachamama means Mother Earth, or Mother Cosmos, and is space and time combined. She represents everything, including us, in a holistic collectivist tradition.

In this tradition, everything is as important and vital as everything else in the universe- you, me, a rock, a tree, a star. Offerings are burnt and libations are poured in the dirt in honor of Pachamama, and reverence for fertility of the land and the people. There are also mountain spirits (apu), spirits within physical objects (huaca), and sky and underworld Pacha as well.

There were many traditional totem poles around the town with a condor at the top (heavens), pumas in the middle (earthly realm), and serpents at the bottom (underworld). These totems symbolize balance and connection to Pachamama. The trash cans around the village were all frogs, as a reminder to care for the earth and water. The lamp posts were coming out of puma mouths, representing the earthly realm as they lit the street.

There were also statues of Incan leaders all over the town, with one prominent statue having the head of a condor and a human body, representing “Condor Kauki” which is a shaman who can access the human and the godly realm both.

I also really loved a sculpture on the river of Pachamama, represented by a pregnant woman. Titled “Humanity’s Hope”, her belly represented the cosmos and hope, and her face is an expression of uncertainty, “obsessed, confused and distant from natural harmony”.

Quechua Culture

At first glance you might think all the rainbow flags and colors in the town are LGBTQ+, but it is actually the Quechua flag and colors. Most Quechua women wear a fedora style black hat, with brightly colored clothes, leg warmers, boots and and multiple layers of petticoats and skirts that goes out at a unique 45 degree angle (to show family prosperity). Many also transport food and babies on their back with a brightly colored lliclla or k’eperina (wool cloth or blanket).

Quechua people practice an ancient and sustainable farming system on agricultural terraces throughout the Andes mountains and are known for domesticating potatoes and other crops. Particularly in the nearby Sacred Valley where the altitude is lower and farming is lush. However there is not enough farmable land to meet tourism demands in Aguas Calientes itself, so all the food and supplies for the restaurants must be shipped in by train, the only transportation.

Our journey

While the night prior had me in a panic attack, I woke up that first morning in Aguas Calientes to boisterous laughter, hammering, drilling and locals making the best of life. I was inspired to do the same. This would be the theme during our week in Peru: community and shared spaces, laughter, less concern about noise barriers and also seemingly less loneliness.

Yesterday I had been afraid to trust the tap water used for coffee and had used my own bottled water to make instant coffee instead. This morning though I decided to say “maybe” and ordered an espresso on the Urumbamba river, surrounded by the mountains and mist. I was making my own strides with my OCD, it was just slow if I compared myself to my partner’s carefree attitude to germs.

That day my partner Carp tried traditional Alpaca and Aji de Gallina (chicken curry) dishes. Later that night he also got traveler’s diarrhea, which would haunt him for the rest of the trip. We can feel bad for him, but we can also note that he went to South America and was semi-shocked that he couldn’t drink the tap water. Throughout the trip he proceeded to flirt with putting things in his body that is recommended travelers visiting from outside of South America should not do, if they are only visiting for the short term. You have to hand it to him for his gusto, though.

We agreed to only go to restaurants that were busy in the future, or that locals were frequenting, but he was still unsure that he needed to take seriously the concerns for raw foods probably washed with tap water. We tend to balance each other out with our different extremes of concern for our bodies. He showed me that you can survive getting sick, and I showed him that it’s smart to pack Imodium when encountering new germs in much of the world.

A break

That night I splurged on a $100 hotel with a mountain view to give my nervous system a break. Named “Inki Punku” the hotel is translated to “sun gate” in a reference to the journey to Machu Picchu. After the rough previous night in a moldy hostel room, this hotel room felt like luxury. I took a siesta while Carp explored and soaked in the sulfurous hot springs that the town is named after.

Laying in the hotel room I watched YouTube and let my brain detox from crisis mode and realigned with my exposure and response prevention (ERP) OCD coping strategies. I reminded myself I’m doing it right, pushing myself day by day a little more, even if it feels so far behind everyone else.

I did get an external reality check though. Instead of just panicking because of my mind, I had a real world problem to solve soon after I settled in. I couldn’t find my passport! I later found it had been left on the copying machine at the front desk when I checked in at the hotel. When you’ve been in your head panicking for awhile, sometimes it’s a nice wake up call to have a real world thing to panic about for context.

The embarrassment of being US citizens

I’m really trying to move away from calling myself “American”, and especially in the context of visiting South America. It’s part of the U.S. imperial project to claim the title of “Americas”, even though people in North, Central and South America also live in the Americas. The more accurate term for me would be “US citizen”.

“I said I DON’T know how to get to a SHOPPING MALL HERE”, a middle aged white man was yelling in what can only be translated as ‘U.S. entitlement’ at the young Spanish-only speaking hotel receptionists. There is no mall in Aguas Calientes, he was in for a rough rest of his day.

Tourist Trap or Tourist Test

This is what I mean when I say that Aguas Calientes, while billed as “just a tourist trap” is actually quite a culture shock for most tourists. It’s not at all as resourced as you would expect the town at the base of one of the seven wonders of the world to be.

There is something beautiful about this, similar to walking into a library. People from all walks of life use the library and come into contact with one another, and the same goes for anyone trying to visit Machu Picchu. We all have to exit the metropolitan expectations of Cusco and Lima, and venture off the commercial path to a place that has to import everything in by train and is rich in indigenous culture.

You are, however, also approached by every service worker as you walk down the main road and asked if you want a “buy one get one free pisco sour”, in an effort to drive business. We were visiting on the off season too, so things were probably more desperate than usual. However, if you can take a night or two to visit Aguas Calientes on your way to Machu Picchu, I say you should do it. If only for dinner views like this.

The point in the story where I believe I’ve contracted rabies

The Incan dogs were one of my favorite parts of visiting Aguas Calientes. They did not bark, were not on leashes and had their own respective blocks they patrolled and slept on. However, a big OCD theme for me has always been rabies, and right before we were set to head up Macchu Picchu, I looked behind where I had been sitting on an empty patio and saw a dog, and freshly spattered foam. I walked away and sat with my internal OCD reality telling me that I now had rabies (even though I hadn’t felt a bite, or confirmed that the foam was in fact rabies foam). I didn’t have time to reflect long on my imminent death as a new fear took over as we began the seemingly perilous bus ride up to Machu Picchu (and I later learned that it was foam from Carp’s pisco sour that the waiter had spilled).

Later that night, we posted up at a hostel again, this one much nicer but also strangely, and mildly concerningly, empty. Other than the train coming through every thirty minutes and blasting it’s horn (only breaking from midnight to 5 am on the tracks right outside our unsealed window), it was otherwise divine.

Stimulants

We did have a knock at our hostel door at 10 pm which heightened our heart rates, but it turned out to be our sweet braces-laden hostel host asking what we wanted for breakfast in the morning. The next morning we had a rooftop breakfast, ensconced in the Andes mountains and mist. I was late joining Carp for breakfast, and the hostel host brought out special coca tea for me as she thought I had altitude sickness.

When chewed or brewed, coca leaves act as a mild stimulant to help with altitude sickness, and are also used by local workers to lessen hunger, thirst, pain, and tiredness. They are the raw material that cocaine is made from when chemically extracted.

Fear floating by

During our time in Aguas Calientes, an orange and black butterfly species (Gaudy Altinote) followed us around the city. It’s found in the South American rain forest, as well as cloud forests (where we were). The butterfly represents beauty in the frailty of life, and proximity to death. It felt fitting in the uncertainty journey I’m on with OCD ERP therapy, in constantly saying “maybe” and continuing to live life.

So, do I like torturing myself? I guess to some extent. But on the other hand, if I’m going to be tortured by OCD everyday anyway, I’d rather do cool things. I’d rather live my values while being tortured instead of just digging myself deeper into a hole at home. So cheers to continued travels, and see you next week!

“I’m doing this for my OCD” was my mantra as we flew across the Americas on Friday the 13th and landed in Lima, Peru. I had no idea that in 36 hours I would be in a full blown panic attack, questioning who I really was, deep in the Andes mountains.

Grabbing a ride from the airport with a driver from Venezuela, I immediately felt the heaviness of the U.S.’s recent imperialistic foreign policy impacts. The driver was very kind even though we had to admit to him that we were from Estados Unidos, with me whispering an apology. Driving along the highway we were suddenly hit with a cloud of fog, which we soon realized was from the ocean. We spent the morning on Lima’s famous clifftop beach, watching surfers and waiting for our hostel room to open.

Miraflores neighborhood, Lima

Immediate culture shocks that let my brain know I was on a different continent included the different bird noises, the new language and the instructions not to throw toilet paper in the toilet, but in the trash can instead.

Sitting awestruck and heating up in the outdoor hostel common area later that morning, we were invited to go on a tour of downtown Lima. It seemed like good way to get to know the local culture on day one, so we were off.

Our tour guides were fantastic, and I will write about the tour in my coming piece specifically about Lima, but the main takeaways were:

1. Peru has so much to teach us.

2. Our new hostel friend from Portugal had been “wrapped around the toilet for the past four days” with travelers diarrhea after doing Ayahuasca in the Amazon.

3. I forgot I was in South America and got very sunburned, which I would very soon come to regret.

After the tour we crashed for a couple hours at the hostel on utilitarian bunk beds with yellow stains on the mattress, right next to the shared hostel bathroom. My OCD was nervous about our first dinner in Peru (new germs from the tap water, new food), but I was proud of myself for trying all the food that first night at Punto Azul. My partner Carp got ceviche, I got Chifa fried rice (classic Peruvian-Chinese fusion), and we shared fried plantains with dips.

After dinner I was finding my sea legs, but Carp was starting to panic. Traffic was wild, the streets were busy, we were far from home and he was also upset by the prospect of buying bottled water the whole trip. With his head in his hands on the bunk bed in the room he said he thought it was going to be a really good experience this week, but it was ‘going to hurt,’ and he was ‘never going to do this again’ and wasn’t sure if he could go deeper into the country to Cusco tomorrow.

We settled in for the night with big bottles of San Luis water, but this is where the night took a turn for me. I woke in the night with a blinding dehydration headache and my fingers tingling from my body trying to regulate the gnarly sunburn I had naively gotten my first day in South America. Over several hours I wasn’t sure if I was up for going to Cusco in the morning either, and wrote a feverish note to myself “Done traveling. And eat salt in the morning.” I finally got hydrated enough, and finally started feeling better.

Cusco

We woke up early, got a ride to the airport and I immediately bought sunscreen, a hat, Gatorade and aloe vera. The vendor at the counter told me “you should buy another water” as he looked at my sunburned-lobster body.

It wasn’t until we were in the air with LATAM airlines that I finally I accepted the travel journey we were on today. The plane was still scary for my OCD, but I am learning to lift responsibility (compulsions) from it. I’m learning to change the channel and think “maybe” thoughts on the plane instead of going down spirals. I’m learning to let go and make choices without certainty, knowing I’m not responsible for the outcome.

We landed in Cusco, with Brits in the back of the airplane breaking out into applause for the pilots, and we stepped off the plane into the mountain town at 11,000 feet. The airport was very small, and in the bathroom you had to grab from a singular toilet paper roll before going in the stalls. Gathering our bearings, we were approached by a taxi driver and were soon headed up the mountain and out of the city.

It was the first day of Carnival, and so locals were selling silly string and water guns in the streets, getting ready to spray each other in the public square later for South American Marti Graz. Our driver, Juan, was an excellent tour guide as he drove us through the agricultural terraces on the mountains, into the flat farm lands of the Sacred Valley and deeper into the Andes mountains.

One big takeaway that Juan laid out for us is that while the Incas (the government and royalty) are gone, the people (Quechua) are still thriving here. The people who made up the bulk of the culture didn’t “disappear”, their hierarchy and leadership just collapsed.

At once point it started raining hard, and we passed many fallen rocks and boulders on the dirt roads beneath the cliffs due to the rainy season.

