It’s winter here in Australia, and while waiting for my plane last night I watched the sky settle into that strange 6pm darkness that feels so distinctly different from a summer night.

Sunset in Coffs Harbour

As people bustled about, hauling heavy luggage, arguing with one another, looking down at their phones, I felt a sense of deja vu. I was reminded of hundreds of similar nights growing up in New Jersey, leaning against my kitchen island while looking at my reflection in the window and the dark winter night beyond. And now here I am, all grown up (nearly), having an identical tactile experience half the world away.

Perhaps the wave of nostalgia was particularly pronounced because of my emotional connection to Sydney and Australia in general. Last time I was in the Sydney Airport, almost exactly five months ago, I was on my way home from study abroad. Sitting there in March, just one gate over from where I sat last night, I had cried unguardedly, feeling a strange mix of immense gratitude and immense sadness to see something good end. Late August had seemed so far away to me then.

Sunrise in Bondi Beach

But of course, time always has a tendency to slip away faster than we expect. My three months in Sydney were perhaps the most social of my life, and I worried that this trip would pale in comparison. In reality, however, my week in Coffs Harbour and Sydney has been a testament to how comfortable I have become on my own. Getting off the bus in Sydney, the first familiar place I had been in over two months, I felt an acute sense of relief. I spent the next four days gorging myself on my favorite foods, meeting up with Australian friends that I met at a hostel in Belgium, and sunning on the very beach where I found out I had been chosen for the Circumnavigator Grant. I’m not sure if I could have been so comfortable alone even three months ago.

I was reminded of my dear friend Hope’s mantra: “wherever you go, there you are.” When Hope first said that to me a few days into our study abroad experience, I didn’t quite understand what she meant. But after 64 days of traveling alone, the phrase has new meaning. Across 11 countries, I have come across different people, different weather, different accommodations, different food, different money, and different systems of transportation. The only constant has been me.

Sunrise in Coffs Harbour

As I head into the last 7 days of my trip, Tokyo bound at long last, I’m feeling proud and excited and nostalgic and thankful. It doesn’t quite feel real that this trip, something that I wanted for months, and then planned for months, and then did for months, is coming to an end. But while I’m devastated for this chapter to close, I have a new found invigoration for what’s next. This trip has taught me that I have control over my own experience. And while it’s unlikely that I’ll ever have another opportunity like this, I’m going home with the comforting feeling that my next step will be just as fulfilling as long as I’m there.

Thank you all for following along this far. I hope that you have gotten even 1% of the enjoyment that I have from this life-affirming trip.

I’ll be back next week, with my reflections on my time in Tokyo and my trip at large. Until then, enjoy the last gasps of summer!

With love,

Juniper

Wild kangaroos I met!!

More wild kangaroos, because this was the coolest thing I’ve ever seen

And, one last sunrise in Coffs

I write to you from 38,004 feet above sea level, hurdling from Dubai to Sydney, Australia. It’s day 53 of my 70 day trip, and it suddenly seems like the end is coming as quickly as I’m flying now. I’m a bit devastated about it, to be honest.

By the end of my 10 days in Cape Town, I had relaxed a lot. While I appreciate the concerns of those that worried for my safety, I think there may have been a slight abundance of caution. At the end of the week, I had adopted a better balance of exploration and safety. In that spirit, I wanted to share an exploratory day spent in Cape Town that I found incredibly life-affirming:

On Tuesday, I booked a free walking tour around the central business district. The tour was a bit lackluster, and I ended up chatting with a middle-aged Italian couple for most of the two hours. I didn’t think much of it, until the next day when I was sitting at a water-front coffee shop after my tour of Robben Island.

An aside - I absolutely cherished that tour. Robben Island houses the prison where Mandela served decades of time, and it’s strange to imagine such brutality set in an idyllic, near tropical backdrop. The tours are given by formerly incarcerated political prisoners who were actually held on the island, giving the entire experience a tangible weight. At the end of the tour, another tourist from Jamaica spontaneously burst into “Redemption Song” by Bob Marley. The entire group joined in, and I had to blink furiously to keep the tears at bay. A theme on this trip, I’m noticing…

Anyway, as I processed the experience while eating a “famously giant” blueberry muffin, I glanced up to see the Italian couple in front of me, coming from their own island tour. We spoke for a few moments, before they invited me to join them on their car trip along the coast the following day.

I’d been planning to hike Table Mountain that Thursday, but a guiding principle of this trip has been to say yes to every possible opportunity for connection. I readily agreed, moved some plans around, and at 9AM the following day met Marco and Paula outside of their accommodations on Bree Street.

For the next eight hours, the three of us explored Chapman’s Peak drive, Cape Point, Cape of Good Hope, Simon’s Town, Betty’s Beach, and Muizenberg. With some slight language barriers we couldn’t always understand one another, but as we walked along stunning cliffs I felt genuinely cared for.

Hout Bay

I have a tendency to be slightly jealous of my loved ones. I’m usually not a “more-the-merrier” person, choosing instead to prioritize quality time. But I am incredibly thankful that Paula and Marco didn’t share my mentality. I can’t imagine that they understand how meaningful their decision to spend precious vacation time with me was. Their kindness has served as a powerful reminder to pay it forward.

Dropping me off at my hostel, Paula told me there was one thing I could do to thank them.

“Anything” I said eagerly, balancing awkwardly on the curb.

“In the next place you visit, pick an activity and think about us while you do it” said Paula, getting choked up.

I promised that I would.

At Boulder Beach with Paula and Marco

It was already 6PM when Paula and Marco dropped me off, and after a very quick shower I had yet another social plan. A few days prior, I had interviewed a couple who were both involved in personal development work. Let’s call them Bianca and Jake. During their interview, they had both mentioned how socially isolating Cape Town could be, and how challenging it was to make friends in the community. The next day, they messaged me, asking for a chance to show me the hospitable side of CPT by taking me out to dinner.

Bianca and Jake drove over an hour from their house in Simon’s Town to pick me up at 6:45, bringing me to Cousin’s, the Italian restaurant where they had their first date. We had one of those luxuriously long dinners that doesn’t hint at rush, and I felt deliciously grown up. Bianca’s parents had been highly involved in anti-apartheid resistance work, and I left dinner feeling physically, emotionally, and intellectually full. It was all I could do to pack my backpack before falling into bed.

Cape Malay food, a cuisine specific to Cape Town, that blends African and Asian flavors

Arriving at the Cape Town airport at 5:30 the next afternoon, I was alarmed to see a line that stretched all the way out the door. Another woman and I decided to take a risk and wait in the slightly shorter queue for economy-premium guests. Bonded by our daring, the two of us struck up a conversation. Let’s call her Sarah.

Sarah was heading to Washington D.C., where she would go to port and begin work on a cruise ship for the next six months. A homebody at heart, Sarah had lived in Cape Town her entire life and had no particular desire to leave. But with South Africa’s economy, she said, working on ships was the only way for her to pay for her daughter’s education.

I asked her what the cruise ship work was like, immediately met by deep creases appearing on Sarah’s forehead.

“It’s like being in a floating jail,” she said. “No time off, no family, nothing that’s yours.”

A stranger in front of us turned around, already nodding. He was headed to London, where he would embark on the same work. He shared Sarah’s frustration, but also her lack of options.

Clutching my American passport and bound for Australia, I felt embarrassed. For me, airports are emblems of excitement, of adventure, of quality time with my family and myself. Sarah reminded me that travel does not come with the same privileges and connotations for all of us, and that my very Americanness comes with a set of advantages that I can’t fully conceive of.

Reflecting on my time with Paula and Marco, with Bianca and Jake, and with Sarah, I’m leaving Cape Town with gratitude for my own life circumstances and a deep appreciation for the kindness of strangers.

Cape Town’s beautiful botanical gardens

This week, I’m reading a book called All The Glimmering Stars. It follows two children who are abducted and forced into the Lord’s Resistance Army (LRA) in northern Uganda. Incredibly sad, but their love is touching and powerful. And I’ve been listening to Love On The Weekend by John Mayer.

