Maps I’ll Never Follow Again
Every trip changes something in you, even the ones that go wrong. Sometimes you come home lighter, sometimes heavier—but you never return with the same map you left with.
I used to think travel was about movement—new streets, new meals, new faces. But lately, I’ve started to realize it’s mostly about contrast. You go somewhere unfamiliar to remember what’s familiar. You get lost just to see what “found” really means.
Last year, I took a trip through southern Portugal without much of a plan. I followed trains that didn’t connect, stayed in rooms that smelled like salt and oranges, and got sunburned in places I didn’t know could burn. I met a man who sold postcards he painted himself, each one slightly crooked but full of heart. He told me, “No map shows how far you’ve gone if your mind is still behind.” I wrote it down on a napkin that I later used to wipe gelato from my wrist.
By the third week, I stopped checking where I was. I started following sounds instead—guitar strings, market chatter, seagulls. I realized how many times I’d traveled before just to collect proof: photos, tickets, words. This time, I didn’t take a single picture. It felt like I was finally seeing things without needing to keep them.
When I got home, I found that I didn’t miss the places. I missed who I was while finding them—curious, slower, almost invisible. Maybe that’s what travel really is: not a search for better places, but a brief break from the version of yourself that always needs direction.
Some maps, I think, aren’t meant to be followed again. They’re meant to remind you that you once walked without knowing exactly where you’d end up—and it turned out fine.