Ollantaytambo

This little town in the Sacred Valley is where you catch to the train to get to Macchu Picchu. We posted up at a cafe, watching the light rain on the Andes mountains and people climbing the Inca ruins. At the time of the Spanish conquest of Peru, Ollantaytambo served as a stronghold for the leader of the Incan resistance.

We later made our way down to the train station, and the train attendants led an indigenous dance procession to the train tracks. We were unexpectedly promoted to first class seats, and got a little dinner with a Peruvian flute performance on our journey through the Andes.

Aguas Calientes

We made it to Aguas Calientes by evening, walked uphill to our hostel, and checked into the worst room on the trip at the Super Tramp hostel (I know, I should have known). The only window in the room opened up to a staircase inside the hostel, the room smelled like mold and upon closer inspection actually had black mold all over the walls and ceiling due to the 100% humidity and lack of airflow in the room. This is when I had my first, and worst, OCD panic attack of the trip. I was so tired from the day of travel, and felt like I had pushed myself too far.

Meaning Making of the Torture

Before I left for Peru, my ERP therapist (Exposure and Response Prevention for OCD) said that I needed to practice more self compassion. That I had been doing a really good job pushing myself, but I wasn’t going to be able to keep improving if I didn’t give myself grace and celebrate the wins that were not one hundred percent clear wins in my mind. This first night in Aguas Calientes felt like a good time to practice this.

How should the night should have gone according to my own guilt and shame about having OCD: Normally, I would consider it a failure if I looked for another place to stay, another room. I would see it as a failure that I went down the rabbit hole of googling black mold, a failure that I couldn’t be as chill as my partner who isn’t bothered by these things, or the other badass hostelers who don’t seem bothered by fuck.

I’m sad at myself for being bougie and not feeling able to stay at the hostel. Will I die tonight from the mold or get life altering allergies or sickness? Maybe it’s an excuse to get out of the room and into the world. But I want a safe place to retreat to. If I cant do mold one night in a hostel how can I do other plans I have? But that’s spiraling, we don’t need to go there. I think I’ve pushed myself too far as of today. This is only my second night in South America but it feels like more. I know I haven’t made it easy on myself by choosing hostels, but hostels are also in my values and budget and I’d like to find a way to make it work.

What my OCD therapist would probably say about how tonight went: It’s okay to not do things one hundred percent, and accepting that it’s okay not to do OCD recovery “perfect” is actually another step in OCD recovery. If you wait even a bit before engaging in a compulsion, you should celebrate that. The fact that I am still considering sleeping in the moldy room is amazing and I should celebrate that, even if I end up leaving. Also I should give myself credit for holding up with zero sleep, experiencing culture shock, facing a lot of my fears and holding back from compulsions, if even for just a few minutes.

So how did tonight go?

I compromised with my OCD, and also compromised with what I thought “a normal person” might do. Many times my partner, Carp, can’t be trusted as a good litmus test for what a “normal person” would do, as he is more risk taking than most people. But being more adventurous and down for anything is also in my values system, so it makes it hard to sift through what the right thing to do is in times like this. Carp said we should own the moldy room, call it our “pirate room” and stay there. I did try to find another hostel down the road, but all their rooms were full. I decided I would sleep in the room we had for the night, but find a new place to stay the next day.

A big thing in the past 10 years was learning my limits, and being honest about what triggered me and being better about communicating that. Which was so huge. But I also think that it’s time to learn again what my limits are, but in a more expansive and growing way, not in the static way I’ve been clinging to. I’ve already shown that I can do more than I thought I could… what else can I do if I keep doing exposure therapy in line with my values and practicing self compassion along the way?

I’m on a journey to see what OCD has taken from me, and what was never me to begin with. Hostels, co-ops, communal spaces, adjusting to different cultural practices and roughing it have always been something that I have aspired to and admired in people. But I also have really big OCD triggers within these things, because OCD targets what you most love and makes you think you can’t be around the things you love anymore.

And I’m so sick of that shit. So sick of that shit.

It’s been baby steps, but I’m doing it. I got here. I only touched my lips to Carp’s coffee yesterday, but I drank a full espresso myself today.

The granular, gnarly and embarrassing side of OCD spirals (along with OCD success and progress):

I’m including journal entry from this first night in Aguas Calientes. Mostly as a reminder to myself that the nights I am the most down about my OCD are the nights where I also have the potential to grow through it and make the strides I can’t make in my day to day life.

I’m spending my evening googling black mold. And mortifyingly embarrassed that I am doing that in the first place, and in the second place I’m so upset at myself for acting so entitled in another country.

Meanwhile, I think that my OCD and exposure therapy has been pushed to quite a limit, that it might not be being as beneficial as usual because I am so overwhelmed and don’t have a place to retreat to. Tomorrow will be that day, we are changing some things around, getting a more bougie room for the night (a hotel, not a hostel). While it pains me to give in to OCD like that, give in to the image of a self not limited by fear, I also know it’s the right move because I am not being productive with my OCD while I am panicking and seemingly regressing.

For example, I have been not trusting that I was the one that opened the bottle of water, even though I just did it. Also, a bottle of water that I bring out and place somewhere, or in a car, I think that maybe I grabbed the wrong bottle of water when I go back for it and it’s actually tap water and I’m going to get very sick. This is not great, this is the classic OCD doubting disorder.

Also the dogs- there are so many happy peaceful pups running around the streets of Peru, and I am walking in the opposite direction because I can’t deal with the thought of rabies right now, or ever. But these are all things that I do when my OCD gets bad at home, and I have to give myself grace that my OCD is trying super hard to protect me right now because so much is unknown. Even though I love the unknown in many ways, it does add certain stressors to my already obsessive thoughts. I don’t want to acknowledge that because it’s not in my values. But it does.

OCD therapy is about gradually working to get closer to our values that OCD is trying to separate us from, not doing it all and being it all tonight.

But why the fuck does OCD focus on what you love? I actually don’t know. I guess the uncertainty and wanting things perfect or not at all. But why does it make sense if I love slumming it and being with the people on the street and my OCD decides to fixate on germs? I’m not really smart enough about my own brain to answer that question.

My biggest takeaway from today was the humility that seeing the Andes mountains gave me.

While I was journaling that night in the hostel, Carp noticed me do “the double tap”. I was about to go to the bathroom, and I moved my drink to the far end of our table because my OCD was watching out for someone putting something in it (even though it’s a relatively empty hostel lounge and Carp’s right here). And then after slamming it down on the far side of the table I realize it’s now by the window and I don’t want anything to potentially drip in it from outbg5fv4rside, so I slam it back to the original side.

And it would have become a triple tap, quadruple tap and on and on if Carp hadn’t called it out and snapped me out of my OCD spiral. And it’s moments like that when you can see in real time the workings of your own neurotic brain, and give it some love in all the work it’s doing. And you can also tell it to calm down a little bit, you’ve got this. And “maybe”.

I’m on a journey to discover who I am outside of the prison of my OCD. Am I still who I aspire to be, or heading where I aspire to be? I don’t want to be who my fears are. But should I realistically shoot for something in the middle, or should I keep aiming for who I see myself as, but this time with more self compassion?

The goal for tomorrow is to get back to “maybe”.

OCD comes in many different forms, but always attaches to what you value most in life— constricting tighter and tighter as you try to gain some sort of relief from the desperate anxiety it causes. Since I value world travel, it makes sense that my OCD latched onto flying and also contamination. For many years I accepted world travel was just not in the cards for me anymore, but I am done with fear based decision making.

Am I Ready?

It turns out that much of the tap water in the world is non potable, and North America, Europe and parts of Asia are the exceptions more than the rule when it comes to drinkable tap water. This was a hurdle I knew that I wanted to tackle someday, but wasn’t sure when I was going to be “ready”. The thing with OCD is that you’re never going to be “ready”, in fact doing it scared means that you are effectively rewiring your brain so that OCD has less hold over you.

It really sucks, and it feels like you’re in the depths of despair quite a bit (or even like you’re going backward). But exposure therapy really does move the needle so that OCD lightens its grip on you (like a boa constrictor releasing a bit), and you’re able to do that thing with more ease in the future, as opposed to letting OCD control your decisions and making you sicker.

I say this to say, I went to Peru this week, it was amazing, and I broke the seal on my brain for navigating unsafe tap water, a new continent of germs and six different flights in a little over a week. If this sounds impressive to someone else who also has OCD, just know that I have been doing ERP (Exposure and Response Prevention Therapy) for the past four months, and have made it my current focus to not let OCD run my life anymore. I have been practicing saying “maybe” instead of letting my brain cruise down the well worn tracks I’ve let it build for 35 years with compulsions. And also, this past trip I impressed myself because I didn’t know if I was going to be able to to do it.

The “Rules”

That being said, I had a couple nights where I cried and said I couldn’t do this. I had a bit of travelers diarrhea a few times (but nothing like my partner who was drinking and eating everything in sight without much regard to the guidelines). An OCD brain loves rules, and the guidelines for US citizens traveling to South America are roughly:

1. Only drink bottled water (the tap water is only safe when boiled, and locals follow this practice as well) and to brush your teeth with bottled water too.

2. Try not to eat fresh fruits and vegetables (because they are generally washed in the tap water. While it is safe for the locals because their guts are used to the local bacteria in the tap water, our guts have never encountered these germs before so will encounter more issues).

3. Don’t get drinks with ice (sometimes restaurants use filtered water to make ice or buy it, but a lot of times the ice is made of tap water. Which again is fine for locals, but generally not for foreigners).

For someone with OCD, you can imagine that I could take those rules and go down quite a few rabbit holes (Is THIS bottled water safe? Was the seal broken on the bottle? Did I accidentally run my toothbrush under the tap water? Is my food hot enough? Are the vegetables fully cooked? Does my frosted glass count as ice? My pillow was washed in the laundry with tap water, is it safe to lay on? etc. etc.).

Pushing myself, and also giving myself a break

The key was regulating my nervous system when I got too heightened was by watching a YouTube video, taking a walk through town, or taking a nap. I reminded myself I should stick to these three main rules above, but once I started going down the “what if” path, I needed to respond to myself with: “maybe”. I told myself “maybe” repeatedly when my OCD brain ran off the tracks with obsessions demanding compulsions. While I couldn’t control the outcome of every choice I made, I could at least control my desire to get better with OCD by treating challenges as “exposure practice” instead of spiraling in self pity.

It definitely wasn’t easy, but it was in my values system to push myself to be able to do this, and to loosen OCD’s grip on me. By the end of my nine days in Peru I was confidently sitting in a restaurant ordering empanadas and fried rice with plantains, and I think another week and I would have been even better. I plan to head back to South American again soon, as there is so much of the Americas to explore that is in my own backyard that I know nothing about. I feel ashamed of that, and also excited to learn and be humbled. Also, the base layer of Spanish I have in my brain came to life, and I was gaining language skills rapidly throughout my time there. I caught myself repeating phrases I heard in my head, and putting my 4th grade base layer of Spanish to use in the world.

I also got used to being on planes much more after six flights in nine days. I wouldn’t say I love it still, but also I kind of do love it in a weird way. In the way that you love the thing that gets the adrenaline rush out of you (that you hate yourself for doing at the time, but feel exhilarated after). I’ve also finally come around to the concept of a plane as a golden ticket to world travel (a golden ticket I’ve been avoiding as a compulsion for many years because of OCD).

The mantra of “maybe”

I used “maybe” on the plane too, and it worked very well. It didn’t make me free of fear, but it gave me a direction to put my energy into, the “productive panic” of rewriting my brain. I practiced not doing my other compulsions of monitoring the flight attendants for signs of fear on their faces, I got up and used the bathroom (which OCD tells me the plane will go down if I get “too comfortable” and use the bathroom, etc.) and I played songs on my headphones about death that OCD said was “inviting the universe to down the plane”. OCD is such a weird thing because I am very logical and not religious at all, but you feel bound to the illogical thoughts that come in your head if you don’t give yourself space before the reaction, similar to an addict and a substance.