My next blog will be from Australia, perhaps my last before I’m state-side again at the beginning of September. Wish me luck on the rest of my flight. I’m in the middle seat, and 9 hours in neither of my neighbors have gotten up to use the restroom. I may have to wake them up soon…

With love,

Juniper

So far, Cape Town is both my favorite and least favorite destination. Perhaps it’s karma - after my last post on the importance of discomfort, I have come across some of my own.

After a 33-hour travel day from Copenhagen, I stepped off the plane in Cape Town feeling bedraggled. In an Uber an hour later, my driver seemed concerned. For thirty minutes, he detailed his safety recommendations.

“Don’t take taxis like that one,” he said, pointing to a marked car.

“And don’t go into neighborhoods like that one,” he nodded at a township alongside the highway

“I know you’re talking to me, but it’s best not to engage with your Uber drivers at all,” he said.

“Try not to go out after 6 PM,” he added as I bid him goodbye.

Feeling tired and overwhelmed, I checked into my hostel (which was blasting rap music so loud I felt the bass in my lungs) for a much-needed shower before heading down the street to interview a man named Richard.

So beautiful!

As Richard explained, Cape Town MKP is unusual. With apartheid’s legacy still lingering, both MKP and Cape Town itself are sharply divided along racial lines. 32% of South Africans are unemployed, and rates of violent crime are high and steadily rising. Unlike in any other country I’ve visited, MKP Cape Town allows the richest people on the continent to brush elbows with men who are unemployed, homeless, and alone.

I imagined that a history of forced divisions and mistrust between races would result in an MKP chapter that did not feel welcoming. After all, my research this summer has focused on how challenging it can be for one organization to meet the needs of more than one ideological group. South Africa is referred to as the rainbow nation, and I assumed that the nation’s very heterogeneity would seed its division.

After a few days here, however, it is clear that I was quite wrong. While historical power dynamics continue to play a role in MKP (the majority of leaders and participants are still white), MKP has taken steps to make the weekend accessible. Scholarships are available and programming that simulates the dynamics of colonialism and Apartheid has been carefully removed. To my surprise, in the process of becoming an organization that actively seeks to welcome under-protected groups, MKP has embraced transgender men.

Unlike in other countries, where the inclusion of transgender brothers is a heated debate, one man told me that MKP Cape Town “simply doesn’t have time” to argue over participation. With a historical background that forces the chapter to take inclusion very seriously, transgender men have been welcomed into the group seamlessly and without debate.

In fact, transgender people are so accepted into the community that participants have almost laughed at me when I asked their stance on the issue. In other countries, interviewees have been eager to discuss the subject at length, but here men don’t seem to have much to say.

To demonstrate how unnecessary he believed debating trans inclusion to be, Richard told me the following story:

When he was a new member of MKP, he asked whether or not transgender men were included, unsure what he hoped the answer would be.

“Do you remember the weekend you attended a few months ago?” another man asked. “There was a transgender man in attendance. I bet you didn’t even realize.”

In that moment, Richard realized that his similarities to trans men far exceeded his differences, and never questioned their presence again.

After a pleasant hour interviewing Richard over rooibos tea, I asked him what places I must visit in the city. His face darkened.

“Well, I hate to say this, Juniper,” he said, “but I would really not want to be a woman traveling alone here.”

Just like the Uber driver, he broke into a barrage of advice.

“Never walk anywhere, even if it’s close. Always Uber.”

“If you need to stand outside to wait for a driver, walk down the street until you see a camera to stand in view of.”

“Never look at your phone in public.”

I came away from this meeting feeling intellectually fascinated and personally anxious. Traveling alone and on a budget, my number one hobby has become wandering. My days consist of long runs and walks, window shopping, and lots of time spent sitting and reading on various scenic benches. I wasn’t sure how I would spend my time, and I hated the idea of feeling trapped inside in one of the most beautiful cities in the world. Plus, I’d already made plans, and most of them involved solo hiking.

On Lion’s Head Hike

That night, I made a radical dynamic shift. I went online and began to book as many tours as I could fit into the budget.

Instead of hiking Lions Head alone, I found a sunset tour. Three others hiked with me, all boys about my age, and we ended up hitting it off. Hiking down the mountain with an Italian law student, English PT student, German flight attendant, and our South African guide, we all wore blinding headlamps and joked about our cultural differences.

As we headed to get dinner together, I thought back to my time hiking in Switzerland. While I adored my hikes in the Alps and never questioned my safety once, they were solitary affairs. I had hiked quickly and efficiently, and always been home before nightfall. It felt good to take my time on Lions Head, laughing with new friends. I couldn’t believe how much time had passed when we got to the bottom.

Instead of taking a bus to the penguin colony and game reserve, I booked a one-night guided tour. Again, this was money well spent. My tour guide Chris picked me up at 6 AM on Saturday. Together, Chris, a Japanese woman named Maya, and I drove to a deserted beach where we stood right in the center of a penguin colony. Taking advantage of the winter off-season, we got lunch in Hermanus and did some whale watching. Before nightfall, we arrived at Garden Route Game Lodge where we were able to see zebras, elephants, and lions at sunset before enjoying dinner together.

Penguins at Betty’s Beach

We didn’t have much in common - Chris is a chatty 55-year-old father who grew up under Apartheid, and Maya is a quiet 42-year-old plastic surgeon in Doctors Without Borders - but we had a fantastic time.

When I mentioned earlier that South Africa has been both my favorite and least favorite destination, I’m referring to experiences like these. On one hand, this is the first time I have understood what it means to feel truly unsafe. It’s challenging to fully appreciate the value of personal security until it’s gone, and visiting this country has changed the value I place on my own safety. The very fact that group tours are a necessity here saddens me, on many levels.

With Maya and Chris at the southernmost part of the African continent

As a result of these challenges, though, I have pushed to understand South Africa in a way I did not push myself in Europe. Driven by my desire to find safety and community, I have spent hours talking to locals about their upbringing and experiences. I have had the opportunity to try their favorite restaurants and visit their favorite shops. I have felt a small piece of what it would be like to be a young woman growing up here, both the challenges and the advantages. I have researched the political and social context of Cape Town. By placing myself in a community that was more unfamiliar to me than those I have encountered in the last 45 days, I have begun to develop an understanding of something external to myself. In that way, I feel that my time in Cape Town may stick with me long after other memories of this trip begin to fade.

This week, I read The Wedding People by Alison Espach and have been listening to Harmony by Role Model. Role Model had a new album come out on Friday, which I’m generally unimpressed by.

I can’t believe how quickly this trip is flying by. Wednesday will mark the end of my seventh week, and on Friday I’ll embark on a 48-hour travel day for Coffs Harbour, Australia. I’ll see you there!

Travel safely,

Juniper

Lion’s Head Again!

As I write, I sit on the banks of a quiet lake in the shadow of Bosjökloster Castle. I’m in southern Sweden now, after nearly a week spent in Stockholm and Sandhamn with my mom.

After a month traveling alone, a few days with a loved one felt almost foreign. Not only was I no longer sharing a bedroom with 6 to 8 strangers, but there were suddenly constant opportunities for conversation! My poor mom - on the first day I spoke so animatedly and excitedly, with so few pauses, that we both had to take a mid-afternoon nap.

With My Lovely Mom in Sandhamn, Sweden

Naturally our conversations often returned to travel. My mom studied abroad in Paris in college, and throughout our trip she regaled me with tales of funny mishaps, of calling hostels at random looking for a room for the very same night, of missing trains and losing passports. Many of her stories involved some sort of challenge, but were usually told with humorous hindsight.

I began thinking about my own travels. What stories will I tell my children about the last few weeks? Unlike my mom, I haven’t missed any trains. I haven’t become stranded in any remote destinations and been forced to rent a room in a stranger’s home. At no point have I resorted to hitchhiking. I haven’t even felt afraid or unsafe, at least not in a serious way.

While I’m very grateful for the security that I’ve felt on this trip, listening to my mom I began to wonder if it was a good thing. Thanks to modern technology, I’ve been able to effortlessly manage public transportation systems in every country I’ve visited. However, if you plopped me back into Mexico City or Zurich without my phone, I would likely be completely disoriented and lost.

