I remember when I first moved to Spain. It was 2002, and I was a junior in college, fresh faced and completely freaked out about the potential at living abroad for six months. I was so naive that I didn’t even understand what a converter was; I quickly learned after plugging my hair dryer into a hotel socket and blowing out all the fuses on the third floor. {Thankfully, the hotel employees were kind enough to excuse me and my idiocy, which was especially generous considering there may have been an actual shattered lightbulb!}
But as it tends to do, time passed rather quickly and I flourished during that half year experience. I met friends and traveled all over Spain and parts of Europe. We explored ancient churches; we wandered through the energetic city streets of Barcelona and Madrid; we gazed on the famed artwork at the Louvre and the Prado; we watched Flamenco performances in dimly-lit caves in Granada. We traveled.
Still learning to use my camera. Found these beautiful horses while trekking over the border into Spain
But funny enough, my most vivid memories from that semester aren’t from our “typical” traveling experiences. Rather, I most remember the random shenanigans we found ourselves in while opting for the proverbial road less traveled. I remember sleeping on private lawn chairs at a hotel when we realized the entire town was booked up for a festival {We snuck out pre-dawn before security caught us}. I remember trekking along a highway for six hours in order to see the castle at Guadalest, only to discover that it was closed on Mondays {whoops!} I remember hopping in a bull ring with a baby bull because, why not? {Turns out, they are terrifying when they charge you, regardless of the size!}
My point is this: I loved adventure travel even before adventure travel was a coined term in everyday vernacular. And the older I get, this love deepens. This past week’s European trip has solidified my passion for experiential travel.
One's destination is never a place, but a new way of seeing things. ~Henry Miller Share on XHiking the first stage of the Camino de Santiago was an incredible experience. After spending a quick 24 hours in Paris to celebrate our one-year anniversary, Will, my parents, and I zoomed down to the south of France to a small mountain town called St. Jean Pied de Port. From there, we hiked 45 miles, into and over the Pyrenees. We trekked across the border into Spain, eventually concluding in Pamplona, the city made famous by Ernest Hemingway and running bulls.
Pamplona takes their siesta seriously! Deserted streets as we entered the Old Town
Adventure travel isn’t for everyone. We didn’t visit Madrid or the Prado. We missed out on Barcelona and its bustling La Rambla and famed Gaudi architecture. Hell, we barely saw the Eiffel Tower in Paris; we swung by once just to re-visit our engagement bench from Will’s surprise marriage proposal.
But you know, it agrees with me. Now that I’m back in the country, I’m reminiscing about those lush rolling hills of the Pyrenees, dotted with shaggy sheep and yappy herding dogs. I’m missing the sweet older French gentlemen who *literally* wore newsboy caps over pints of beer with their buddies at the local pub. My mouth waters over the bricks of cheese the albergues served with the “Pilgrim’s Menu,” the daily dinner for Camino hikers. And I’m seriously, seriously missing the constant bread and bottomless red wine that was a given at every Camino meal.
Sun setting upon our first albergue in Orrison, France
But more than anything, I’m missing the mental relaxation that came with simply strapping on a backpack every morning, pointing my shoes due southwest, and trekking all day long. For many, this would be a nightmare of a vacation. And I get it; I understand why others prefer cruises and traditional travel that highlight the famous points of any given location.
But for me? I’ll choose adventure travel every single time.
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