Altitude and fear of altitude sickness was another big hurdle for me on this trip. Cusco is 11,152 feet above sea level, and the risk for getting altitude sickness by flying straight from sea level Lima to mountainous Cusco is likely enough that there are many local remedies available. Also, being in lots of buses with people in altitude and winding mountain roads, I was terrified of myself or other people being car sick and altitude sick around me. I met my OCD halfway by still doing this trip (I almost canceled because the risk of altitude sickness felt too great for me), but by first traveling into the Sacred Valley to acclimate, which is at lower elevation than Cusco but still in the Andes. The line of compromising with OCD is risky, and I’m not sure it was the right move, but it allowed me to do this trip and face so many other fears and rewire my brain, so in that way I believe it was the right move.

Sharing a space

Finally, another big hurdle of the trip was traveling with someone else, traveling with my partner who has no contamination OCD whatsoever, and in fact invites new germs into his body as a way to get stronger (which I agree with logically, but my OCD hates this so much). He was taking much more risks than I would have (eating out wherever, eating raw vegetables here and there and raw fish, using water that wasn’t in bottles but said it was filtered, drinks with ice, you get it).

He was also doing things he does at home that upset my OCD (not using germ-x or washing his hands before eating, being laissez faire with other hygiene rules and just trusting the world around him in a way that my OCD has not previously allowed me to do). I was nervous to kiss him during this trip because if he did start to get really sick I was going to panic that I was sick too. I also tried to compulsively offer suggestions for his behavior for the first half of the week, but then was able to stop myself near the end of the trip. “Maybe he’ll get really sick and maybe I’ll get sick from him.”

It was good to see him break these hygiene rules in another country, which felt way riskier since our bodies weren’t as used to the germs, because he turned out alright. Yes, he did shit himself for most of the trip. Yes, he did complain about his guts hurting and needing a bathroom constantly. But, he also refused to take more precautions to avoid shitting himself as he wanted to soak up the full experience in Peru. And honestly, if you’re planning on staying a longer time (months or years) this would be the way to build up your immunity to the new germs and bacteria in South America.

The rest of it

I’ll of course be back to write more about the fun things on the trip, it was amazing. I’ll be posting every Wednesday for the next month or so about my first visit to South America. From Lima to Cusco to Ollantaytambo to Aguas Calientes to Machu Picchu and back. Machu Picchu was mind blowing and beautiful, but for me my real Machu Picchu summit was of my own mind this trip. Cheers to many more trips like this of challenging myself and growing, and I hope you’re able to take the opportunity to slowly lighten the OCD boa constrictor’s grip on your body someday, too.

I’m having a panic attack at home today because of something that didn’t go as planned. Looking back on my Canada trip last month I’m wondering how I did it, when so much went unexpected. The difference being we are generally expecting some unpredictability when we travel, but the bigger reason for me is that you don’t have a choice when you’re traveling. You have to keep moving forward because you don’t have a home, or a routine, to retreat to.

Day #1: Toronto

I left Rochester in a mild snowstorm; I was wearing rainboots instead of snow boots, casually forgot to pack gloves and a hat, but was armed with a Midwestern confidence. How bad could it be? As I stepped inside the Amtrak train, we were rained on from the inside by a stream of snow melt, that continued the entire ride in the connecting cars. Through the ride the poor Amtrak workers walked under the snowmelt stream every ten minutes, tucking their chins into their coats as water poured over their beanies.

American Amtrak trains are not aesthetic. I sat down next to a panicky guy my age, who soon after we left took out a greasy sub and ate it with staccato tempo- picking his teeth and wiping his hands on the seats. I didn’t have my travel sea legs yet, and was clocking all germ transfers from his mouth to my surrounding area. Twenty minutes later, a sweet lady across the aisle from me takes me and another girl under her wing, glancing at us like daughters and making small talk, laughing out loud. This is when my travel sea legs kicked in, as I left Rochester behind and became fully here on this Amtrak train across the border to Canada.

I shouldn’t have moved seats, if only for committing to OCD ERP, but at our next stop I wanted to get away from my greasy seatmate and grabbed an empty double seat. Soon a guy sat down next me to muttered “I hope I don’t throw up” to his friends, and then soon walked to the bathroom. I moved back to my greasy subway sandwich seatmate, now thankful for his appetite and presence. For the first of many times on this trip I thought, “have I made the wrong choice going on this trip?”

We emptied the train out at the Canadian border, and went through customs in the rainy, moody night. After everyone was admitted, we pooled onto a new Amtrak car, this one leaking condensation out of the windows. I sat behind a gregarious Venezuelan family, speaking Spanish and joking, or serious, about fleeing the US.

I made it to Toronto, took an Uber through the rain and flooding on the city streets, and then a terrifying highway speedchase in the blinding freezing rain to my hostel.

“The world has been made by fools so that wise men should live in it!” Oscar Wilde

Arriving in the hostel room, it smelled like bodies. I took a beat to take a walk and take stock of my life choices on the icy road, and then sat at the hostel bar and wrote a post on my panic upon entrance to Toronto, and applying Exposure and Response Therapy.

Later I went back to my room and felt not great, but good. I was the only one in the four person room, but was comforted to hear people pattering around in the rooms around me. I got out my Kindle, cuddled up in the seemingly handmade blankets, and fell asleep soon after, releasing myself from my intrusive thoughts and responsibility of dying from carbon monoxide poisoning (or something else I hadn’t thought of yet).

At 3 am I woke up to a frantic banging on the front door down the staircase. I almost went to look, but it felt vulnerable and a little scary- plus there was a big sign on the door saying not to let anyone in that you didn’t know. For a few minutes I stood on the defense blocking my door and waiting to have to defend myself. The desperate knocking went on for about 20 minutes, and finally a someone went outside and let their friend in. “I left my my and wallet, phone and key card all inside!”

I checked the weather again, and the train was warning that travel was potentially dangerous and to stay home if you can. It was an orange flag warning, which in Canada means “severe weather is likely to cause significant damage, disruption, or health impacts” and is fairly rare. Should I continue on? I decided to make the call when I stepped out into the world tomorrow, but was pretty sure I was going.

Day #2: Ottawa, Montreal

I made it easily to Toronto Union Station the next morning, and the weather was much better than the night before. I spent longer than I should have deciding where to grab breakfast that morning, as OCD was tickling my brain again, but soon was on the rails to Ottawa.

I was at first very impressed by the Canadian (Via) trains. While they had less leg room than Amtrak, the trains I rode this day were newer, cleaner, had food service that came through the train and had an indigenous land acknowledgement on each car’s tv screen, announcing which stop we were at. However, they didn’t have a restaurant car, or an observation deck like Amtrak cars do.

I was squeezed in next to this sweet sixty year old man, who had just got off a flight from Turkey where he had been visiting his daughter for a few months. I told him I was aiming to go this year, and he gave me lots of good suggestions and said that Turkish airlines were on point. His daughter moved countries every few months, and had now lived in more than 100 countries around the world.

We got to talking about world country and I asked him about a country I was visiting in the future, and he paused.

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to!” I tried to reassure him.

He let me know he was just trying to figure out how to tell me about it without revealing too much about his job. He let me know he was arrested there, and told me what he could about the experience.

We were passing the frozen shores of Lake Ontario at this point, with icy waves crashing in the wind as the storm picked up.

He asked me if I had talked a lot of politics on this trip with Canadians yet, and I told him that he was the first I was talking to- let’s get into it!

“I don’t want to say something upset you,” he said sheepishly.

I assured him he wouldn’t, and we dove in.

We parted ways in Ottawa, and I holed up at the tiny train station- eating a sub par filo dough pastry at the tiny kiosk where everyone was lined up. I was feeling strangely nauseous from the breakfast I’d had that morning, and then a woman in the bathroom near my train line up started vomiting loudly and I almost had to leave the station. The train to Ottawa was delayed by the ice storm, and hours later when we finally got on the train we were all relieved. I sat next to a little sleeping woman, who I had to ask to move to so I could use the bathroom. She quickly put her glasses on, upside down, and we started laughing together even though didn’t share English.

Pulling up in Montreal though, I started to get nervous again as the girl in front of me pointed out the window and said “the city is a sheet of ice”.

And it was. Like, the worst I had ever seen in my life. Montrealers were sliding all over the place, and on the news the next morning they were talking about hundreds of emergency calls due to injuries from falls on the ice.

We arrived at Montreal Union Station late, and I was hoping for a restaurant to be open since I hadn’t eaten all day, but everything was closed. I got an uber to my hostel even though it was only a five minute walk, but it was too dangerous and near impossible to be walking around on the ice sheet (especially in my tractionless rainboots). I felt bad for all the drivers, and also nervous to be in a car on the ice rink streets.

The hostel had a rowdy karaoke party going in the basement, along with a bar and a poutine kitchen. I decided to take a shower before anything else, and headed up to my room.

When I entered, everyone sat up and looked at me in a slightly panicked way. I pushed past it, said hey and threw my luggage in a corner with all of theirs. It was a very small eight person room, and I jumped in the shower in the shared in room bathroom. I pushed past all of my usual OCD things with shared bathrooms — putting my cleaning clothing on the shelf by the toilet, not washing my hands after touching door knobs, still putting on clothes that accidentally fell on the ground, not checking the toilet for signs of vomit.

Not having a towel, I dried myself with the turtle neck I had been wearing for the past few days (like the 34 year old adult I am), stepped into clean clothes, and then unpacked all my essentials and piled them on my top bunk to settle in for the night. One of the bunks was very sick, coughing pretty regularly and Vick’s vapor rub in the air. I decided to push past it, closing my privacy curtain and settling into a dinner of rosemary bread and YouTube while planning out my day for tomorrow.

Then, the worst thing that can happen for me at a hostel happens, and one of my roommates heads to the bathroom, and starts vomiting aggressively. You can read about how that natural exposure went for me and my OCD here, but long story short I had been pushed to my OCD Exposure limit and I got a new hotel and spent the night distracting myself from, and accepting with ERP, that I might get sick and throw up too.

Day #3: Toronto

I woke up still alive, and not sick yet, and feeling nervous but also like I had gained some acceptance, and peaceful surrender. Packing up, I headed out to find some coffee and waited for 15 minutes for the elevator to come to our level. I tried other floors, and everyone on each floor was experiencing the same thing. It turns out there was a Catholic youth conference happening on the floor below us, similar to the one I went to as a kid. It was comforting and familiar, after a rough night.

“Shall we go straight to ‘Mother Mary the Royal’ section?

“His story is exactly like St. Augustine’s.”

After twenty minutes of waiting on the elevator, I took the emergency exit down 12 floors to the icy streets outside.

I posted up at a cafe and wrote about the night before- feeling meaning making, meditative presence and momentum in blogging in a way that I haven’t in many years. I am so happy to have it back.

“Am I just torturing myself to torture myself?” I kept asking myself. And then through writing I could see the bigger picture, and what I was working toward. I got myself here intentionally, I could deal with the flow.

“Do you mind watching this for me while I got to the washroom?”

“Oui”

Back on the rails that day, all of my love for Canada Rails evaporated and it felt like one of the worst travel days of my life somehow. The seats were uncomfortable (I finally learned how to move them and that helped later on) the table desk was too low, we were packed and squeezed next to people the whole way compared to Amtrak where there are usually empty seats to move around in. It was also the holidays, so everyone was sick and coughing and coming home in time for new years that night.

We passed many houses and buildings with that harsh northeast culture of peeling paint and people slushing by in the snow who I’ll never know and will never know me. The snow was blowing horizontal at stations as people get on and off.

All the signs said I shouldn’t have been in Montreal this week. But also, was it also the best travel I could have gotten, after my ‘easy’ Eurotrip? A true testing of my ability to cope with the worst kind of situations, for me, on my own.

I decided to forego my hostel reservation that night in Toronto, and treat myself to an easy night at a hotel right next to Union station so I wouldn’t have to commute in the morning. My hotel room had a book displayed, “The Real Ones” by Katherena Vermette, a Red River Métis (Michif) author from Winnipeg, Treaty 1 territory.

Day #4: Back to Rochester, NY USA

I was sitting next to a woman from a specific Caribbean country on the way back, and then hours later back home in Rochester- while trying on and finally buying real snow boots- I got an email invite to visit that same Caribbean country in a very real way that would promise snow boots were not in the cards as prominently for me in the future.