Thanks to modern technology, I haven’t been struck with loneliness or boredom. I haven’t gone one day without speaking to a loved one, usually for an hour or more. And while I am thankful for the community that has supported me from afar, has this access limited my drive to make connections abroad? Perhaps in the absence of a pocket-sized telephone, I would have put myself out there more, been more present, perhaps more friendly to strangers.

Pickled herring 5 ways, which got a bit old by the 5th way

Upon consideration, there are countless small ways that technology has taken the discomfort out of this trip.

With tap-to-pay technology, I haven’t had to deal with getting money changed in any country except Mexico.

With Uber, I’ve been able to avoid walking alone at night in dodgy neighborhoods.

With social media, I’ve been able to keep friends and family up to date on my travels without even talking to them.

And with a globalized economy, I’ve had access to all of my favorite cuisines in each city I visited, no matter how unfamiliar their national dishes. The one store that I’ve seen in all five countries I’ve visited so far? Joe and the Juice.

In most ways, modernization has taken a trip that had the potential to be stressful, lonely, and destabilizing, and made it incredibly stress-free. With fewer logistics on my mind, I’ve been able to embrace the giddiness of the trip. I’ve been able to go on day trips to pyramids in Mexico, archipelago islands in Sweden, and gondola towns in Switzerland without fear. I’ve gotten to ensure the quality of my experience by researching restaurants and places to stay far in advance, from the other side of the world. But I wonder if I might have lost something as well. While many forms of discomfort are unnecessary (e.g., the discomfort of walking somewhere unsafe at night), perhaps there is a form of rewarding discomfort that could actually help encourage me to be hyper present in my experience.

I’ve begun to catalog moments of discomfort in the past 39 days in an attempt to better understand their importance. Here are a few notable ones:

#1

Yesterday, I arrived in Höör, Sweden on the 11:48 train. My accommodations were 6 miles from the station, and I quickly realized that the next bus wasn’t coming for four hours. I considered the hour and a half walk, but quickly dismissed it with my 60 pounds of wearable baggage. I tried Uber, and found that there were no cars within a fifty-mile distance.

I was beginning to worry. Technology has never failed me like this before!!! After wandering through nearly deserted streets for 15 minutes, I came across a COOP grocery store. I got a few odd looks as I wandered through the aisles with my human-sized backpack, picking up bread, cottage cheese, and lightly smoked chicken. Bringing my provisions to the checkout, I told the very kind employee about my dilemma.

Josephina turned out to be a true angel. Walking outside with me (the store was entirely empty, so it wasn’t much of a risk), Josephina called me a local taxi. 16 minutes later, a grandfather of 9 had arrived in his Subaru, chatting with me all the way, and then happily charging me $30 for the 10-minute ride.

Stepping out onto the quiet grounds of Bosjökloster Castle, I was in awe. I made my way to a small cottage on the grounds, the home of a research participant who had offered me a place to stay while he was on vacation with his family in the U.K. As I followed his directions, lifting up a large rock to find the hidden key underneath and accepting a greeting from a chubby tabby cat, I felt truly adventurous.

The Castle in Question

#2

In Belgium, I met a woman named Jenny in the laundry room. Jenny was 54 years old, a public high school teacher from Manhattan who was on her way to complete the Camino de Santiago in Spain for the fifth time.

Despite a number of compounding laundry mishaps, Jenny and I hit it off immediately. And while I wanted to spend more time together, I felt a bit silly asking to hang out with someone who certainly did not see me as a peer. Stealing my resolve, I asked if she’d like to go to The Museum of Brussels with me just as she picked up her laundry bag to leave.

Jenny and I ended up spending the entire afternoon together. The conversation was easy and natural, and the unfamiliarity of it pushed me to consider old topics in new ways. Yet again, it was a memory of the ultimate value that safe discomfort can provide.

#3

While watching the World Cup in Mexico, the streets became so crowded that restaurants were forced to close their restrooms to the public. As a result, the thousands of people on the street were faced with an urgent need to use the restroom, and no place for relief.

During halftime, I met a local girl having a similar problem. “Come with me!” she said confidently, taking my hand and leading me through the crowd towards a side street. After a few minutes of seemingly aimless wandering, we walked by a house with a woman sitting outside in a lawn chair. In Spanish, my companion asked her if we could use her restroom.

“Ten pesos,” she said with a flat face, holding out her hand. We passed over the money, walked right into her front door, and used her restroom.

#4

On a sunny morning in Zurich, I headed out for a hike in the mountainous village of Braunwald. The weather had been so beautiful when I’d woken up, that I hadn’t thought to check the forecast for where I was going. Once I arrived in Braunwald around 9 AM, however, I was faced with a torrential downpour.

As I boarded the funicular that took me to the trailhead, I felt uncertain. Would the views still be good? Would I be miserable and cold? Was it dangerous? Where were all the other hikers?

I had come so far, so I decided to set off anyway. Armed with a cheese and pickle sandwich, I began the 9-mile hike trepidatiously.

The hike turned out to be one of the most beautiful of the trip. After two soaking hours, the sun came out in full force. Completely alone on the trail, I jumped into deserted alpine lakes and made friends with a herd of mountain goats who followed me partway up the mountain face.

Without service, I followed the Swiss flags marking the trail in total isolation and silence for more than 6 hours. I rode the train home that night feeling sleepy, satisfied, and proud of myself.

Hiking in Switzerland

These four moments were some of my favorite from the trip, and all of them involved discomfort of some sort, whether physical, relational, or logistical. I’m going to try to remember the value of that discomfort as I head into the second half of my trip, trying to seek out opportunities to actively go out of my comfort zone.

Tomorrow, I head to Copenhagen, where I will spend one night before heading to Cape Town, South Africa. I’ve loved my time in Europe, but I’m feeling excited and ready for a new adventure. So please, let me know if you have any recommendations.

This week, I’m still working on Man’s Search for Meaning, and I’m listening to a lot of Camp. I think their song Strawberries is unbelievably beautiful.

More from Cape Town.

With love,

Juniper

I was annoyed. The entire shore of Lake Zurich was stretching out alongside us! Why had she chosen to sit so close to me?

To make matters worse, the woman was noisy. “Whoops, not that one!” she would mutter to herself cheerily as she rummaged around her bag, pulling out a picnic. “Silly me,” she added a few times.

True to my East Coast roots, I hit her with a number of stern glances. Perhaps the third time I turned around, she grinned at me. “Oh I’m so sorry!” she said. “I am being so loud. Just chatting away to myself.”

Of course, the very point of my passive-aggressive turn had been to facilitate this very reaction, but I was taken aback. “Oh don’t worry at all!” I said, suddenly feeling guilty for the extreme annoyance I had felt towards this kind woman. “Such a beautiful spot, right!”

We ended up chatting for nearly an hour. She was a consultant at UBS, commuting two hours every day from her home in Basel. We got along so well that she even helped me develop an itinerary for my upcoming day trip to Germany and France, and shared a bag of Haribo twin snakes.

Since that interaction, I’ve continued to question why my first reaction was to be annoyed by the woman’s presence. Generally, I can be a fairly stubborn person who often thinks she’s right. For example: when I was six or so I decided that I didn’t like love songs. In fact, I decided I hated them. I took this stance so confidently and so vocally that I was forced to keep up the ruse for years, long after I had come around. I still remember the deep humiliation I felt when I finally did admit my change of preference to my dad at age 14. Years later, I still struggle to change my mind and admit my mistakes.

To my surprise, however, I’ve found that traveling solo has promoted my personal open-mindedness in a way no other experience has. Small interactions, like the one with the woman at the lake, have given me the opportunity to think about the way I orient myself to the world. And the research that I’ve been engaging in has brought much different results than I anticipated, further pushing me to get comfortable changing my mind.

I’ve tried to complement my new open-mindedness with the media I consume. Last week, as I hiked on Pizol Mountain’s 5 Lake Trail, I listened to The Witch Trials of J.K. Rowling podcast. This seven-part series chronicles the controversy over Rowling’s widely criticized Twitter comments regarding the use of the word “woman” as opposed to the term “people who menstruate.”

