…what I read on the road…
I often set off on solo adventures, but that doesn’t mean I’m ever truly alone. More often than not, I take my paperback friends with me.
Choosing the book is never random, it’s a ritual. A quiet question to myself: What do I want to gain from this journey? Who do I want to become by the end?
And some stories stay with me just as long as the real human encounters.
Georgia – The Year of Forgetting
When I left for Georgia, my Kindle was full of non-fiction, classics, philosophical essays, you name it. I thought being well-read and well-travelled was my duty as a young adult.
To be honest, I can’t even remember if I finished a single book there. Everything blurred together – silly dancing in living rooms, laughing with new friends who felt like family, and the aftertaste of wine.
Perhaps there wasn’t a need for a book, but for life itself.
Latvia – Born for Adventure
When I set off for Latvia with On the Road by Jack Kerouac tucked in my backpack, I learned that I was born for adventure rather than comfort. I realised that sometimes sleeping in a dirty hostel with twenty strangers feels far more alive than lying alone in a sterile hotel room.
Kerouac’s restless energy mirrored mine. The freedom in exhaustion and the lightness of breathing. In and out. You will be ok, kid.
Albania – Searching for Treasure
Before backpacking through Albania, I chose The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho as my companion. Like Santiago, I was searching for meaning – hoping to find a treasure by the end of my journey.
And while I didn’t find gold, I found something far rarer: the ability to survive and keep going, even when the water ran out hours ago and there were still mountains left to climb before civilisation appeared again.
Maybe the real treasure was learning that I can drink from a river stream like a local deer trusting that I won`t shit myself by morning. Spoiler alert I did not.
Finland – Sweat and Thai box
In Finland, under the quiet weight of grey skies, I read Humans: A Brief History of How We F* cked It All Up by Tom Phillips. It felt strangely fitting – a humorous, sobering reminder of how fragile and ridiculous we are.
Since I couldn’t afford even a hostel bed, I used Couchsurfing, which left me sleeping on the floor of a Thai boxing gym. With that sour, sweaty odour in the air, I couldn’t help but think that humans really are, in fact, fucked up. I probably more than the others.
Lanzarote – Lost and kinda naked
While backpacking around Lanzarote, my company was Gail Muller’s Unlost: A Journey of Self-Discovery and the Healing Power of the Wild Outdoors.
I learned that even though I adore the wilderness, I might never have the guts to hike the Appalachian Trail and that’s okay. I also learned that everything sound better whit Spanish accent.
Paris – How to be a French girl (and how not to be someones mattress)
On the way to Paris, I was scanning the pages of How to Be a French Girl by Rose Cleary. Between coffee cups and train windows, I learned that sometimes you have to risk everything to gain something better, and that no matter how many times you undress for someone, if they only see you as an object of desire, they always will.
You can let them read you like a paperback – bent and broken – and still end up left alone in the cold.
Lost & Found
I’ve travelled to so many more places and read so many more books that changed and shaped me into the version of myself I am today. Some books I finished, others I left halfway through – dog-eared, sandy, or forgotten in hostel book swaps.
But each one marked something in me: a moment of change, a tiny spark of hope, and an unbearable desire to be a little better than I was yesterday, and the day before that.
In the end, reading was never about getting lost, but about arriving at the final destination – myself.
And if not that, at least it’s a good way to kill time when the Wi-Fi kicks the bucket.