But back to the train, we crossed the Niagara river and stopped at Customs and Border Protection to line up, head into a basement, go through an x-ray machine and assure the officers why we were heading into the US. Going back across the border it was snowing heavily, and we piled onto the next Amtrak car and were in the USA, back in New York state.

Arriving back in Rochester, New York I was so happy I didn’t change my travel plans and got to see what weathering the storm (literal and metaphorical) by myself would be. I did it. We travel to realize the worst doesn’t usually happen, and we also travel to understand ourselves under pressure when our worst fears do sometimes happen. We travel to experience wonderful adventures, and travel to realize in a panic in a strange place that you appreciate and miss your home and your simple life.

This unsexy trip called me to ask, do I actually want this? Or do I just want to disassociate in books and literature the rest of my life, playing it safe. I want both, and juggling them back and forth is the way my brain works best. It’s also where my best writing and inspiration comes from. I can’t give in to the fear, because my full potential in life is behind the fear, and I have to learn to manage my OCD and anxiety to be able to do it. But I’m not going to say it’s not fucking hard.

Why was this Canada trip hard? I think partly because it was a trip within a trip. We were visiting my partner’s family for two weeks in Rochester, New York for the holidays. During some of the downtime I decided to dip up to Canada. I had no idea what kind of slow travel it would be in this area of the world compared to my last trip in Europe. It took almost twice as long via train than it would have for car, and a bus would have taken days to get between Rochester and Montreal. That, along with the harsh weather and naturally occurring OCD triggers.

For context: It took about six hours to go from Czech Republic to Slovakia to Hungary (328 miles) and it took about as long to go from Rochester, NY, across the Canadian border, and onto Toronto (162 miles). The ease of travel on trains that I experienced in Europe earlier this year did not translate to North America.

…

Back to where I began this post- a month later having a panic attack at home over a change of plans. I almost canceled everything today because of a panic attack due to things not going how I expected them to, after much anticipation. Due to obligations that were meaningful to me, I couldn’t cancel everything. There is something about travel that is grounding and holds you to things, but you can also find that at home too as I did today. The panic is fading a bit, and I am seeing an option of this being an okay day and me learning to face my deepest panic in the same way I did in Canada. Today that tightness gripping my chest is just here in Kansas City. And that’s okay. It’s the same. We’re here for the mind game, whether at home or abroad. And writing is the key to my come down, every time.

So thanks for reading if you made it this far, and even if no one did, this practice is essential for meaning making, de-escalation and personal growth for me. Writing this post was what got me through the panic of today. I’ll see you in the next journey.

I’m in Montreal, Canada alone right now and it doesn’t feel like I’m getting stronger. It feels like I’m crumbling. I guess check back in later to see the effectiveness of torturing yourself with natural exposures.

I faced my worst fear last night and I didn’t cry. But this morning I cried because at the cafe they pulled me back in front of a huge line of people to figure out how to change my order since they were out of vegetarian options.

And then the sweet young barista forgot my coffee as well.

“Oh, Annie, I’m so sorry,” she said like we were old friends, with real emotion in her eyes welling up.

And it made me tear up, with the tears subtly running down my face when I got back to my seat. It’s being the focus of pity that got me. The barista disappeared soon after my order. I wonder if she’s having the same kind of day.

—

Last night I really tried not to lean into self pity intentionally, and watched funny movies instead once I got settled into my replacement room for the night. I’m not supposed to use distractions when I do exposures, but this one was the big one and a surprise and I used some of the ERP strategies but mostly I just needed to get through the night.

A stranger pitying me over not having the right order/ not having the coffee ready also makes me break down crying because it’s so small in the scape of the past 3 days, in the scope of life in my brain. As I type I need to stop the tears though, because I’m in a public place and this French speaking father next to me with two young girls keeps looking at me and I cannot stand any more attention from strangers. Then I will definitely start crying.

The way I know I’m getting better is I am getting “sloppy” with my routines. And travel really helps me with this. Touching things that would normally require hand washing with my OCD brain just isn’t possible the same way when you’re on the road. And soon I start to just exist in a patina of road germs and I’m okay with it, instead of noticing each and every “threat” when I’m home.

Not using germ-x every time I think about it turns into kind of forgetting to use germ-x before eating something with my hands after touching all the elevator buttons and all my “contaminated” belongings from last night. I am improving, it’s just hard that the way to improve you have to feel like such shit, so low, brought to the humility of a baby without the freedom from responsibility.

Last night when my biggest fear happened around me, I went back to my automatic childhood reactions of plugging my ears and running, but this time I also was an adult who needed to act. Was I going to stay in the hostel room that was triggering me? No, obviously I wasn’t.

“Are you leaving too?” one of my roommates asked me.

Of fucking course, my dude.

I scrambled and threw my two loads of things that were unfortunately all spread out in a mass with the others. Chucked it out the door, and fled around the corner to take a breath. What the fuck do I do.

I headed down to reception to ask to change rooms, and when the receptionist got there they were talking about the issue in my room to each other, independent of me telling them. I fucking ran out the door.

I believe I have been triggered too far, and last night I pushed over from the productive phase of exposure into the more dangerous landscape of exposures that have in the past usually made me worse. I’m hoping since I’m doing ERP right now I won’t become worse from this, and I intentionally tried to practice Exposure and Response Therapy practices last night, if only because I don’t want to intentionally trigger myself in this way again in the future. If I was already in the triggered situation, let’s make the most of it. This has been the defining feature of Exposure and Response Therapy for me, instead of pitying myself when I get triggered or OCD flares up, I use it as time for “productive panic”. Last night I employed my OCD ERP Therapy mantra, “maybe” instead of trying to reassure myself things would be okay.

My partner texted me today to just come home, and in a panic I also looked up bus tickets last night. But I feel like it would probably feel like defeat and also distract me from some thoughts I probably need to sift through. I am trying to rewire my brain after all. Proving that I can be okay without running, without canceling it all. I think the best thing for my mental health is the continue with the plan. I’ll be in Rochester tomorrow afternoon. Maybe. (<You see what I did there?)

— —

Last night after I ran out the hostel door I treked out in my rain boots in the slick ice sheet that is Montreal sidewalks right now. I hadn’t had time to put on my socks, so I was just in straight rain boots and really looked like a mess with a crazy look in my eyes, I’m sure.

Standing on the ice sheet at 11 pm, I felt exactly like a child that would try to run out of the hotel when this happened around me as a kid. My parents have memories of having to chase me in the hotel halls because I would just go immediately into flight and try to dip the fuck out of there.

I think this probably is where my love of travel partly comes from. Running away has always felt safer to me than staying with something that doesn’t feel right. Running out almost barefoot at 11 pm in the icy night felt better than sitting down in the hostel lobby and trying to sort through my next move. However, doing as I did when I was 8 years old also made me feel like a piece of shit and I was upset at myself for not being immune to fear. Upset at myself for having OCD. However, doing ERP Therapy this year is helping me adjust the self loathing, and beginning to see myself as more brave and hopeful that I might finally get to a place where these intrusive thoughts don’t control me.

Now that I am an adult though, no one is chasing after me to catch me when I run. I walked to the end of the icy block and I realized I needed a plan. I saw other people milling about, and didn’t want to stand out as a tourist at this time of night with my big backpack and a crazy vulnerable look in my eyes. I googled hotels, found a Best Western, and called an Uber. However, the GPS on my phone doesn’t work well (I think I might have destroyed it with rubbing alcohol at work- a victim of my compulsions) so my phone had me walking around the icy intersection to find my pickup location.

As I was crossing the street, I saw a Holiday Inn down the way, and canceled my Uber. It turned the Holiday Inn didn’t have any rooms at that night, and I was ready to bribe the receptionist to let me sleep in the lobby. But it turned out there were other hotels all down the strip we were on. Money did not matter to me last night, I just wanted a safe place to regulate myself and get some sleep. I walked down the street and found another hotel, and checked in for the night. Seeing myself from the receptionists perspective I was the gnarliest person to check into this nice hotel that night, and I felt like he could smell my desperation evaporating off of me. He was probably a little unsure if my credit card was going to work.

I got up to my room for the night, and treated relaxation as my only goal in a way I haven’t in a very, very long time.

—

Why am I writing about this publicly? Probably because I compulsively write. But also it’s how I make sense of the world, and if writing is related to my OCD it’s the best compulsion I have, I just have to monitor it so it stays healthy and not unhealthily compulsive.

Also I write because it helps me to process my feelings, make sense of life, and also I would want to read something like this from someone else. Having a mental illness can feel really isolating, and I want to contribute to a world that helps people feel comfortable sharing their struggles. Even and especially if that means embarrassing myself with vulnerable stories.

I’m currently in Toronto, Canada and I’m not sure why I’m here.

After a anxious train ride (for no fault of the train), and then a (slightly warranted) panic inducing Uber drive through inches of standing water in the city and speeding on the highway (which strangely regulated me for a bit like a scary movie does when I’m panicking), I now find myself at a hostel that is:

1. Cramped and not at all as nice as the ones in Europe.

2. Triggering my OCD (obsessive compulsive disorder) that I will die in the night from carbon monoxide poisioning or bad ventilation, someone throwing up on me or near me, falling down the steep staircase, hitting my head on the bunk bed frame, getting murdered in my sleep or drinking alcohol and continuing to kill myself that way.

3. And it’s Sunday and bumday and nothing’s really open and it’s still raining like shit and I miss my partner and my anxious dog.

4. But as I was washing my hands in the hostel bathroom and touching the doorknob with my fingers instead of a paper towl, I remembered why I am here. I’m not here for the sights, I’m here for the exposures. This is a planned exposure for OCD Exposure and Response Prevention Therapy- I am doing three days of trains and hostels in Canada alone and staying in dorm rooms with other people and sharing bathrooms and breathing space and sleeping space and social space.

5. Some travel is not fun! Some travel just continues to help make us who we are.

6. When I first got here and started panicking, I thought “what a fucking horrible thing I’ve done”. What a nasty time to travel up to Canada in the snow bank winter, what a way to risk my life, what a way to not prioritize the people who love me and selfishly go travel alone, what a waste that I’m not even enjoying it.

7. But after calming down a bit, using the skills that I’ve learned in OCD Exposure Therapy, I sat in it. I went for a walk in the boot deep slushy snow. I went back in the room. I used the bathroom. And instead of asking to change rooms, booking a hotel or calling and crying to my partner that I’ve made a bad decision and I need him to pick me up ASAP, I am now calmer and I am living my values in this loud hippie shared space and my body is learning that it doesn’t need to react every time I have a panic thought.

8. I tried doing this in the Uber drive over to the hostel, tried closing my eyes to let go of control and scare myself more when I was worried we were going to hydroplane into another car, instead of anxiously locking eyes on the taillights in front of us. But I couldn’t push myself then. I was just gripping on to get there. Here at the hostel, I have a choice. I closed my eyes, and I am staying here now. Instead of it being a bummer night, it’s going to be what it was supposed to be all along: a space to grow.

9. So here goes.

10. It really is wild though, how you can go from panicking to not panicking anymore when you resist doing a compulsion and take the space and time before reacting. I was at a 9.5/10 panic for the night when I got to the hostel and into my room for the night. I was panicking almost as bad as I can, and that is exactly the secret sauce that my therapist wants me to create for myself to get better. She tries to come up with exposures for me in person and they are definitely probably helping even if they only put me at a 2 or 3 out of 10 on the anxiety scale, but I crave those big exposures that leave you feeling wowed at yourself and wanting to push yourself more. I crave that baffling feeling where you can go from panic to acceptance within 15 minutes somehow.

11. I crave it, and I also still in the back of my mind think this is probably a bad decision to be here on this mini trip. I’m not this tough. What was I thinking?

12. But if I want to stay in a hostel in Peru, I better fucking get used to it in Canada. Just like my Prague trip where I made the decision to get over the lack of deadbolt, I then became accustomed to that for the rest of the trip. Values can lead you through fear.