Lake #2 on the Pizol 5 Lake Trail

As a student spending 70 days studying questions of masculinity, I turned to this podcast with the hope of developing a better understanding of the global debate around sex and gender. I didn’t come out with any definitive answers. But I think that’s kind of the point. Like the debates that have been raised in my work with the ManKind Project, none of the questions J.K. Rowling or the other guests have clear answers. We certainly aren’t yet at a place where we have a clear and consistent societal understanding of gender and sex, a dialogue that plays out in real time on this podcast.

Even though the podcast didn’t give me answers, one central theme stuck out. The host of the podcast, Megan Phelps-Roper, grew up in what many consider a religious cult. After escaping at 26, Phelps-Roper struggled to trust her own opinions after so wholly believing in a group that she could now see was completely wrong. In reaction, she created a list of questions that she tried to use to test her convictions. I’ve included these questions at the bottom of this post, and I encourage everyone to check them out and consider incorporating them into their daily lives. The one that stuck with me the most was: “Am I capable of entertaining real doubts about my belief, or am I operating from a place of certainty?”

When asked these questions by the host, J.K. Rowling replied that we should most critique the things we are most certain about.

Immediately, I thought of my own deeply held convictions. Growing up in a politically homogenous town 12 miles from Manhattan, I have generally been surrounded by a community that is willing to corroborate my views. I have rarely been challenged, and as a result I have not needed to develop strong understandings of my own beliefs.

My initial perception of the ManKind Project provides a good example of this. Before this trip, the idea of a group of men traveling to the woods to engage in secret personal development work made me uncomfortable. I hadn’t learned anything at all threatening about the group, but the unfamiliarity of it made it easy for me to assume that it was unlikely to be effective. Just like with many things that are out of my comfort zone, I was quick to dismiss it.

What I’ve found in reality, however, is a group that facilitates connection and intimacy in its truest sense. Let me tell you a story about a moment that brought me to tears.

Last Wednesday, I traveled to a suburb of Zurich to meet with a member of MKP, whom I’ll call Daniel here.

Daniel met me at the train station with a smile and a level of honesty that I have found to be characteristic of many MKP participants. In response to my friendly “how are you?” he replied, still smiling, “Not so great, honestly. I’m entering a challenging time with my wife, and I’m not sure how our relationship will go.”

I didn’t want to pry, but during our official interview I gently returned to the subject. I asked him who he could turn to when he was going through something like this. Daniel looked sad. “I’m not sure,” he said. “I’m not used to asking for help.” When I asked him if he would feel comfortable turning to his MKP brothers, he said that he likely could, but never had before.

A few days later, I had the honor of attending another MKP integration group meeting. Ten men gathered in a lovely backyard, including Daniel. At the end of the meeting Daniel asked if he could share something with the group. In a quivering voice, he explained that he feared he was in the process of breaking up with his partner of decades. “What can we do for you?” someone asked kindly.

I watched Daniel take a deep breath. “Would anyone, perhaps, be willing to share their number with me so I could call if I needed to talk?”

All nine men around the circle raised their hands, and Daniel began to cry in earnest. As did I. And then, I watched as they stood as one, and surrounded Daniel in a group hug.

I was incredibly moved by this moment, the most intimate display of unfiltered affection and care that I have ever seen between men. Walking out that night, Daniel seemed physically lighter. Quite the contrary to my preconceived notions, it was MKP that had given him the freedom and space to ask for help. I thought back to the podcast, and was yet again reminded of the value of pushing myself to look beyond my initial beliefs.

These thoughts and more play in my mind now, as I sit on the plane headed towards Stockholm. It’s day 31 of my trip, nearly halfway through already, which I can’t believe! Time just really flies, doesn’t it? Here’s a brief trip update:

Switzerland was my favorite of the four countries I’ve visited. On the first day of my 11-night stay, I decided to invest in the $366 Swiss Pass, a train ticket that allowed me to travel on public transit for no additional fee for the entirety of my trip. Not only did this pass end up saving me more than $800, it also gave me the freedom to truly explore. While in Switzerland, I went on 6 fantastic hikes (pictured below).

I also traveled to Basel, and spent one day eating three meals in three different countries: Switzerland, France, and Germany. I got a pretty significant haircut in a small town in France, swam in deserted alpine lakes, and ate fondue in a mountain hut only accessible by foot. I really am just feeling overwhelmingly happy, fulfilled, and thankful. And I want to again express my sincere gratitude to the Circumnavigator’s Club and Northwestern’s Office of Undergraduate Research for their support of this project. This is a trip that will undoubtedly be a defining moment in my life. So thank you.

This week, I’m reading Man’s Search for Meaning by Viktor E. Frankl and listening to Going Gone by Josiah and the Bonnevilles.

More soon!!

Juniper

Most amazing hike ever, on Stoos Ridge

Rainy hike

New French hair

Beautiful Zurich

Megan Phelps-Roper’s Questions To Consider Your Own Beliefs

1. Am I capable of entertaining real doubts about my belief, or am I operating from a place of certainty?

2. Can I articulate the evidence I should need to see in order to change my position, or is my perspective unfalsifiable?

3. Can I articulate my opponent’s position in a way they’d recognize?

4. Am I attacking ideas or the people who hold them?

5. Am I willing to cut off close relationships with people who disagree with me, particularly over relatively small contention?

6. Am I willing to use extraordinary means against people who disagree with me?

Was I traveling alone? How old was I? Where was I going? What was I doing there?

My answers were friendly, but clipped. I wasn’t sure if I could trust this strange man. Plus, I was about to find out if Billy and Sally would end up together in my book.

A primary tension on this trip has been the question of trust. Many of my favorite moments abroad have come from trusting the company and good intentions of strangers. Today, for example, I spent six incredibly pleasant hours traveling to Europe’s largest waterfall with Bert, an MKP participant I had never met before. Not only have these experiences been rewarding, but I’ve found that orienting myself to the world as a person who assumes the best of others leaves room for connection and intimacy.

Last morning in Belgium!

That being said, I am a young woman traveling alone. I have made plenty of choices not to trust, to lie about my age, about my plans, about my name, or about my relationship status. I may have missed out on a few wonderful experiences by doing this, but I generally feel that part of learning to trust others is learning to trust my gut as well.

Questions of trust ran through my head as the man struck up a conversation. He was 78 years old. He had spent his life in Belgium but seemed to have traveled to every corner of the world. He had been married for 50 years. He had two grandsons a bit younger than me. He once spent two years traveling around Europe in a broken-down car from 1956.

The man was also reaching the advanced stages of Parkinson’s disease. His hands shook as he spoke to me in nearly perfect English.

“I’m so sorry,” I said dumbly, not sure exactly what to say.

“No, no, no,” he said, flapping his shaky hands in the air. “I had 72 wonderful years without this disease. 72 wonderful years. I am happy.” He kissed his thumb and finger in a chef’s kiss, a move he repeated many times during the conversation.

The talk turned to my project. I explained that I was examining a solution to male social isolation, traveling to five continents to do it. “But I’m not lonely,” he said emphatically, seemingly wanting to reassure me. “And I don’t feel that you are either.” I smiled at him and nodded, thinking of the village of people who have supported me from afar during this trip.

I spoke with the man for the entire flight, about an hour. And when we got up to leave, he gently touched my arm to hold me back for a moment.

“Have a good life,” he said seriously. “Be happy, be loved. Get a job you like, it doesn’t matter too much about the money.”

I smiled at him and wished him the same. “You’re a brave girl,” he said as I got off the plane.

I have been quite emotional on this trip, in a lovely way. Overwhelmed and moved by the scope of the world. Things like tiny babies wearing bathing suits or old couples kissing or little girls wearing matching outfits have found me blinking back tears. As I walked down the airplane’s stairs and onto the tarmac, the world began to blur.

Before I left for Mexico, every aunt and distant cousin I had told me it would be a “life-changing experience.” That I would come back “changed.” I was skeptical about this. In my 21 years of being alive, I’ve been remarkably consistent. While I knew the trip would be amazing and eye-opening, I couldn’t imagine how 70 days could work against 21 years of nature and nurture. The day after my conversation with the man, however, I returned to his words while hiking the ridge of Mount Pilatus.

