In all my travels, I remember best the mountain view from Sintra. Little houses lined in waves at the bottom, tight groves of forest and blankets of farmland curled between. In the sunshine, these white homes seemed like seashells washed ashore—I almost felt that if I blew too hard from my height, they would stir and sling toward the sea. The clouds, after all, seemed in conversation with the ocean—gray coils growing and growing, stretching wide across the massive blue. If they were ever to burst, should they start the erosion? Should it go down in history as the Second Great Portuguese Flood—little houses floating into the bank? I knew it was a nonsensical idea, and still I took comfort in the idea of being atop a mountain, on top of the world, if anything were to fall.
I did not intend to stand on this mountain originally. On that trip, I decided to embark on a castle-hopping endeavor, and plugged my next stop—The National Palace of Pena—into my Google Maps. A forty-minute walk, it read, not so bad. Little did I know it rested on a 435-meter mountain until I was twenty-minutes deep into my hike, passing tourists much more suitably dressed for as arduous a climb. Still, after sweating through my jeans and flannel and paying my way inside, I grinned at the top.
This was my first time solo-traveling, and I had gone from Lisbon—the city of my main stay—to Sintra for a day trip. I felt nervous at first, especially with navigating the transportation. I was spoiled in my study abroad city of Prague—whose tram and metro system was the golden star of efficiency. Touching down at the Lisbon airport after midnight, I didn’t know what to do. I had researched the transportation prior to traveling, discovering a bus that came on the hour near the airport. But the timing was just off and I stood alone at the stop and watched a lamp post flicker in droves against the passing cars. Checking my phone again, I read that my hostel was an hour walk away. My legs stiff from the plane and eyes too awake with the hour-ahead time difference, I opted to walk. Whether this was the wisest idea is perhaps a different question. Still, the air was warm for February and blogs of Lisbon’s safety for solo travelers was bright in my mind. And so, I embarked.
The walk itself was smooth. The following days as well. Besides waking up my first morning in a bed adjacent to an outstretched man in an “all-female room,” I felt safe, content. Met a kind yoga instructor from Porto on vacation with her partner. Plugged in music when the study abroad group from Florence, loud but sweet, spilled their going-out products on the floor in a scramble to get ready. Impressed an older couple on the train to Sintra by inquiring of Jane Austen when they claimed Bath as home.
This experience was my first solo trip and shaped the way I approached my travels from thereon. I felt confident, seasoned, ready to take on whatever challenges came my way. In my only other plane-required venture, I arrived in Athens, Greece on the day of a labor strike, when no transportation was available in or out of the airport. Waiting on the sidewalk in a huddle for a bus never to come, I overheard others in a presumably— there was a language barrier—similar state of anxiety. I turned to the woman next to me and asked if she was headed to a nearby area to my destination—the apartment of a Greek girl I had befriended in a hostel in Poland. Unfortunately, she was not. I asked another person. And another. Finally, I ended up negotiating a cab with a Bolivian couple and an Italian woman, all of whom knew a little English. All during the cab ride, the Bolivian woman, Ceci, showed me pictures of the salt flats in her country. “It’s a good time to come for Americans,” she said, “the economy is horrible—it will be so cheap!”
I smiled and listened to Bolivia’s beauty, added it to my mental list. Unlike America, Eastern Europe lends more grace with money, more trust. The places I explored didn’t have rails in front of their metro stations nor front-door swipe machines on buses. You could simply get on and ride. Of course, as a college student, I took advantage of this system one time too many. Pretended to pay or have a pre-paid pass, veered away from officers when I saw them board, kept to myself. Still, I did pay when I could, using the trams repeatedly in Prague, Bratislava, Krakow, Budapest. And, when I couldn’t, I walked. Everywhere and anywhere. Up that mountain in Portugal, through the streets of Germany, all across the Czech Republic. And I loved it. The opportunity to not only see, but be in the world—pick up gelato from a small stand near a castle and stumble into a thrift store. I liked the idea of being completely open to what the world offered me, instead of a witness behind a glass window.
Still, in discussing my options of travel, I do feel spoiled in the experience of Europe. Returning to a country with fewer and far less affordable public transportation options, it is tempting to call an Uber or ask a favor of a licensed friend. And, if stranded in unfamiliar territory, I too may call upon that practice. Nonetheless, after riding hours upon hours on trains and buses, one is prompted to reflect on their carbon footprint. While abroad, I can happily write that—with the exception of two air travels—it was quite minimal. Trams and metros work on a schedule that one doesn’t disrupt nor exacerbate by hopping aboard. Here in the U.S, in the land of highways and cars, our emissions are undoubtedly more individually produced. And so, the infamous question emerges: what can we do? As a student in Ithaca, I often hear complaints of the town’s wide-spread nature and the inability to get off campus without a car. And, I share this longing at times. It would be nice to have access to 24/7 wheels that could roll me to any near hike, restaurant, store. The dependability of the bus schedule here could never compare to that of the Czech Republic, but most days, it is reasonable. I often take the TCAT—free to all students—when on an errand to Walmart or traveling to my class at Cornell. And, after that class, I walk. And, if headed into town, I walk. On beautiful days or slightly-cool days or those where the sky has turned to mist, I believe there is no better practice than stretching your legs. Of course, I am then brought back to the memory of hoisting my body up a hill in Portugal, sweaty and happy and free. Although, while in Ithaca, a half-hour-or-less walk downhill to the Commons should be perfunctory. Or, if in want of a hike, heading to the natural lands for good reflection. Or, if in want of food, taking the TCAT instead of ordering off-campus Grubhub. Getting out. Exploring. Being in the world, even in our little corner of it. This is the true treat of travel.