13. And this is just one night. I felt like I was going to die, and maybe I still will. But I want to live a life where I take those reasonable chances, instead of seeing death around every corner. I am so tired of living that way. Feeling this 9.5/10 panic more regularly through exposure therapy is worth it because I need it. I need to get better, and the pain of panic and feeling like you’re going to die is not as bad as being trapped in an OCD web for the rest of my life. OCD slowly wrapping it’s web tighter and tighter around me.

14. This is maybe one of the best exposures yet. First night of trip, went from a 9.5 to a 2 about sleeping in the room (close quarters, bad airflow, die of ventilation issues/ fall stairs/ fire/ someone throw up? Really proud of myself for this one, and proud of my body for calming down when I sat in it and accepted I was going to let myself be triggered tonight and not run away.

15. I also struggle with wanting to do things right away because of OCD (and also my personality, but I’ve recently realized the OCD influence and have been trying to be more mindful of catching it in its tracks). It shows up with my writing a lot, editing is scary because if it’s not done THAT DAY I might die before I am able to publish it. And wouldn’t that be so bad??! My OCD says. So we write, and publish. Write and publish. Tonight, I am going to also challenge myself not to publish this piece, no matter how much I like it after I’m done. I’m going to wait until tomorrow or later to publish it. And what if it gets lost/ gets deleted/ what if this publishing this piece tonight would be helpful in case I have gone missing in the morning and it can provide important clues/ what if it never sees the light of day because I just forget to publish it/ what if writing this is a waste of time/ what if this exposure therapy tonight is a waste of time because I don’t write and catalog it all down/ what if I shouldn’t publish it anyway because it’s too vulnerable/ what if what if what if. This is what I’m challenging myself with Exposure and Response Therapy. The gunk in my brain my whole life fucking blows and I’m ready to figure out how to make these thoughts less powerful.

16. And then there is girl singing Lily Allen in the shower.

17. And then I got a drink, and tried to open atab at this busy hostel bar, and the hostel bartender said “no I trust you, just come back when you want another”. Nose ring and traveler vibes. The road doesn’t have rules, except road rules. I know that is dumb, but I love it.

18. There’s a travel warning for Ottawa/ Montreal where I’m headed tomorrow. As of right now, I’d still like to go. And also, I think with OCD it’s best for me to just follow through with the plan unless something is actually at risk. It’s a slippery slope with OCD because we can see everything as a risk because nothing in life is risk free, but the weird thing about OCD is I know in my gut deep down somewhere what is actually safe and what is not. And I think, so far, nothing about this trip feels actively out of the ordinary unsafe. When in doubt- look at what everyone else is doing. It’s the one time in my life when I let the majority lead.

19. Also, for my own reference- if it’s a laundry list of issues- it’s probably OCD. Give a mouse a muffin kind of thing.

20. I plan on writing about my Canadian trip outside the context of my own brain, but if you made it this far thanks for reading some of the most intimate parts of my panicked amygdala. Look out for Toronto, Ottawa and Montreal travels coming soon, as well as the rest of my Eastern Eurotrip.

After paying for my drink I stood looking out a full length window in the restaurant car. My full reflection looked back at me, reflecting through the view of the Main river, which flows into the Rhine. I thought about why I was nervous to go back home, and the reasons were complicated and many.

I was nervous to have obligations again, people holding me accountable to set plans instead of having the agency to create my own plans day by day. I as nervous to have more things to take care of and remember than a pack on my back. I have also always found great comfort in being around different cultures and people who didn’t speak my language, I think partly because I feel weird, like an outsider, and it’s harder to judge someone cross culturally than it is within a culture. Everyone looks different cross culturally and it’s accepted, but within cultures we find much more ways to police each other and show how one of us doesn’t fit in. I am so much more comfortable in the role of weird smiling foreigner than I am in quiet unsure person in American culture.

I was also nervous about my OCD getting worse again, I felt that I had been a person this trip that I longed to be, that I needed to be. It was easier to push past my obsessions and compulsions when I was in a new place, with no mind traps set. It was so much harder when you were home and your brain automatically slid back into the grooves of obsessive thought patterns.

During the trip I felt like someone that was okay with a normal amount of risk, and was lit up by adventure and the scale of the world and possibilities. I was nervous about feeling boxed in again, and feeling like I wasn’t reaching my full potential and stretching myself and living the life I could live.

I was nervous about flying, too. I had to get on a plane again tomorrow, and this flight was headed back to my routines instead of flying into the unknown, which made it easier to focus on the fear and not the adventure.

I arrived in the Frankfurt train station, the same station that I had begun my journey in a week ago, and grabbed one of the delicious spanikopita rolls from a stand. I took an Uber to the German Days Inn Hotel where I was reunited with my mom, who I would end my trip with the same way we started it. It was so great to see my mom, but I also cried for a good five minutes upon getting into our room for the night, with the finality of my solo trip being over.

The government shut down was still in place at that time, so they were rapidly shutting down flights connected to the US, mostly domestic. We were unsure if our flights were going to be canceled or not, and tried to make backup plans if we got stranded in DC and had to drive back to Kansas City.

The next morning we woke up, took the subway to the airport, and posted up for a few hours with a coffee. My mom said I was so different from last time we had been at an airport together, as I was taking pictures and engaging with the world still, not shutting down into my own little protective hole.

It turns out we made both of our flights on time, and all went relatively smoothly. Our international flight did warn to prepare for “more than moderate turbulence” as we neared the US which had me upset, but it never really came.

We made it back to KC around midnight, and my dad and my partner Carp picked my mom and I up. I was filled with amazement at myself for conquering my fears this trip, and was addicted to the feeling and wanting to continue the energy so I never lost it again.

That weekend we got back we did a writing retreat at a cabin with friends, I went back to my Bookmobile job, I went to a full day of restorative justice training with guys I visit on Bookmobile who are exiting prison, and I got some sweet Lebanese breakfast. The hangover from the trip would come, and things just wouldn’t hit quite as a hard as visiting a new country every day with a new language and food. Something about me and my OCD brain is addicted to fear- it tortures me and I live in a lot of fear. But when I can take hold of that fear and willingly plunge myself into the unknown, that’s where the real power comes from and I think that’s the gift that OCD has given me that not everyone possesses. I have to challenge myself regularly, and fear and excitement are so intimately tied that when you get on a roll of facing your fears, you can feel like you’ve figured out the meaning of life.

So how do I do that in my everyday life, since I can’t travel constantly? I can drink tea at a cafe when the barista has held my tea bag in her fingers without washing her hands. I can try new restaurants and experiment with new cultures and cuisines. I can sit in the panic discomfort of building new relationships that are deeper than a quick night out in Romania together. These are fears in a different way, and they don’t always produce as a much of a hit of success in my brain as I crave. But they are still important, and really, facing fears on the off-season from adventure is the real test of my courage and commitment to growing. I need both.

I’m going to keep writing about my OCD Exposure therapy journey, if only to hold myself accountable to growth. I also think it’s a good reminder when I think that I haven’t improved, to be able to look back at where I’m coming from. While the puzzle and rush of figuring out a new country everyday isn’t always there, there is still a world around me and if I’m bored it’s my problem, not the world around me. I want to find the magic in the world again, and I also want to keep tapping into thing that reliably gives me that magic feel- actively displacing myself into new cultures and countries.

I also want to remember not to idealize my Eurotrip, as I was very nervous before going. As I write this reflection, two months out from my Eastern Eurotrip, I am feeling the same feelings as I did on that German train back to Frankfurt. I have another trip coming up, and the nerves, and a disbelief in myself to be able to handle it are not fun. But they are worth it.

I didn’t write a blog post before I left for the Eastern Eurotrip, partly because I didn’t believe it was going to happen or I was going to be able to go through with it.

OCD Exposure and Response Therapy has been teaching me a lot, and it teaches me in the same way that good travel teaches me.

Here we are again in the same space, the same nasty anxious feelings. And I just need to remind myself that the best things come from that bad feeling of fear. Fear is a compass and it can lead you to realizing you are so much more than you knew you were. It can lead you to remembering your path in life, and the way you want to live your limited time on earth. Not as a hoarder of the mundane, being protective and trying to stay as safe as possible, but as an adventurer who is also open to the magic that we don’t know we possess, that only comes from stepping outside of our comfort zone and taking risks.

I’m reminded of recently when I went to a club with friends, and sat in the corner and watched because I am scared of dancing. At one point, they took the dance party over to me because I wouldn’t join them on the dance floor. I wish I had been able to dance with them a little to show the appreciation, and also step into the fear. I also appreciate them letting me continue to sit in the corner with my drink, but this is an example of everyday life when I didn’t push myself. It’s easier to push yourself for things that you want (like international travel), but what gets unlocked if you just start pushing yourself everytime that fear shows up? I bet everyday life starts to shine a little more like international travel.

You can’t have the rush without stepping toward potential deep discomfort and pain. Fear is a compass to finding out who you really are, who you really can be, and what the world is really made of.

I hadn’t planned on visiting a concentration camp during this trip, but once I got to Munich and started researching the city I realized it was going to be important for me to pay respects at the Jewish Memorial as a person who carries a German name, and also as a person in the world.

I’ve never intentionally sought out morbid history while traveling and have mixed feelings about tragedy tourism. It’s so important to remember horrible things that have happened and learn from them, but also I didn’t want to take tragedy lightly or make it just another stop on my trip. After scanning things to do in Munich that day though it became clear that I was going to be learning a lot about nazi history today. Munich was known as the “capital of the nazi movement” during the third reich, and soon I felt obligated to pay respects in Dachau, the site of the first and longest running concentration camp in nazi Germay, which was right outside of Munich.

On my way to the Munich train station I stopped by the Documentation Center which was created in 2005 and “is dedicated to addressing the city’s troubled past,” and seeks to “set the historical experience of the Nazi dictatorship in a current global context.” The Documentation Center is located at the cite where the “Brown House” formerly stood, which was the headquarters for the nazi movement.

They have Documentation Centers in many German cities, and we don’t have anything like this in the US to account for the slavery of African Americans, the genocide of Native people, or all the people killed in abroad to benefit our empire as far as I’m aware. In fact, trump is trying to do the opposite right now and assign new narrative to the past and current sins of our colonial US empire.

The train ride to Dachau was about 20 minutes, and I was only planning on stepping off the platform into the city for a bit. However, I started walking in the rain toward the Jewish memorial site and soon stumbled upon the “path of remembrance” which was the walk that Jewish people sent to Dachau had walked. Once on this path it felt like the least I could do to follow it to the end.

My ancestors left Germany in the 1700s for Russia and later for the US. They were not in Germany during the third reich, but I still carry a German name and legacy. Walking in the drizzling rain on an impromptu day trip to a site of so much pain felt important to reckon with. Sitting in the sins of the past, and paying respects to those who had died.

As I walked I reflected on the horror at Germany’s history, parallel to my own ancestral connection to it. It felt similar to the way I feel being an American citizen: disgusted and wishing it was completely different but still being intimately tied to it.

I didn’t realize that the Jewish Memorial was going to be at the site of the concentration camp, and I also didn’t know that I was just going to be able to walk right in.

At the entrance I noticed a “right to refuse admission” to “persons, political parties, or organisations which have made, or are making, statements that are anti-democratic, racist, anti-semitic, or otherwise contrary to the purpose of the Bavarian Memorial Foundation”. I thought about how this kind of sign in the US would likely come in conflict with “free speech” concerns, and respected that here in Germany freedom from discrimination and disrespect was more important than free speech.

The original purpose of the camps was labor camps, and it is said that hitler was inspired by the plantation slavery system in the US. However, Dachau and other camps soon turned their focus to using forced labor as a way to torture and murder. I walked past the gate that many people died trying to escap through, and walked through a model barrack that people had lived in and visited the religious memorial sites behind the rows of former barracks.

The layout of the camp at Dachau was applied to all future camps in nazi Germany. 32,000 deaths are documented here by Dachau, but it is believed to have been much more.

Following the path from the religious memorials took us outside a barbed wire gate and into “Barrack X” which was a large crematorium built around 1942. It served as a killing facility and also to remove the dead from the labor camp.