The view from Mount Pilatus

I thought of all the brave things I have done in the last three weeks. Small things, like asking for a table for one at a restaurant. Reaching out to friends of friends to make plans. Carrying everything I owned in one backpack. Bigger things, like asking a stranger to get a meal. Hiking to the top of a mountain alone. Interviewing men I reached out to months ago on the internet. Asking people challenging questions about disappointment and loss.

Before this trip, I did not think of myself as uniquely brave. I wasn’t UN brave. Certainly not cowardly. It just wasn’t a defining characteristic. I wasn’t at the Gryffindor level. But thinking about these moments, my perception of myself as a brave person shifted slightly. It’s true that I’m not fundamentally different then I was three weeks ago. But I am, perhaps, more aware of myself. More aware of my strengths, and certainly more aware of my weaknesses (mood-swingy, irritable when hungry, easily emotional).

Who I am has not changed, but how I understand myself has. And I think that is perhaps the biggest gift that solo-travel has given me. With that in mind, here is my list of the best and worst things about traveling solo.

Advantages of Solo Travel

1. I eat whenever I’m hungry, and I don’t eat when I’m not.

2. When things go wrong, there’s no one to disappoint but myself. As a result, it’s much easier to roll with the punches, even if that means missing my train by 30 seconds and then sitting in the station for three hours.

3. Decision-making is much easier. I don’t have to factor anyone else’s preferences into my choices.

4. I am significantly more open to strangers. I have had so many more interesting conversations with people of all kinds.

5. I’m less likely to get grumpy. It turns out that much of my awareness of my own mood comes from the way I treat the people in my life. When I’m alone, I rarely notice bad moods.

6. So much time to read and journal and reflect.

Disadvantages of Solo Travel

1. No one holds my stuff. Among my loved ones, I am notorious for always asking other people to carry my things. This is not everyone else’s favorite activity, but it is representative of my love for sharing! Nothing feels better than a communal bag, communal lip gloss, communal portable charger, or communal bug spray.

2. All management of logistics falls on me. On this trip, I have realized how much time and energy go into travel planning, particularly on a trip that involves meeting with dozens of strangers in dozens of different unknown places. I am typically not the Google Maps friend, so all of this planning has been quite the feat for me.

3. I’m occasionally lonely! But frankly, this one has been much less of a factor than I thought.

That’s it for today. I’m still in Switzerland for the next week, and trying to be outside as much as possible. Tomorrow I’m hiking the Pizol 5 Lake Trail.

This week, I’m listening to Suburbs by Good Neighbours, and I just finished Notes on Your Sudden Disappearance by Allison Espach.

See you in Sweden!

Sunset over Brussels

For the past few years, I’ve been a dedicated consumer of the news. I rarely go a day without listening to “Up First,” NPR’s morning update podcast, and I try to diversify what I read by looking at multiple sources. While I believe this is an important practice, it can be desensitizing. It is not sustainable to be equally devastated by every shooting, natural disaster, or instance of corruption. And because devastation is now routine, I’ve found myself becoming apathetic.

Prior to this trip, I fondly anticipated a break from the constant influx of American news that can’t help but permeate life in the states. And while I’ve enjoyed the break from my regular news consumption, I’ve found themes in the ManKind Project that are startlingly reminiscent of the challenges the U.S. is grappling with.

Let me begin with a bit of background about my project.

A few years ago, I read Boys and Sex by Peggy Orenstein. Although the book focused on sex education, what stayed with me was its portrayal of male isolation. I began noticing how rarely the men in my life had opportunities for deep emotional intimacy, even compared to seemingly ordinary female friendships.

Noticing these patterns, I became aware of the disproportionate emotional burden male social isolation placed on women. A problem that impacts everyone’s friends, brothers, husbands, and children is more than a men’s problem - it’s a human problem. And while researchers have documented male social isolation across much of the world, little work has focused on solutions. That search led me to the ManKind Project (MKP).

MKP is a peer-led men’s group, operating in over 20 countries with more than 70,000 members. The group argues that for most of human history, men have been initiated into manhood through cultural ceremonies, often spearheaded by elders in their community. In the absence of these practices, men have been left behind, no longer able to transition from boy to man. MKP advertises itself as a modern-day initiation into manhood, one that develops 21st century skills like emotional awareness and relationship building.

Most members begin their MKP journey with the New Warrior Training Adventure (NWTA), a weekend retreat designed to simulate the initiation. The details of the weekend are intentionally kept confidential, but participants consistently describe it as one of the most meaningful experiences of their lives. On the last night of the trip, men celebrate the emotional work that they have done by participating in an initiation ceremony. At this point they officially become MKP brothers, and have the opportunity to join a local integration group. These groups generally meet bi-weekly, and I had the honor of attending my first I-group meeting as an observer last night in Belgium.

I met my contact at the Ottignies train station, about an hour outside of Brussels. He was wearing a t-shirt that somehow mixed The Lion King and The Karate Kid, and greeted me with a polite handshake before taking me to that evening’s integration group.

The I-group was held in a sweet European suburb, still bright as day when we met the rest of the group at 7:45. The four men embraced warmly, their hugs lingering longer than I was accustomed to seeing between men. After a few moments, a woman ran up to us, visibly upset and speaking in French. “How is this possible?” she asked me. “My husband has been part of this group for years and they’ve never let me come. Now he is leaving me and you are allowed to come here?!” It was a strange moment, and I felt for the woman, whose house it turned out we were using for the group meeting. After the participants explained to her that I was only there to observe, she unlocked the door and led us into a courtyard.

As the four men burned sage to prepare the space, I took a good look at them. I’ve already interviewed six MKP participants on this trip, and talked to countless more on the phone, so I know that there is no typical “MKP man.” These four men were each dressed casually, and I noticed with pleasure that they were all drastically different heights, ranging from quite short to quite tall.

Around 8:00, the meeting began. The entire event took place in French, so I was unsure about how engaged I would be. Despite my lack of understanding, however, the emotional beats of the evening transcended language.

During the next two hours, the men engaged in a process that it is hard to describe. They began with a check-in, during which one member raised a “charge.” I had observed a charge in Amsterdam in English, so I came into the meeting familiar with this process. Basically, one man reveals an unresolved feeling of anger or hurt toward another person, present or not. Guided by the others, he traces these emotions beyond the immediate conflict to the deeper experiences informing them. While the charge that I witnessed in the Netherlands was quite composed, this charge included a few frustrated screams.

After the charge, the men decided who was the most in need of emotional work for the evening. The tallest man took to the middle of the circle and a process called the “carpet” began, through which he had the opportunity to confront his relationship with his father.

The man chose one participant to coach him through the situation, and another to represent his father. His “father” stood behind him, outside of the circle, while the other men gathered around him, holding onto him almost lovingly. After a few moments of gentle talking, the man became visibly upset. His “father” began forcefully repeating the same phrase over and over again in French, and the man, who had not yet turned around to face his “father,” began yelling out in discomfort. Noting his agitation, the other two men wrapped a white scarf around the distressed man’s chest, and held on tightly. The man spun around to face his “father” and began crying out and running at him, held back by the other men and the sheet. After a moment he dropped to the ground in sobs, still reaching toward his father.

The two men comforted him, while the “father” draped himself in a large black sheet, representing killing his unresolved feelings toward his dad. The third man then took on the role of the father the participant wished he had. He spoke gently to the man on the floor, who sat up after a few moments and began crying in his “new father’s” arms. Behind the man’s back, the other men gave each other relieved smiles and thumbs up. A few moments of silence passed before they all stood up and exchanged hugs, handshakes, and thanks.

The rest of the meeting went without major incident, and lasted for nearly two and a half hours. All four men said farewell to me with genuine kindness and offers of help, and one man even drove me back to Brussels.

Back at my hostel, I was left reeling. The emotional intensity of what I had seen was far beyond what I had imagined, even though I couldn’t understand a single word. I had assumed that MKP was an antidote to loneliness simply because it encouraged men to set aside dedicated time for connection. What I saw instead was a model that was intentionally designed to make men confront their most challenging emotions in an effort to truly understand themselves.

