My illusions of living in Austria featured scenes of weekends spent carting off to little Eastern European villages snuggled amongst leafy trails with nothing but Ann The Trusty Trail Shoes, a solid Jules Verne read and a euro or two for a hearty cup of coffee.
I would power to the Hauptbahnhof train station, stroll up to the ticket booth and knowingly slide the myriads of 10 and 20 euro cent coins that would build up from the grocery budget. I would ask in a smooth and collective voice:
“Ticket to wherever this gets me, please.”
Our entire conversation would take place in German, of course, as I fully expected to reach fluency with very little effort in the first couple of weeks. Maybe a month or so; I wanted to be realistic.
Four months later and we find Josie, situated at a mediocre proficiency of German language knowledge, primarily running on the roads of Graz, realizing that a €2,20 ticket will get her about 8km from Graz.
I’m not disappointed with the way that things turned out; I adore my beautiful lively, primarily-Bosnian flatmates, I am constantly overwhelmed at the amount of adventuring I’ve gotten to do over the weekends with decidedly the greatest humans of our generation. I’ve fallen in love with the primarily-road-based routes I’ve created for my sunrise running, now looking forward to flashing the peace sign at ensuing runners and remembering previous moments of running in that spot.
The German proficiency could be better, but it can’t all be peachy.
The most important difference between the current state of life in Austria and what I drew up in my mind entirely revolves around the importance of good people.
I completely forgot about them.
I spontaneously decided to meander down to the southern part of Bosnia solo for a few days, badly in need of an influx of Vitamin D and a change of vibe.
Mostar, Bosnia during the end of November is off-season; the hoards of sun-craving tourists flashing oversized cameras at the photogenic architecture was at it’s blessed minimum.
The hostel that I stayed at was this eclectically narrow four-story alcove 10 minutes on foot from the bus station, nestled in an alley and featuring breathtaking mountain scenes on all sides, called Hostel Balkanarama.
Being off-season, I was the only guest; the other members residing in the hostel being semi-full time residents who maintained the hostel.
I have never met such a wonderful troupe of inclusive individuals. They brought me into the sanctity of their fellowship, exuding vibes of love, sustainable living, fascinations with culture and with appreciating life.
They brought me along to a documentary film festival on feminist Bosnians working in non-traditional careers, took me out for Turkish coffee with the filmmakers, gave lessons on the art of fermentation and sourdough baking, made ample amounts of Turkish coffee for me.
The owner of the hostel was this insane Bosnian rocker who exudes only good-vibes, and his band was playing a gig at a local Bosnian club. The hostel residents invited me to be groupies with them, and we went and jammed to the greatest rock, none of which I understood.
The dance party commenced once we got back to the hostel, screaming at the top of our lungs to Salt n’ Peppa and the Spice Girls with ice-cream spoons until the middle of the night.
I still got the time to hike and to move, the time to rejuvenate in the sun and read inspiring enlightenment texts, to write and to rejoice in solitary moments with just my thoughts and the mountains.
But the people. The influx, the waterfall, the cascade of beautiful good people.
Everything will always boil down to love.
I need these people. My soul craves this connection.
Traveling solo has suddenly featured a different kind of end-goal: it’s no longer to recuperate from being around people all the time, to get a significant amount of alone time for me to do whatever I want to do.
It’s become a chance to learn how to understand other people better. To become like a local, to experience the culture through the people that have created this culture.