The signage said the gas chambers here were not used for mass murder, but survivors of Dachau have testified that the SS did murder individual prisoners and small groups with the poison gas here. Stepping inside, you are first in the “waiting room” where prisoners were told they were waiting for supposed “showers”. Next was the “disrobing room” where they were told to take their clothes off.

Continuing to walk forward, the next room was the gas chamber, which was all concrete walls with vents in the ceiling that the poison gas came down from, and was equipped with fake shower spouts to mislead victims. During a period of 15–20 minutes 150 people at a time could be suffocated in this room, with prussic acid poison gas (Zylon B).

The next room was the death chamber, where the murdered and dead were brought before they were cremated. And then finally the last room was the cremation room where four furnaces could each cremate 2–3 bodies at once. Also in the cremation room is where the hangings were carried out.

Leaving the concentration camp I was shocked to see that modern German houses bumped up right against the perimeter of the camp through the trees. I took a bus back to the train station, and sat down to wait for my train next to German tweens who were making “6, 7” jokes. I took the train back to Munich, and then soon got on a train toward Frankfurt.

On the way to Frankfurt, we passed through Nuremburg which was the site of Nazi party rallies for many years before it became the site of the trials of the Nazi party leaders. At the Nuremburg train station a group of loud and rambunctious men grabbed seats in front of me, and had everyone around us belly laughing around us, including the train attendants passing through. I couldn’t understand what the joke was, and it was also jarring after a solemn day at Dachau.

In another timeline where my ancestors stayed Germany instead of moving to Russia, I’d like to think they wouldn’t have been involved in the holocaust and would have risked their lives to protest and protect against what was happening. However, I’ll never know what my family would do in that alternative timeline. But I do get the chance to see what I will do in trump’s 2026 america. My country is currently funding the genocide of Palestinians, caging immigrants in the US and exporting them out to detention centers from countries they’ve never been to, murdering protesters, determining which citizens are deserving of remaining in the US, taking over control of independent countries by force, removing health insurance and food stamps access and more.

I was headed home to the US the next day, and felt my chest tighten for the first time on this trip.

The Vienna, Austria train station was my favorite on the trip. It had a food court with nice little booths with your own personalized train departure monitor. The train boarding, however, was the most chaotic of my trip. About 10 minutes before my train to Germany was set to arrive, they announced that everyone needed to change platforms immediately. We all ran across the station and I shared a moment with many Austrians in our confusion as the train attendants first told us to go to the back of the train, and then corrected and said we all needed to be in the front of the train. It was very chaotic, but in the way that strangers bond in the absurdity of the situation and being in it together.

On the train, even the seating was confusing. Using Google translate I was able to see that some seats said “reserved” and the other seats said “release as needed”. I sat in one of those seats, but became fixated on a loud noise on the train outside my window. My OCD was asking me to move seats, but then a young Austrian my age sat down next to me. Soon my social anxiety and excitement for cross cultural conversation overpowered my OCD urges and we started talking and I forgot about the noise and the urge to change seats.

His name was Felix and he said we were on a German train, which he attributed to why there were so many issues today. He said that Austria had invested much more in their train system while Germany decided to focus on car infrastructure years back. He also told me that in a few weeks Vienna would turn into a big outdoor winter market for the holidays and asked me what we do in the US. I told him that most Americans have indoor holidays with close friends and families at homes, and he was surprised we don’t have big outdoor gatherings like in Europe. “Oh, so your holidays are actually just like the Hollywood movies?” he said.

We passed a deer farm as I confirmed that yes, the holidays were a really lonely time for a lot of people in the US who don’t have friends or family in the US to be at homes with.

Thinking about it later, I realized that Americans would probably benefit from a shared space to celebrate the holidays in the winter. The idea of an open outdoor holiday market as a shared space all month sounds like it would be helpful for a sense of community during the darkest months of the year.

We became silent after this small talk, but later I asked him what he thought of American politics right now. He immediately lit up and said he had been wanting to talk politics with me but had been nervous to broach the subject. However he was still hesitant, and wanted to hear my opinion on what was happening in America first before he shared his (as all of the people I met on this European trip would). I let him know I wasn’t a fan of trump, and wasn’t a fan of America’s geopolitics in general as a colonial force (regardless of who was in power, but especially now). What followed was a high context, cross language and culture political talk that included comparisons of Hungary’s prime minister to Trump, and how Austria had been dealing with being on the border to Hungary (probably similar to how Canada feels about bordering the US at this time).

Felix was one of many Europeans who talked to me that week about how the rise of fascism and far right in the US was spreading to and within Europe. He said noted that Hungary and US’s politics felt reminiscent of nazi Germany. It was eerie having people that close in location to former nazi Germany validating that things were very bad in the world right now.

In regards to the far right in his country, Felix also described how Vienna was a really liberal city surrounded by more conservative areas, similar to metropolitan areas in the US surrounded by rural communities.

He invited me to meet up with him and his friend in Munich if I wanted, and we exchanged numbers in case we were ever in the same country again. Felix got off a few train stops before me in the pouring rain to visit old medieval architecture in a little German town called Passau. I was also on my way to visit medieval architecture and got off in my ancestor’s hometown of Regensburg, Germany on the Danube in the light ran an hour later.

My family lived in Regensburg, Germany until the 1700s when they took up Catherine the Great’s offer to move to Russia and farm land on the Volga River in order to dodge the German draft. In Russia they stayed in little Germany farming communities, continuing to speak German and never fully assimilated with the Russian speaking community. In the 1920’s Russia began drafting the “Volga Germans” into their military, and my family left Russia for the USA and moved to Kansas where I grew up.

Stepping off the train into the Regensburg train station I was struck by all the diversity and the prevalence of Arabic in the community. I felt that for my immigrant ancestor’s hometown to be the hometown of new immigrants was fitting, beautiful and full circle.

I had done zero research on Regensburg and had not even looked at a map of the city, only knowing that I wanted to walk toward the Danube River (my favorite free flow way to learn a new place). Walking out of the train station through the first exit I found, it was dark and quiet outside. I decided to mill around a little more and find the flow of the crowd, and soon found myself out on the north side of the train station and headed toward the Danube in a mill of people.

Regensburg was so much more than I had expected, such beautiful Bavarian buildings and the modern night culture that fit right in with the historic. The mist of rain throughout my walk through the old town felt like some kind of ancestral baptism. After finding the Danube I made my way back to the train station, got a sandwich, confirmed I was on the right train platform with multiple German speakers and then got on the train to Munich. I sat across from a little man who had “Starwars” keychains on his backpack who was silent the whole ride until the end when he spoke to me. I let him know I couldn’t understand him as I only spoke English, but we figured out together that he wanted me to watch his bag while he used the bathroom. As we got off the train he stood there and thought hard for a minute, then remembering how to say “bye” in English.

I arrived in Munich too late to get dinner as my hostel was in an area that was not ideal for finding late night options. Checking into the hostel it looked super nice, but then I was directed to exit through the door I had just entered, go around the building, head down a few floors through the dark parking garage ramp and then up an elevator to my room. I was not a fan, to say the least. I think the building I was in was an extension of the original hostel, and I didn’t see or hear a single soul that night, which in my opinion defeats the whole purpose of hostels. I almost left to find a hotel, but decided to stick it out through my OCD intrusive thoughts and say “maybe” to all of my fears that night.

I woke up safe and alive the next morning, and got some brötchen breakfast at the main building. Again, not a huge fan of this place. It was the first HI hostel in the world that I had ever truly disliked.

That morning I did research about Munich and was reminded that Munich was known as the “ “capital of the movement” during third reich and also was next to the first and longest running concentration camp from that time. I sat with the horror at Germany’s history, parallel to my own ancestral connection to it. It felt similar to the way I feel being an American citizen: disgusted and wishing it was completely different but still being intimately tied to it. I decided to head to Dachau for the Jewish memorial tomorrow and pay respects.

This is a conversation space exclusively for subscribers—kind of like a group chat or live hangout. I’ll post questions and updates that come my way, and you can jump into the discussion.

Join chat

How to get started

1. Get the Substack app by clicking this link or the button below. New chat threads won’t be sent sent via email, so turn on push notifications so you don’t miss conversation as it happens. You can also access chat on the web.

Get app

2. Open the app and tap the Chat icon. It looks like two bubbles in the bottom bar, and you’ll see a row for my chat inside.

3. That’s it! Jump into my thread to say hi, and if you have any issues, check out Substack’s FAQ.

I quickly packed up, brushed my teeth and was out the door. Walking by the kitchen window on the outside of the hostel I saw one of my travel friends from the night before, and we shared a sweet wave goodbye. Out onto the roads by myself, I followed the crowd into the city center and found an excellent breakfast place and got a falafel, hummus and eggs plate with a side salad topped with pomegranates and an espresso. I quickly ate, paid and left a tip (it’s not necessary for locals to tip a lot as was the case in much of the places I visited, but it’s considered thoughtful for tourists to do so).

I took Uber down to the train station again, and the station was much more inviting in the daylight compared to the night before. However it was still very bare bones and didn’t feel as conducive to travelers as the other places I had been on this trip.

Looking at the old fashioned departure board, I was confused between the different trains to “Arad” and “Aradia”, with “Aradia” having my train time but being the wrong name of the location I was headed. I went over to the ticketing booth, and thus began a short time of pissing off an elder Romanian lady because of my OCD.

I just want to be clear that I was definitely anxious to get on the right train, as it was my only way out of Romania that day and I was traveling through three countries to Austria by the end of the night hopefully. However, this woman had no patience for my clarifications. I bought another ticket to be sure, even though I had the Europass, and she rolled her eyes at me. “You don’t need it!” I said I know, but I want it just in case (on the app it said that you had to book a reservation on your Europass for this route, and I couldn’t find my reservation).

“But you don’t NEED a reservation,” she scolded me.

“I know, but just in case. My app says I need one?”

The purple haired Romanian elder was so annoyed at me and had absolutely no patience. I might have accidentally paid for these tickets three times, but on a packed train, I made it out of the station!

Passing through the Romanian farm fields I saw big hawks flying in the sky, and thought about how I had made it in the air this week, too.

I changed trains in Arad, Romania again and got on a Hungarian train bound for Budapest. Unfortunately, the train car I was assigned was empty of people, and smelled like vomit, especially at my seat. I decided to go to the next car to sit. The Hungarian rail attendant was slightly annoyed at me for not sitting in my seat, but just said to move if someone asked me to. I was embarrassed, and feeling the most OCD I had the whole trip. Thankfully no one needed me to move for the half day journey back to Budapest. I did ask myself what my OCD therapist would tell me to do about the vomit seat, so I walked back through the smelly train just for exposure therapy later in the day.

The immigration authorities going back into Hungary from Romania were the strictest I’ve ever seen in Europe. They came by and checked my passport at least 3 times, while going into Romania they barely glanced at my passport. Once in Hungary, we stopped in this little Hungarian town on the border for an hour, and I got out and walked around the little town.

We pulled into Budapest late at night, with literally 10 minutes for me to find my connecting train and run across the huge train station for it. I made it just in time, and we were off. I was very hungry, and thankfully they had a meal car on this train. I was a human among a sea of humans that night, humbled to feeling like an ant in an anthill in the best kind of way. While waiting in the restaurant train I helped translate broken English between German and non German speakers who all had English in common. To the English ear it’s much easier to understand broken English than it was for those with English as their second language.

Getting off the train around 11 pm in Vienna, Austria I ordered an Uber. However I had ordered it too close to the train station, and it was impossible to find and the person picking me up did not speak English, only German. I was able to cancel the ride by paying for it, and then eventually I was able to get another Uber after walking further away from the train station where it was less busy. This is a skill that I will carry on for all future Uber rides.

I made it to my hostel, passing Austrians out drinking and locking arms and singing in the streets. It was a welcoming neighborhood, and reminded me of our neighborhood in Kansas City.