After observing this meeting, the interviews I’ve been doing in the last two weeks suddenly made sense. Before this trip, I expected my interviews to revolve around loneliness. Instead, almost every conversation has eventually drifted toward questions of identity, belonging, and what MKP is becoming. Watching MKP’s model in action, I can now understand why men seem to be struggling with questions of community. In a system that depends on a highly structured and precise format, change can feel existential.

MKP is an organization at a crossroads. As an all male space, they are being forced to grapple with questions about inclusion. MKP makes decisions at the regional level, and all over the world men have been facing challenging questions about how to define themselves. Almost all chapters have elected to include gay men, but challenging conversations have erupted over the inclusion of transgender and non-binary people. Even the seemingly tolerant and open-minded men I’ve spoken to have expressed their concerns and uncertainty. They seem to feel that, while mixed spaces should certainly exist, there is incredible merit in spaces where all participants share one identity. On the other end of the spectrum, I’ve also spoken with participants who intimated that the work done in MKP has no specific relation to manhood, and in fact should be made available to women as well.

The conversation goes further. What languages should MKP be available in? In places like South Africa, where there are many indigenous languages, groups are struggling to know where to draw the line. Should all local languages be represented? It hardly seems practical, but by not including every language someone will certainly be left out. The situation in Belgium, where I currently sit, is tenuous as well. Belgium has three official languages: French, Dutch, and German. And while 60% of Belgians are Dutch speaking, the majority of MKP Belgium speaks French thanks to a historical relationship between MKP Belgium and MKP France. Is it wrong to host most of the NWTA weekends in French? The question is impossible. Proponents of keeping weekends French argue that there is simply more demand from French speaking participants. Others argue that this demand is self-generated, a very product of offering weekends in French in the first place.

In recent years, certain elements of MKP’s programming have become controversial. MKP USA recently faced scandal when the talisman and sweat lodges used in the NWTA were deemed to be cultural appropriation toward indigenous Americans. While the United States chose to remove those symbols from their weekends, the decisions drastically divided the community. One group of people championed inclusion and creating a safe space for everyone, a key value of MKP. Another advocated for freedom of speech and action, calling it un-American that they had to censor their own behavior for other’s comfort. Many members of MKP USA, the world’s largest MKP chapter, chose to leave the group as a result.

I’ll admit that I was uncertain about what I would find in MKP, especially as a young woman traveling alone. Frankly, I still don’t have clear answers about whether the group works, why it works, and if the MKP model could work for everyone. I’m not yet prepared to make judgments about the effectiveness of MKP, though I am hoping to be by the end of this trip. But I am certainly comfortable saying that I believe the group is well-intentioned.

Perhaps more importantly, I have also come to see the group as an allegory for the challenges faced by the United States and around the world today. I expected to spend the summer studying loneliness. Instead, I found myself studying what happens when communities built around a shared identity are forced to redefine themselves. Like many institutions, MKP is increasingly grappling with polarization and uncertainty. The group is making an impossible choice, balancing maximizing inclusion with preserving community, and they are trying to do it democratically. I don’t believe that the questions being faced by MKP have any right answers. However, I do think that the struggles faced by MKP are worth watching. At a moment when public life is defined by outrage and uncertainty, I spent an evening watching four men use community to struggle with the most challenging themes in their life. Whether or not MKP has found the right answers, I left believing there is something worth learning from the way they ask questions.

Those are my thoughts for the week. I’m loving Brussels, and heading to Switzerland on Tuesday. This week I’m listening to On My Soul by Bruno Mars, who I just got to see perform in Amsterdam! I’m also reading The Names by Florence Knapp.

More soon,

Juniper

Me at the European Parliament in Brussels this morning!

I can’t say exactly why I felt so anxious. As an only child, it may have been that I felt more comfortable around adults than kids. It could have been my painful awareness of school social dynamics, and my perception that my place within them was uncertain. But either way, my conception of myself as someone who struggled socially remained long after my irrational fear of conversation waned.

Mexico City has surprised me in many ways. The people have been kinder to me than in any country I have ever been, I haven’t gone one day without free food. The public transport system is amazing, and even comes with special cars that are designated for women only. And the city is incredibly lush, from the greenest parks I’ve ever seen to the pinkest taxis.

Colorful Mexico City

The biggest surprise, though, has been the relationships I’ve made. When I anticipated this trip, I imagined it tinged by the same social anxiety that I felt as a little girl. I couldn’t envision making friends in hostels, or chatting with locals, or feeling comfortable and safe around people I’d just met. One week in, the incredible moments of connection I’ve experienced have shown me that I am far more socially competent than I remembered or gave myself credit for. And beyond that, I’ve learned that other humans are far kinder and more open than I anticipated. Everywhere I have gone, I have been treated with true respect and compassion, and it has moved me deeply.

I’ll do a whole other blog post on the fascinating research I’ve done so far in CDMX. But I wanted to take a moment to pay homage to the fantastic moments of humanity that I have shared with total strangers so far on this trip. Here are a few highlights.

Caren

On Sunday, I met my new friend Emery at a taco place housed in a big pink tent on the side of the street. The taco (which was made of some unknown meat and cost 60 cents) was hot and delicious and served by a very friendly woman wearing a Toy Story themed apron. After serving us she sat with a large group of friends across the restaurant, chatting animatedly.

Once we’d finished, Emery and I stood up to head to a nearby market we’d heard good things about, La Merced. When we told the ladies where we were going, they became worried. My Spanish isn’t great, but for the next few minutes we listened as they explained (I think) that the market was dangerous on Sundays because that was the day that everyone drank beers. After showing us how to properly hold our bags, they entered into an intense deliberation among themselves. Finally, the woman wearing the Toy Story apron turned towards us. “You’re not going to La Merced,” she said, taking off her apron and handing it to her husband. “Follow me.”

Emery and I hurried after her as she made several quick turns, eventually ending at another market about 10 minutes away. Before she dropped us off, Caren gave us her name and number, and made us promise to message her if anything went wrong.

Caren walking us to the market

Brenda and Michael

On my second day in the city, I decided to go to dinner at Choza. Choza is a trendy Mexican-Thai fusion restaurant in CDMX that’s only open on Saturday and Sunday. It’s not on Google maps, and most people find out about it via social media. Lines can be up to three hours, but I figured that I didn’t have much else to do as a solo traveler and I got in line around 4:00 PM.

After standing at Choza’s unmarked door for around 30 minutes, I was ushered into the bar and convinced into ordering a mezcal by a very friendly and entrepreneurial bartender. (Not to my taste.)

I had just started journaling, settling in for a night alone, when a woman across the bar from me struck up a conversation. Brenda was around 30, absolutely stunning, and from Brooklyn. Her fiance soon joined her, equally attractive, and a fantastic conversationalist. During the hour and a half wait, the three of us talked about everything from the AI boom to our death row meal. When we finally got called to the rooftop dining room, they invited me to join them at their table. We ended up staying at dinner for over two hours, talking and laughing and drinking wine. And when the check came, they paid for my dinner despite my insistence against it.

Dinner at Choza (actually quite underwhelming).

The Metro

On Saturday, I had my very first interview with a man who chose to go by the alias “Rhino Walking on Water.” I was already a bit nervous, and it happened to be pride in Mexico City, so the metro was crawling along at a snail’s pace. While I had left 20 minutes earlier than I needed to, suddenly I was almost certain to be late.

As I jogged into the Metro, I had a sinking feeling in my gut. I had left both my metro card and all of my cash at home. Rookie mistake. This trip has been incredibly calm and restful so far, but this moment was the one of true anxiety.

I nervously waited in line at the machine to buy a metro card, feeling as though time was dragging by. Once I got up to the machine, however, I realized that it only took cash. After a few desperate attempts to push my credit card into the slot, an elderly woman gently tapped me on the shoulder. Wordlessly, she took my arm and led me to the turnstile, tapping her card for me. I ran through and made my train, arriving only seven minutes late to my meeting. I never exchanged a word with her, but the interaction left me near tears.

