The houses, splayed like an accordion of pastels, radiated softly against lukewarm sunlight and relentless breeze.
Just an hour north, after traversing through kilometers of verdurous farmland, fields of brilliant yellow flowers, and snaking switchbacks that hugged closely to guardrails and scraggly cliffs, the little town thrived on the brink of mountains and sea.
Too many things are promised to be once in a lifetime, yet too many things are too good to only be promised once.
Pale buildings, lined with accents of deep blue. A hallowed church dominating the peak of a hill, only accessible through ankle-breaking cobblestone roads and pressing alleys. Framed in the middle of the city, surrounded by dark rock beaches and bobbing sailboats, kids cloaked in soccer jerseys scuttled around, kicking soccer balls or dodging the easy-going, mingling chaos on bicycles.
It was just a throng of people milling through the charming streets, popping into cafés for gelato or a shot of bitter espresso. Nothing old, nothing new, yet to be among such a cultivated lifestyle was perfectly surreal.
The life was so simple, yet it challenged the most perplexing questions:
How is life supposed to be? And how should it be handled once dealt an opportunity that surely would never come again?
Too many things are promised to be once in a lifetime, yet too many things are too good to only be promised once.
My chimerical experience—borderline fantasy—is what some people get to experience daily. The life and adrenaline of striding through foreign air with no preconceived identity, a blank palette, and the will to explore a land so diverse and stunning was what fueled my thoughts for months.
And some people get to experience it daily.
I do too. I just haven’t been looking.
It is just that time when the purple and yellow flowers start to transform into budding inflorescences, their petals fanning out to steep in the long summer days. I spend weekends hiking nearby trails with my friends, laughing so hard that my cheeks throb and my stomach aches.
My family, eating dinner together after a series of long days, understanding each other like a single unit.
When I remember the beauty in that, it starts to feel surreal. Not the type of surreal associated with packing up and flying 4,000 miles to foreign lands, but the type of pleasant, calm tranquility that isn’t just promised once.
I love traveling. I thrive on long airport layovers, pinning my face against the airplane window to squint down on worlds of farmland and mountains, and taking that first drive outside of the airport once arriving in a new place.
For me, traveling is essential to be well-rounded. Seeing life in different fonts or completely different styles places a jarring perspective on the one I live in, for better or worse.
Nothing old, nothing new.
I don’t fear the promise of once in a lifetime because I have admission to the life promised to me:
Friends, family, flowers—and I don’t have to scour foreign streets to get fulfillment with that.