I was getting more OCD the closer we got to the end of the trip, and the more systems I had put in place in my head for traveling. The next morning there was an amazing free breakfast served at the Vienna hostel, and when my OCD told me “not to eat that specific slice of cheese”, I made sure to grab that specific slice of cheese and shove it in my mouth. The savory semmel bun in Austria is just like the crispy and soft Brochen in Germany. I loaded it up with paprika hummus, cucumbers, tomatoes, peppers, swiss cheese and chive cream cheese. The breakfasts were probably my favorite parts of this trip.

I had to checkout of my hostel around 10, but I wanted to be able to freely walk around without my pack so I put it in this “honor policy” common room with a key sitting by the door. I only left it for an hour or so, but practiced exposure therapy in telling myself that “maybe” it would be stolen (but also I just wanted a break for my back from carrying my pack around all week).

Grabbing my pack again later, I headed to the döner restaurant that my brother and his wife had recommended. It was truly amazing. I did have to pick a hair out, but I didn’t even care and continued to eat the food.

While eating my döner, I looked at the train schedule to Munich for the day. It was so nice having the Eurail pass because I could take any train I wanted the day of, I wasn’t locked in with a specific ticket. I found a train coming soon that stopped in Regensburg, Germany on the way, so I headed to the train station to catch it.

As I woke up in Budapest that morning, I reminded myself that I’m doing this route because it’s a little scary to me, not apart from that. I was hoping to demystify and let go of stereotypes or at least learn to trust myself more if it turned out to be hard and bad. That is, I think, the most fulfilling part of life- the meaning of life. I’m nervous to write this story about Romania because I want to do it justice in how much it gave me energy for the future. But I think, just like the trip to Romania, I just have to do it.

Waking up, I headed quickly out of the Budapest hostel having made up my mind to try to get to Romania today, and needing to buy an earlier ticket. Armed with mid-travel confidence, I knew that whatever happened today I would be with myself. I had reunited with her, my old best friend on this trip and together we could figure out whatever we needed to.

I made my way to the train station on the east (keleti) side of the city and was able to secure the ticket! While waiting in line, another man was shouting in English that he needed a ticket, he was “traveling for work!”. The elderly train ticket man who didn’t speak much English calmly pointed at the screen “It’s both languages”.

After securing my ticket, I had an hour or so to kill before my train came, and since the train station was pretty bare bones I ventured back out onto the streets and found a little cafe and met some Hungarian baristas. As I made my way back to the train station, it was game time- about 10 minutes before my train’s departure to Arad, Romania. My train still wasn’t showing up on the departures board, but luckily a few minutes before it was set to leave I also checked the arrivals board and my train number finally showed up there. I rushed down the train station, making it onto the MAV Hungarian train set for Arad, Romania. After I got on, I asked everyone I saw if they were going to Arad. Most people barely understood my pronunciation of Arad, but were eager to help. Once a few people confirmed it, I calmed down and settled in for the ride.

There were so many empty seats on the train, but the train attendants were really insistent I sit in my assigned seat, which happened to be near the front of the train. It was also next to a windowpane filled with dirty condensation water, and I had intrusive thoughts of it just shattering all over me. After the train really started rolling I moved a few seats away from the liquid window, and got comfortable. I had a few other OCD moments, (like the picture on the right below) where we stopped for a bit and train attendants came to my window and were looking at something on the train right below me outside, poking at it for awhile. I had the urge to move seats again, but I kept sitting there for exposure therapy. And soon we were rolling again.

Awhile later we crossed the border into Romania, leaping one hour ahead in the time zone and into the twilight. We pulled up into Arad, Romania soon after, and I got off to wait for my next train. The train station had a book vending machine, and I was the only person looking at it and probably drew attention to myself. A nice woman came up to me and said to let her know if I needed any help with anything. She had been on my train here and had heard me speak English- I will call her Alina. I asked her if I was sticking out as a tourist that much, and she said she just wanted to be sure. We got to talking, and realized we were both headed to Timisoara next. As it pulled up Alina sighed, “Oh great, the Soviet train” and we got onto an old pre-1980s train headed to Timisoara.

We sat next to each other in a four person train compartment as the sun went down. While seated, it looked like the train next to us had started moving again and Alina panicked, banging on the window thinking that we were on the wrong train. It turned out we were on the right train, and we were in fact the ones moving, and we both breathed a sigh of relief as it was the only train to Timisoara that day.

On the train, Alina said she had been distracting herself from focus on her own country’s politics by watching the soap opera shit show that is my country’s politics. She knew so much about my country’s dynamics, I felt ashamed at how little I knew about Romania.

I had mentioned that abortion was illegal in Missouri where I lived in the US and people were without food stamp money for food due to the government shutdown. She helped me learn that Romania has free abortion care, free college and and required pensions for all Romanian workers until age 35, when it became optional. Romanians also get two years of maternity leave at 70% of their pay. Every Romanian also gets 30 days of paid holidays for every job every year. Romania also has the second lowest pay gap in all of Europe, second only to Luxembourg. He mom was friendly to the LGBTQ community, but she warned me that most Romanians were not, and to be careful.

Her parents have hosted coach surfers her whole life and encouraged her to do solo traveling her whole life. We bonded over the greatness of solo traveling- the ability to be in your own head and your own flow for long periods of time, and also the ability to have more strangers interact with you and become your travel buddies for an hour or two at a time.

Soon an elderly Romanian man in a newsboy cap and train uniform knocks on the door to check our passports and train tickets. I pull up my Eurail app, and he doesn’t recognize it, doesn’t like it much. Alina told me later that she was preparing to pay out a bribe to him to let me stay on the train, as bribes were a common thing there. Luckily he ended up recognizing it, and then recognizing that I was American.

“Trump!” he yelled with a smile, and I looked at me for a reaction.

I smiled back, but with a slight discomfort as the sun went down and I didn’t speak Romanian and was in a totally new country. How should I answer? I ended up just nervously laughing and making a face or two, and Alina probably translated something to the train attendants like, “she’s not thrilled with him” to which the train attendants admitted that was good, he didn’t like Trump. “Trump was like Putin, but Trump was good at what he does, in the show,” he said in Romanian, which Alina then translated for me. He also said that Trump wanted to be a dictator, just like the secret service did after the fall of communism. His advice after growing up under communism: “ride the wave, it will pass.” He said to let Trump dig his own grave, and that the US was a stronger democracy than Romania had been when it had fascist leaders.

Alina and him also joked that currently Romania’s version of US Fox news as “an insane asylum”, and that saying things are a “fact” in the US is enough, no proof needed.

Alina had previously been talking to me about how conservative and not feminist the Romanians around her were, and she was worried this little man was going to play into all the stereotypes of men in her country she had been warning me about, but then he turned out to defy the stereotypes for her, which she called an unexpected “ray of hope”. What followed was a two hour train ride with the train attendant routinely popping into our cart and sitting down with us to talk politics, which Alina moderated and translated between me and him, adding her impressive perspectives and political observations as well. They bonded over the shared trauma of the November 2024 election in Romania, which made both of them question and lose faith in their government’s objectivity when the constitutional court annulled the election claiming Russian interference.

The train attendant man had grown up during communism in Romania. He said he had the option to learn English in school, but they weren’t allowed to really use it under communism so he didn’t see the point but now wished he had learned. He also talked about how when he was growing up people were reporting on their neighbors for not adhering to strict communist rule, and how there was no bread and they were hearing that capitalism was trying to be exported east toward them. While fears of capitalism being exported were certainly real global dynamics at play at the time, he also said that there was lots more propaganda, just as he was seeing in the US today.

When I let him know that we were worried about Trump in the US, he said to “wait it out,” just like Putin. He said that Trump was a like “sock with holes” and that “something would plug the hole soon”, and it was people like Mamdani. He was a fan of the newly elected Zohran Mamdani, same as Alina, and he also said he supported Michelle Obama (which Alina was also very surprised by, as most Romanian men she knew would never support a woman in leadership).

Alina talked about how when J.D. Vance insulted Zelenski for the clothes he was wearing earlier this year, it felt like a knife in the stomach for her and people in Eastern Europe.

In 1989 the Romanian Revolution started in Timisoara, which spread across the country and ended communism in Romania and then communism fell apart in eastern Europe. Romania had only officially entered the Shengan region this year. Biden had finally given VISAs for Romanians to be able to travel to the US for the first time as he was leaving office, and Trump took that away when he came into office. Alina as a traveler hoping to visit someday was very upset.

Ironically, or not ironically, Alina and I bonded over our interest in politics originating from the place of feminism and being a girl/ woman in the world. Then at the end of our time with the train attendant, after a surprisingly pleasant and progressive dialogue for hours, he ended up asking her out (a sixty something year old man asking out a thirty year old). She shared how she was disappointed that he stopped talking to her after she said no, and how it felt like the whole conversation was just a lead up to asking her out, seemingly not real human bond and friendship. Also how it sucks to reject men, and women have to ward off proposals by men in public quite frequently, particularly when there are in public without a man by their side.

Stepping off the train into Timisoara, Romania in the dark we shared the mixed feelings of being annoyed at men, feeling bad when you have to hurt their feelings with rejection, and then also being annoyed that you have to so reliably ward off men in the first place when you are available and alone (cue my friend on my ride into Budapest the day before, which was the same situation). I thought about how this mixed feelings was probably similar for women all over the world just trying to go about their day, their work, their travels.

As I got off the train at the dark, low budget and vacant train station in Timisoara, Romania and Alina said goodbye to me, I felt myself jolted a little back into the real world. I had had such a magical train ride with people translating for me and looking out for me spontaneously, and now I was reminded that I was responsible for taking care of myself. Luckily, Uber worked in Romania and I waited 6 semi-nervous minutes in the dark with my pack for a ride, and then hopped in.

The Uber driver spoke Romanian and German, but no English. I used some of the German I had picked up earlier in the week, and also learned the new word for thank you for the next 24 hours: “multumesc”.

The Uber driver dropped me off in downtown, but on a quiet street with no visible entrance to a hostel. Walking around in the dark I found the gate to the hostel, and emailed the hostel host. A few minutes later he was up front letting me in, a tall and calm Mexican man with a travelers fanny pack and a backpackers heart. I would learn his story later in the night. Hector checked me in, and I somehow had exactly the right amount of Euros in my own fanny pack to pay him for the night, and he showed me my room which was complete with constellations and the moon painted on the ceiling. It was also a full moon night and it all felt great.

I was planning on staying in all night that night, having made it to Romania being accomplishment enough, but Hector said that he would like to show me and the other hostelers the town later if we would like. I didn’t commit, but said I could be down. Later I was going to sneak out and walk the block by myself, but passed by the hostel kitchen and they waved me in. When in Rome, I went back in.

I met some long term travelers: a girl from France, a girl from England and a guy from the states. Our host poured us complimentary shots, and then another shot, as we talked about what the fuck we were doing in Timisoara Romania. Hector told us about how he was robbed of all his money at a hostel mid Eurotrip 15 years ago, and he sought out this hostel to stay at and work to make money til he could leave. Then he fell in love with it, and ended up becoming partners with the owner and later taking it over. An amazing and shocking story.

I brought up that I was planning on heading to Peru as my next big trip, and our Mexican host Hector asked if we would like to check out the Latin bar in town, which was a Peruvian bar! We all agreed, and headed out into the night and became fast nomadic comrades in my favorite way- knowing it was only for one night but feeling like we were friends for life.

Over beers from Cusco, Peru we talked about scary movies to watch and realized that they were referencing all these new movies I had never heard of because they weren’t American. “You don’t hear about the other countries movies over there?” the European girls asked. “No, Mexico gets the same movies as the US. They are all made in the US, and they don’t promote ones from other countries”, our hostel host agreed with me. They found this really strange, and I took note of their movie suggestions for later.

The other three travelers had either just been to the Balkans or were about to go to the Balkans, and I was jealous and also so excited to see young people, young women traveling solo to places that people where I am from know nothing about and would be scared to go. Just like Romania. I found kindred spirit in the hostel host and the hostelers, and soon Hector invited his girlfriend to join us, who was a Romanian tattooist. I talked to her about the US, apologizing for my country and trump and she listened and said “you’ll be fine.” This was the third Romanian to tell me to cool off with my US drama, and I was appreciating it.