That same metro ride had another wonderful moment as well. This was before I knew there were designated cars for women, and as I stuffed myself into an overly full train I realized that the car was too packed for me to see what station stop we were at. After the first stop, when I frantically craned my neck to try to see where we were, a man next to me leaned over. “Balderas” he said quietly, announcing the station stop to me. He continued for the next ten stops, until it was finally time for me to get off. I left the metro at Eugenia station feeling seen and supported.

The all-women’s cars in the metro. Feels like Wonder Woman.

Dan, Sam, and Liam

On Monday, I had planned to do a pastry tour of Mexico City, and then ride the cable cars. When a group of new friends from my hostel invited me to go to Museo Soumaya, I felt uncertain.

Dan, Sam, and Liam were all older than me, and from England, Australia, and Switzerland respectively. While we had been having great conversations at breakfast, I felt a bit intimidated by their age and seeming worldliness. I wasn’t sure what we would have in common, and if I would enjoy spending a full day with them. But, in an effort to be adventurous I hesitantly agreed to join them.

The four of us ended up having the best day, spending four hours in the museum, eating tacos on the street while watching the World Cup, and scarfing down some giant churros. I share this anecdote because it was a reminder to me that our similarities far outweigh our differences.

Museo Soumaya

My tacos

The World Cup

The crowd at the World Cup watch party

Last night, Mexico beat Ecuador 2-0 in the World Cup. While I’m not a massive soccer fan, being in Mexico during the World Cup is impossible to ignore. Around 6:00 PM, I joined millions of green-clad people in the street outside of my hostel, which had been closed completely for the occasion.

I don’t have one precise interaction to share here, but I thought my time watching the World Cup was an example of the truly open and giving spirit that I have found in Mexico. The energy was absolutely euphoric. Throughout the game I took selfies with dozens of strangers, shared food and drink with people I had just met, used the restroom in someone’s home, and felt completely safe while doing it all.

When Mexico scored its first goal, I felt a sense of comradeship and patriotism that rivaled anything I have felt in the United States. And when Mexico won, I hugged completely random people as if they were my childhood best friends.

Walking through the streets after the game, I had something in common with every person I saw. “Viva Mexico,” we would shout, dancing together on the street. Before I knew it a Mexican flag was draped around my neck, and I was being carried in the air by a group of passionate fans.

Ending the night at a tortas place down the street from my hostel, the server took one look at the Mexican flags drawn on my face and handed me my sandwich for free. He also let me try a few of the crickets he was snacking on. (Also not my preference.)

Free sandwich after the World Cup

The interactions I’ve chosen to share here are just five of countless moments of true human connection I’ve felt so far on this trip. I can’t quite articulate how much this experience has meant to me so far, but I’ll say that it has far exceeded my wildest expectations. I’m incredibly thankful to every person who has had a hand in making it happen.

Before I took off last Thursday, I was worried that my awareness of my social place would limit me, dictating the relationships I would be able to build abroad. But in my week here so far, I have seen that none of us have a social place, outside of our human one.

Until next time,

Juniper

Either way, the gist of the “article” was that when goals are unspecific, it’s challenging to hold yourself accountable to them. In an effort to correct for this, my New Year’s Resolutions are typically oddly specific and easy to measure. Some highlights from the past few years include:

• Buy four new blue shirts and wear one a week (I was trying to wear blue more).

• Send zero texts that are longer than a short paragraph (I was trying to encourage myself to avoid miscommunications by just hopping on the phone).

• Look up every day (I was trying to become more observant).

• Polar plunge once a week (Self-explanatory).

• Do one fun thing every day (I super recommend this one! I haven’t missed a day since I made this resolution (Granted it hasn’t been that long)).

• Buy myself one thing a month (I was trying to be less frugal).

I’ve been surprised by the way that creating quantifiable goals has enriched my life. While planning in advance and fun are not typically synonymous, I’ve found that dedicating time for organized fun has made me a happier person. This realization adds to a life philosophy I’ve slowly been developing: your life is a reflection of the way that you spend your time. Even the most challenging problems or emotions can be mitigated by using your time intentionally.

As I prepare for my summer (I leave in two days!! (eeeeeeeeee)) I’m doing my best to be as thoughtful as possible about getting the most out of my trip. In that spirit, the following is a list of my mostly very specific and quantifiable goals for my 70 days abroad, with varying levels of explanation.

In every city that I visit, I will:

1. Build in time for creativity, specifically:

   1. Write one short story about a stranger.

   2. Sit outside and watercolor something that I can see.

This week, I’ve been reading a book about incorporating creativity into the workplace, written by one of the co-founders of Pixar. The book stresses that a creative culture doesn’t require inspiration, but fosters dedication to creativity through small lifestyle decisions. These goals are a result of my desire to make creativity a more regular practice in my life. Hopefully, they’ll also be in line with my desire to organize fun, because I love writing and painting. See pictures of some recent watercolors below.

2. See a movie in the theater.

Going to the movies is in my top five favorite activities (music in the car in the summer, eating dessert outside, a good sunset on the beach, any swim anywhere). It’s a rare thing to share an experience with strangers, and I imagine that will become particularly meaningful when I’m a cultural outsider. I’ll likely end up seeing lots of movies in languages I don’t understand. Perhaps that’s a good opportunity to start appreciating cinematography and sound more.

3. Eat well, specifically:

   1. Ask a local what their favorite food under 10 USD is, and then go and try it.

   2. Eat somewhere where I have to wait in line.

   3. Go to the grocery store and take pictures of anything that surprises me. Purchase one savory food that I can’t get at home.

   4. Eat at a restaurant that is older than I am.

   5. Try something I’ve never tried before.

These are just for fun, and because eating is the best part of traveling.

4. Find a body of water and jump in it.

An attempt to fulfill my love for any swim anywhere.

While I’ll try to complete each of the goals above in every city I visit, the goals below fall on a more daily schedule.

1. Walk an average of 15,000 steps or more every day.

At home, I do a good job of lifting or running five days a week. The constant changes of this trip mean that I won’t be able to keep up my routine, and I’m trying to embrace that as a natural part of this experience. There will be many other seasons of my life for routine, and that will also come with much less excitement. I am going to try to be intentional about my health however, primarily by prioritizing walking. Plus, it’s the best way to experience any city.

2. Keep up my One Fun Thing A Day resolution.

Just for fun.

3. Send a postcard every week. Send five postcards over the course of the trip to people outside of my close circle (e.g. a class friend, a professor, a great uncle once removed).

I’m an avid letter and postcard writer, a hobby that I picked up as a little kid at sleep-away camp. (This one is totally inspired by my parents, who used to write me funny letters from the point of view of my cat, Romeo, or my favorite doll named Flower.) A good letter provides something much different from a conversation, an opportunity to carefully articulate a thought or a theme in my life. While I’m far away from my family and friends, I hope that this goal will help me continue to connect. And, by sending notes to people that are outside of my closest circle, I hope I’ll be able to strengthen new friendships as well.

4. Have a meaningful moment with a stranger every day.

This can look like anything from a genuine smile, to a long conversation. I’m so excited to talk to people from all over the world, and I think at times that will mean being a bit brave and putting myself out there.

5. Smile at everyone.

(In a safe way though. Don’t worry mom.)

It’s my hope that these goals will help me reconcile the way that I spend my time with my values and objectives this summer. This is a working list, and I’m so open to any and all suggestions. Please let me know if you have any other ideas!

In other news, I’m almost done with the trauma (packing), and ready to jet out on Thursday. I’ve had the best few weeks at home. Highlights include making Father’s Day brunch for my family, and buying a great new pair of shoes. See pictures below.

As I mentioned earlier, this week I’m reading Creativity Inc. by Ed Catmull and Amy Wallace. I’ve also been listening to “The Cure” by Olivia Rodrigo. Pop isn’t my go-to genre, but I’ve been very impressed by how Olivia Rodrigo has come into a new sound after growing up in the public eye.

See you in Mexico.

My preference for airports is contradictory, because I struggle with transitions as a general rule. I almost always like where I am, and that can make moving hard, regardless of how much I love the place I’m going. Today, however, as I sit on an oddly tilted metal chair between a little boy watching Paw Patrol and an old couple wearing Disney World merch, I’m ready to be home.

