Postcards from Europe 💌

I land and the first thing I do is send myself up the side of Arthur’s Seat. My best friend lovingly calls me crazy for hiking on three hours of sleep. But I’ve hit the ground running, and I don’t want to waste a second of this whirlwind European adventure.

I do three hikes in three days, awestruck by Scotland’s lush landscape. It is just as green as I imagined. My friends text me to meet them at the meadows for a charcuterie-centred picnic, a perfect post-hike reward.

“Have you ever been to a Ceilidh?” asks one of the girls. I have not. I follow them to the bar for an irn-bru vodka and some rowdy dancing on a sweaty, kilt-filled floor. We hit a dive bar with a university crowd that gives me flashbacks to a life I lived a half-decade ago. It is pure silly goofy fun, completed by post-club fries topped with a ketchup heart.

I take the train to Glasgow to meet one of my London girls. We spend our entire weekend sharing small plates and French wine neither one of us can afford. We’re each other’s hype girls, taking outfit pictures in the taxi and flash food photos at the dinner table.

We spend our days musing over art galleries and cathedrals. “Are you religious?” I ask. “Only when God answers my prayers,” she replies, and we both laugh. Most people won’t admit that this is how they view God too.

She heads home, and I spend a Sunday evening exploring Glasgow’s west end; Billie’s newest album serving as the perfect soundtrack for meandering through a botanical garden. On my final morning, I squeeze in a museum and brunch with a friend. This is living deliciously, and I can’t wait to savour what comes next.

—

I start my time in Berlin with a late night long walk. I know I shouldn’t, but it’s my favourite way to see city landmarks - lit by streetlights, without the chaos of bustling tourists. I’m immediately struck by how masculine the architecture is. Twirling in front of Humboldt, I picture my life in an alternate timeline - one where I did my master’s in Europe instead of Aotearoa. The air buzzes with the energy of the Euros, and I am enamoured.

The next day, I wander Spandauer Vorstadt and pause for lunch on a lush green patio. I take my time getting ready for the most infamous club in Berlin, which does not live up to its reputation (though serves me right for going on a Tuesday). However, I can’t complain about the atmosphere - tattooed queer bodies fill the drag show dance floor and I fit right in. I’m glad to check things out for myself, and I’m equally as glad to be in bed with a full belly by one.

I spend my third day exploring the city’s monuments - I almost miss the Fraternal Kiss, but snap a picture in the cab in the way to my next destination. That evening, I float in a thermal spa that plays music underwater, and remark at how grand this grand adventure is shaping up to be. That night, I try my hand at another Berlin club, making friends in the metro along the way. “You’re going by yourself?” they ask. “Obviously,” I retort, “I do everything by myself.” I accept their offer to escort me to the doors - because while I can do everything alone, I’ll never complain about the accompaniment of new friends.

It’s a long night fuelled by techno music, followed by a life admin morning. I catch the train to the airport and romanticize the German countryside the entire way. I think of my father’s ancestors, who came to Turtle Island from here as migrants fleeing religious persecution. I wonder if these were the lands they farmed. In the station attendants, I see my grandfather - finally, I can piece together the source of his stoic exterior.

—

My flight to Ibiza is delayed by a few hours, which means the night is ready to start by the time I get there. I laugh at the scene unfolding in front of me - the same woman who checked me in is working double duty pouring shots for everyone at the hostel bar. I revel in the accents around me; how lucky I am, to meet this many people from around the world.

The next morning, I pull up to my pre-boat cruise brunch and immediately scan the crowd for new friends, hoping that whoever I meet here is going to Calvin Harris and David Guetta too. I find my rave match in two Edmontonians. We spend the entire day cracking inside jokes with each other; our shared humour a comfortable reprieve from the constant newness that backpacking brings. Eighteen hours later, we collapse into our respective beds, exhausted and exhilarated from a full day of dancing. Over the next morning’s brunch, they ask me whether I’m planning to replace them. “Obviously not”, I promise them, and keep my word.