Someone bought an Ancho Reyes shot, and the French woman and I joked that the US was in it’s teenage “cutting its hair and dying it blue stage” as she said she had read that a democracy has to be around for at least 300–400 years to be a proper democratic country, and she really hadn’t thought about how young the US was. “Why is the teenager ruling the world?”

We said goodbye to Hector and his girlfriend and headed to the speakeasy he had recommended to us. The place was packed with two open levels, and the bartender was crude and let us know that he learned to speak English by playing video games where people r*pe and kill each other. One of the European girls said, “same”.

A babushka was selling flowers on the second level where we were, and I was obsessed with how much she was the stereotype of Eastern European babushkas. She was maybe half my height and had a armful of bouquets and a mischievous grin. I snapped a selfie, and I turned around and she wasn’t smiling anymore, she was scolding me. I feel bad about taking that picture, but it is also the best representation of my trip. For respect to her, and possibly her culture that I overstepped, I won’t share it.

Things got a little tense when the other American’s mom called, and was panicking because the US was shutting down lots of flights coming back next week due to the continued government shutdown. Then I accidentally cornered the American by asking if he was a feminist (I thought he was), which he wasn’t and I asked him to explain his point of view in front of us three feminist women travelers. After awhile we decided food was better than bickering over things we are already set in, and set out for food, and I got shit on by a pigeon.

While most things were closed, we did find a grocery store. The US man was fumbling with something he shouldn’t and got yelled at by the cashier with “Be a man…!” We all slinked outside and petted a cat and I thought about the US reputation in the world and ate my bag of pretzels in a slightly disappointed way. Man, I don’t want to be associated with us but I am also us.

Going back to the LGBTQ rights in Romania, homosexuality has been legal since 2001, but gay marriage still doesn’t exist, along with other rights and protections. Still, queer community exists everywhere and I stumbled across it in Romania, with my traveler friends, it was just more hush hush.

They stayed up to make ramen together in the hostel, and I went to bed to sleep and get ready for my trip to Vienna, Austria in the morning.

Whew. I miss being on the road so bad. I felt like my mental health was better when I was traveling to a country a day, strangely. And I think I should lean into that.

Waking up in Bratislava, Slovakia I had a long day on the train to Budapest, Hungary ahead of me. I was craving a big hearty vegetarian breakfast, and after some wandering around the old town I found it at a hip urban restaurant that had disco lights in the dark bathroom like you were in a club. It was delicious.

After breakfast I headed to the train station to post up early, grabbing an espresso at the little internet cafe in house. My train to Budapest that day ended up being delayed by a couple hours, and I kept my eyes glued to the departure board as more time kept being added to the delay. I posted up in a corner by a photo booth and the exit ramp from the train platforms. There were kids running around me excitedly taking pictures in the booth and elderly Slovak locals lugging baggage down the ramp.

Finally the departure board announced the platform the Budapest train would be arriving on, and I rushed to the platform with the crowd. Once up there, we waited for another twenty minutes, without indication that there was any train to Budapest coming for us (the departures at that platform were blank when we arrived there). The train did eventually come, and we all hurried onboard. Generally I would look for a seat by myself, but I sat down in the first seat I saw which was across from another passenger.

The other passenger, Yajat, was a man my age from India, who was now working as a cross country trucker between Hungary and Slovakia. We had a nice conversation as the train started moving, but as we were looking at a two hour train ride ahead of us, I wanted my own space and not to share dialogue with someone else. After using the restroom, I found another seat that wasn’t sharing a space with anyone else, and I let him know I was taking it. I felt bad that I had probably upset him a bit, and he asked me if it was anything he did. I reassured him no, it wasn’t him at all. I just wanted to spread out with all my things.

Right behind my new seat the train door was malfunctioning and kept opening and closing, but I was in heaven. I looked out the window into the Slovak wilderness and smiled as I confirmed that I would now have two hours to stare out the window, listen to music and be in my own head with no other obligations to anyone else. This was what I was really seeking in this Eurotrip, the countries were an exciting dopamine rush that came in second.

An hour and a half in there was an announcement that came over the loudspeaker in Hungarian and then English stating that we all had to exit the train immediately when it stopped in a few minutes. Looking back I wonder what the problem was with the train we were on, but at the time I was just going with the flow. I went up to confirm with Yajat, my seat mate from earlier. “Looks like we’re getting off soon?” Everyone was confused, but when the train stopped we all got off and stumbled into the midday sunshine, facing another train across the tracks.

Surely they weren’t going to have us all climb down and walk across the tracks? But sure enough, the train attendants started waving us over, telling us to hurry. The older woman carrying her heavy luggage next to me jumped down off our platform, over the train tracks and onto the other train. Yajat and I looked at each other and said, “I guess that’s what we’re doing”.

The new train we were on was a double decker one, and I sat on the top level and had an excellent view crossing into Hungary in the sunset light. There was some awkwardness between Yajat and I. I think he thought that because I had moved away from him on the other train I didn’t want to sit next to him. When he came to the upper level to sit and saw me, he apologized and tried to go back down the stairs.

“No, it’s okay!” I tried to explain. He was very sweet and considerate, but I think lonely and looking for companionship which was exactly why I had moved away from him on the first train. Not because I didn’t like him, but because I didn’t feel like navigating anyone else’s emotions but my own on this trip. Also I didn’t want to have to reject him if he tried to ask me out, which he soon did on this second train together, in the form of asking me to travel with him in his semi truck across Europe, multiple times.

Fortunately this was the first time I had had to navigate this as a solo female traveler on this trip, but I wasn’t happy to have to do it as it is an all too common occurrence for women in the world. I also didn’t have the heart to move away from Yajat again, as he wasn’t a bad guy, he just didn’t know what it was like to be a woman and to be approached in this way constantly by men.

I tried to play dumb, as is usually my approach, and busied myself with conversation about the view outside instead. Speaking about the area, he said lots of people in Slovakia spoke English, but not in Hungary. We also talked about where we were from and he told me that an Indian driver like him had recently been in a bad accident in the US and had major legal consequences. He said he was not looking to go to the US anytime in the future because of politics. I told him about the major issue with food stamp money being denied to Americans right now due to the government shutdown.

“That is nature,” he stated. “Some eat, some don’t. Some live, some die.”

This is the power of travel, to get outside of your conversation loops in your own head, in your own country. To be challenged, but not feel the need to defend your position because your mind is malleable and open to the journey right now, not absolutes. The traveler is present in gathering data, not responsible for making sense of it.

A little while later we started talking about Trump and how he was similar to Orbán in Hungary. We talked about a lot, pretty loudly, because we were alone on the top floor of the train. Once we got closer to Budapest we moved down to the bottom level where everyone else was, still talking politics. After a minute or so, we realized that everyone was quietly watching and listening to us, and I became very aware of the fact that I was entering the equivalent of Trump’s America in Hungary, except without the rights of being a citizen. Yajak had a similar realization at the same time, and he chillingly said to me, “We’ve said too much. Too much bad.”

We both went mostly quiet, waiting for the station to come into view.

In addition to being a good train conversation partner, Yajak obviously wanted me to come back to his hotel with him in Budapest. I kept brushing past his subtle advances as we got closer to the train station, and grew a little more uncomfortable. At the station, I said goodbye to him, and unfortunately felt the most paranoid I had the whole time I had been traveling and kept looking behind me as I walked away from the station. This was unfortunately because I had gotten to know someone, gotten to know a man as a woman who was currently alone (always read incorrectly as: available) in the world.

—

Budapest was immediately overwhelming in its metropolitan feel, with billboards advertising diamonds and coat jackets. It turns out Orbán’s fascism is just capitalism. Budapest used to be two cities divided by the Danube, Buda and Pest, and were combined in 1873. I was staying on the Pest side of the city, the eastern side. Budapest is known for merging the cultures of the west and the east, the intersection of Turkish, Austrian, Balkan and Italian cuisines.

Viktor Orbán is the prime minister of Hungary, having been said to have paved the route for others like Trump to rise to fascist power by utilizing populism, Euroscepticism and conservative racist ideology.

Turns out, fascism is just capitalism as I was bombarded with advertisements and billboards built into the the nearly two millennia of architecture upon entering the city.

Over in the U.S. on this day, Zohran Mamdani won the NY mayoral election and I heard young people saying his name excitedly for the rest of my trip through multiple countries.

I made it to my hostel for the night, and it was in an old beautiful building with fresh modern rooms.

I headed out to dinner and found a vegetarian restaurant that specialized in traditional Hungarian food.

I had been commenting earlier that day how surprisingly easy everything had been this time in Europe having wifi data on my phone via the Airlo app. The ability to have gps and ability to use Google translate made the language barrier a relative non issue most of the time. Of course it also helped that I spoke the lingua franca, English.

After dinner I went back to my hostel to take a shower and relax a bit. I was trying to connect to the wifi in the hostel so I could use my laptop for a bit, but the wifi wasn’t working with my laptop. No worries I thought, I’ll just use the data on my phone. Which was when I promptly realized that I had lost internet and data connection on my phone somehow.

I had been traveling for three days, across three different countries, and had no issues with phone data or connecting to wifi on my laptop. Suddenly, both were not working and I began to panic. You don’t realize til you lose connection how important it is to feeling secure while traveling alone. I suddenly had no way to contact my family to let them know I was having issues with connectivity, I had lost the ability to use Google translate to help interpret Hungarian, and it was getting late and I couldn’t ask Google where an internet cafe was where I could try a different wifi connection for my laptop.

Trying to stay calm, I headed downstairs to the front desk of the hostel. I was greeted by the same smiling guy who checked me in, Peter, and he asked what was up. I let him know that I had lost all ability to connect to the internet, could he help?

Being a person who works in a customer service job, I know it’s not anyone’s favorite thing when a person in crisis comes with a strange technology problem. However, Peter was so calm, empathetic and helpful and even let me connect to the data on his phone (it worked!). I couldn’t just keep using his data all night though, so I tried to troubleshoot what was wrong with my data provider but didn’t find much. I realized I needed to sit down alone somewhere with internet to really think this through. I was supposed to be leaving for Romania in the morning, and I needed to have a working phone by then.

All the cafes were closed at this time, but Peter gave me directions to an internet cafe he thought was open later. I followed his directions, but I didn’t find a cafe and the further I walked the less touristy it got and the more I felt like a fish out of water.

I stopped at an inviting pizza place on a dark street for some reason, asking the waitress if they had wifi, and holding out a few gold euros (they don’t even use euros in Hungary, they use forints). She brushed away my money and said no worries, just wait one minute. She got me the wifi password, and I leaned against the brick wall outside of the pizza place and spent fifteen minutes trouble shooting what was wrong with my phone data connection.

Again, I didn’t really come to any conclusions about what was wrong, and so decided I should probably just call it a loss for the night and go to bed. Walking back toward the hostel in the dark, I now realized that I had wandered off the path and was a little bit lost.

Not now! I thought. Of all the times to be lost this is not the time.

Thankfully, I followed the crowd and it led me back toward familiar landmarks of where my hostel was. Outside my hostel, I crafted a long Whatsapp message to send to my family, planning to connect to Peter’s hotspot again to send it.

“If you don’t hear from me I’m staying at the Wombat Hostel in budapest and will be here until I get things figured out with connection!”

However, as I was crafting it, I realized that it had actually sent. My phone’s wifi data was working again!

I have no idea why it went offline for those two hours in Hungary, but I was so thankful it was back. After an evening of feeling so helpless and at the whim of others I had a new appreciation for the people who tried to help me. And for myself for not bursting out crying in a foreign country when something went wrong.

Back at the hostel, I walked past the desk and Peter waved to me and said he had been worried he had pointed me in the wrong direction. I thanked him for his help and said I had been on a journey but my phone was working now! We shared a smile and the electric energy of witnessing a problem solved in real time, and I headed up to my room to sleep.

Before bed I planned a few backup plans in case I didn’t feel confident enough to continue on to Romania in the morning, but I decided to not make any decisions with the high cortisol from evening. I was going to go to sleep and see what tomorrow would feel like.