It’s been a challenging week. An econ final that didn’t go quite as well as I hoped. A number of sad goodbyes with my favorite people. A middle of the night packing frenzy in which I realized that I have more brown cardigans than can realistically fit in one storage space. And, of course, an increasing sense of anticipation, excitement, and nerves about my upcoming trip. All this to say that when I arrived at O’Hare this morning I was feeling slightly grumpy, and planning to put my AirPods in and go mute until I stepped foot in Jersey.

As I waited in an excessive security line (why would there ever be a line for TSA Pre?!) I began to take notice of my surroundings. Directly in front of me stood a father and daughter. A few years younger than me, the teenage daughter held onto her father who seemed to be both vision and hearing impaired. She led him through the winding queue, speaking gently in his ear. I blinked back tears and thought of my own dad, currently making his famous apple crisp to celebrate my arrival home. It can be easy to see my connections as unique, to imagine that the bond between my parents and I is one of a kind, but watching these two I was reminded of the universal nature of the human experience. I thought about Love Actually, one of my favorite movies, and its final quote played in my head: “if you look for it, I’ve got a sneaky feeling that you’ll find that love actually is all around.”

I headed into Terminal 3 with fresh eyes.

At Gate K8, a family of five was headed towards Orlando, all wearing matching Make-A-Wish shirts.

At a bright blue grand piano, an old man sat down and started to play I Guess That’s Why They Call It The Blues. I leaned against a nearby pole and hummed along.

In the bathroom, I bumped into an acquaintance from school, heading home to North Carolina. She was with her mom, whose bright smile was identical to hers.

In line to board an earlier flight to Newark, I noticed a woman wearing a Marcel T-shirt, my favorite middle-eastern restaurant from home.

And as I sat at my gate, I eavesdropped on an Indian-American student explaining henna to an elderly stranger.

As I sat there, I was filled with a feeling of contentment. I dosed off for a moment, awaking to a woman gently touching my shoulder.

“Your bag is open honey,” she said helpfully, gesturing at my gaping backpack. But instead of returning to her seat after I thanked her, she sat next to me.

“I was just saying to my husband that you looked lonely,” she said. “Where are you headed today?”

I spend the next thirty minutes chatting with the woman, a Philadelphia native headed for Alaska, about her four grandchildren. By the end of my conversation, she was subscribed to my Substack.

I’ve been so nervous about feeling alone on my trip. And it’s true that the connections I form traveling will be drastically different than those that shape my life at home and school. More fleeting, perhaps more transactional. A bit more forced. But there will be something unique in their ephemerality.

For the first time in my life, I’ll be forced to make connections not because of a shared hometown, college, or hobby, but because of a shared human experience. In each county I visit, the locals will speak a different language than me, practice a different religion, and have different values. But like me, they will all be thinking about how best to support their loved ones, follow their passions, and enrich their lives. I hope that on the final day of my trip, I will have found that the lesson I learned today at the airport is true. When you take the time to notice, love actually is all around you.

And people say New Jersey isn’t beautiful!

This week I’m reading a book of short stories called Show Don’t Tell by Curtis Sittenfeld. It’s different than my usual style, but I highly recommend them. I’m also listening to Say You Will by Fleetwood Mac almost exclusively.

My name is Juniper, an undergraduate student at Northwestern University. As the 2026 recipient of the Circumnavigator Grant, a travel research grant given by the Northwestern Office of Undergraduate Research and the Circumnavigator’s Club of Chicago, I’ll be spending 70 days this summer traveling to five continents. I’ll stop in nine countries along the way, pursuing my project entitled “Rewriting Manhood: Cross-Cultural Approaches to Male Connection and Growth.” I’ll be sharing my experiences through a blog on Northwestern’s website, and I’ve decided to bring my thoughts to Substack as well in an effort to connect with as many people as possible.

I am so excited to share the first of many blog posts with you, documenting my journey as I embark on my circumnavigation of the globe this summer. Even writing those words feels impossible – I’ve been pinching myself since the moment I found out that I would be heading on this trip in early January.

I want to begin by introducing myself. I am an only child, from Montclair, New Jersey. My parents are my favorite people, and they’re responsible for much of my love for traveling. As a kid, my parents showed me that a new experience was worth more than any physical item money could buy. That philosophy motivated all of our family choices, and many of my happiest memories involve traveling with my parents. Whether it was a day trip to the nearby nature preserve, a road trip across the United State’s national parks, or a flight to Paris, they had a way of creating adventure every time we got into the car. Even going to the grocery store is a mini-family vacation in my house.

Growing up in Montclair has also been foundational to who I am. When I was in high school I was dismissive of New Jersey, always pretending I was from Brooklyn when meeting a stranger while traveling. Since moving away, however, I’ve realized how lucky I am. My town is just 12 miles away from midtown Manhattan, and the opportunity to become comfortable in one of the largest cities in the world has helped me find comfort wherever I am. I hope that this skill will help me as I head off into unfamiliarity this summer.

Fittingly, I’m writing this first blog post from the airplane, as I likely will write many of my upcoming posts. As we speak, I’m headed to Los Angeles to present research at the American Association of Public Opinion Research (AAPOR). My academic year has been defined by research, both through AAPOR and through Northwestern. While neither of the projects I’ve been working on center on male social isolation (one project assesses determinants of health care access among immigrants and the other studies the disproportionate impact of school discipline on Black girls in Chicago), they have provided me with research skills that I’ll be relying on this summer. I didn’t even know what the Circumnavigator Grant was when I began working on these- research projects, and looking back on that is a comforting reminder that small choices can have a pay off that is far beyond what you may expect.

I booked all my airline tickets for this summer two weeks ago, making an experience that had previously seemed too good to be true feel suddenly, scarily real. On June 25th I’ll be taking off from Newark airport, heading to Mexico City. This is the first of nine countries on five continents that I’ll be traveling to this summer, primarily doing research in seven of them. Those seven are Mexico, Belgium, Switzerland, Sweden, South Africa, Australia, and Japan. If you have any suggestions or recommendations in any of these countries, please let me know!

For those of you who aren’t familiar with my project, each country that I’ll be traveling to is home to a chapter of the ManKind Project (MKP) the largest peer-led men’s group in the world, operating in 27 countries. In each country I’ll administer a quantitative survey and complete qualitative one-on-one interviews and focus groups with ManKind Project participants. Through these methods, I’m hoping to understand how MKP’s curriculum impacts male social isolation and perceptions of masculinity. MKP’s model is reported to have inconsistent effects across cultural contexts, so I’ll be curious to see how culturally sensitive curriculum can improve the model’s applicability in new contexts. I’ve spent the last few weeks in dialogue with members of MKP, trying to walk the line between persistently reminding people to answer my emails and not becoming too pushy. I’m particularly excited for my time in Switzerland – an MKP family has invited me to go hiking and camping with them over a long weekend while I’m there.

While my excitement steadily increases as my departure date approaches, so do my nerves. I’m a people person, and my favorite days are full of my loved ones. Traveling around the world for 70 days without a single soul will certainly be new for me, and I anticipate that I may feel lonely at times. However, this is a challenge I’m looking forward to in many ways. When else will I ever have the opportunity to do something like this?

I want to express my sincere thankfulness to the Circumnavigator Club of Chicago for this opportunity. I’m inclined to say that this experience is once in a lifetime, but that almost undersells it. The trip I am about to embark on is so beyond the scope of what I ever expected, and I’m deeply humbled. Thank you.

That’s all for now. I’ll be back soon with more updates. Please feel free to reach out to me at junipershelley2027@u.northwestern.edu with any questions, suggestions, or recommendations. I would love to hear any advice from those who circumnavigated before me!

I think I’ll close off every blog post with what I’m reading and listening to now. Please feel free to share yours as well. This week, I’ve been listening to “Weather With You” by Crowded House on repeat, and I just started reading “Never Split the Difference: Negotiating As If Your Life Depends On It” by Chris Voss.

Until next time,

Juniper

An early passport photo, from 2011.