I make friends with Americans and Australians, sharing deep conversations over lagoon swims and on pizza shop patios. There are goofy memories too - like the “guestlist” that cost €40 and a lifeguard rescue from a rogue paddleboard. These girls ooze so much sweetness and sincerity that I wish I could hang onto them a little longer. I add their hometowns to my travel list, making note to one day see them again.

After a full weekend of socialising, I spend my last evening in Ibiza’s old town. I stumble into my trip’s best views off the side of a castle; the Mediterranean Sea to my left, a sunset-lit city backdrop to my right. Gold tones glaze the sky, and it is perfect; my life stills, if only for a moment, before I fly to Barcelona.

—

Barcelona’s Gaudi architecture drips intricacy, details nearly microscopic in nature. There are art museums to be seen and tapas to try around every corner. I admire the city’s skyline from hotel rooftops with carefree, self-loving friends whose paths are crossing mine from home. Their presence reminds me what life is about: the people and places that make it colourful.

On my fourth + final day, I go on a kayaking and cliff-jumping excursion in Costa Bravas. I meet a Toronto girl while waiting in line; we instantly become two peas in a pod, gossiping on the back of our bus. When we make the same offhand joke in sync, I ask, “Did we just become best friends?”. We both nod feverishly and burst into giggles.

That night, I go on a photo walk around the city centre. When my group wraps, everyone agrees to go to a jazz bar. I have a flight to catch in six hours, but this sounds like an adventure I can’t say no to. I’m awestruck by the singers, rappers, and saxophone players on stage, all buzzing with creativity. “I’ll stay for one drink” soon turns into a cocktail bar, a dance club, and a severely underslept me, forced to cut my night short to make it to Mallorca.

I arrive and immediately crash. Post-recovery nap, I explore Palma, and enjoy a slow evening in a cosy vegetarian restaurant. While meandering through town, I spot a woman alone on a patio with an iconic haircut. “Are you solo travelling?” I ask. We spend the next hour getting to know each other’s life story.

My lovely London friend arrives, and we have the sweetest weekend catching waves and sunsets. We laugh our way through a tacky tourist cave tour, swim in ocean blue, and admire lemon trees in the countryside. It is every bit the tranquility I need before continuing on to my final country.

—

“Bestieeee!” I sing-song as I enter the Airbnb and embrace my Vancouver best friend in a hug. Our first order of business is grabbing the last table at a nearby mezze spot. “We’re swapping stories, you start”, she says. We spend hours filling each other in on our respective European adventures.

The next day, we wander cobblestone streets, making stops to buy ginjinha and pastel de nata. “It’s like a cross between a butter tart and crème brûlée” I comment, knowing she’ll understand my reference. We’re different people, awestruck by the same things: peacocks in the street, buskers playing acoustic covers, colourful clotheslines billowing in the breeze.

I go off on a solo venture, and she hangs my clothes to dry; a quiet act of care that reminds me how deeply I am loved. That night, we walk through Chiado, where men with Cheshire Cat smiles try to coax us into their restaurants. Tired and hungry, we settle into a place where neither the food nor the music is memorable - but at least the conversations and company are.

We board an early morning bus to the Algarve; I drop my best friend off at a co-working space and spend the whole day making note of places to tell her about. Albufeira is much like Niagara Falls; natural beauty set against a tacky tourist backdrop. We can’t beat it, so we make plans to join it and see the strip for ourselves. Pre-drinking on the beach, we alternate between laughing so hard we cry, and crying so hard we can’t help but laugh. As going out usually goes, our quality time together is better than any dance floor we step onto.

I spend my last day in water, on a boat. As dolphins bob beside me, I catch myself squealing; nature never failing to mesmerize me. That night, my friend and I marvel as the sun fades into hazy purple over the beach horizon. We love the view so much that we return for sunrise. The beach is near empty, save for the seagulls; arriving there before almost anyone else makes us feel like we’ve stumbled upon a well-kept secret. An older couple, epitomizing lifelong love, is play fighting in the ocean; watching them with admiration makes the most peaceful end to my packed European adventure.