Travel with Spirits

Author: Megan

  • 🍷 Drinks on the Move: Culture in Motion

    🍷 Drinks on the Move: Culture in Motion

    Small rituals of sustainable travel across Europe

    Most of my recent journeys across Europe have been by train, bus, ferry, and sometimes on foot. The drinks along the way were not curated experiences. They were practical pauses inside long routes.

    For me, they represent something important about sustainable travel. Not spectacle. Not luxury. Just staying present inside the infrastructure that already exists.

    Camino: Beer, Credential, Backpack

    A short rest on the Camino with my credential and blue backpack.

    During the Camino, I often stopped for a beer. Not to celebrate, but to recover energy and let my legs rest. My pilgrim credential and my blue backpack were my two constant companions. Every stamp marked progress. Every stop was necessary.

    Slow travel is physical. You carry what you need. You feel the distance. Sitting down becomes part of the system, not indulgence.

    Camino Bars as Everyday Infrastructure

    On the Camino, bars are part of the route.

    On the Camino, small-town bars function as infrastructure. Pilgrims stop, drink, refill water, and continue walking. These places serve locals first. As a traveler, I step into an existing rhythm rather than consuming something built for tourism.

    That distinction matters when we talk about responsible travel.

    A Bottle of Red Wine Per Person

    A surprisingly generous Camino lunch.

    One day along the Camino, the restaurant provided each pilgrim with a full bottle of Spanish red wine. It felt generous, and honestly a little excessive for a pilgrimage. None of us finished our bottles. We shared what we could, laughed about it, and left some behind.

    It reminded me that sustainable travel is not about rejecting comfort. It is about awareness, moderation, and sharing.

    Croatia: A Cold Beer After the Hills

    A simple break after moving on foot.

    In Croatia, after a walk in the hills, I opened a cold local beer. No designed viewpoint. No staged experience. Just a normal pause after physical movement.

    Overland travel makes transitions gradual. You notice change because you move through it step by step.

    Bus Reality: Tirana to Thessaloniki

    A driver break becomes a cultural pause.

    On the bus from Tirana to Thessaloniki, the driver stopped for lunch and rest. On long routes, drivers need breaks. Passengers wait. I used that time to try something local.

    In parts of Europe where rail connections do not work well, buses become the realistic lower-carbon alternative to flying. They are not comfortable in the same way as trains, but they connect.

    Morning Coffee on a Night Train

    One hour before arrival, already moving through the landscape.

    On the night train from Bucharest to Budapest, about an hour before arrival, I ordered my morning coffee. Sleeping on a train changes the structure of travel. You wake up already in motion.

    Rail is among the lowest-carbon options for long distances in Europe. Beyond emissions, it changes how arrival feels. You see the landscape before you step into the city.

    Leaving Vienna with Chocolate and Coffee

    A small taste of Vienna carried forward.

    On the train leaving Vienna, I had my favorite Viennese chocolate with a simple coffee. It was not about luxury. It was about continuity, carrying a small taste of the city into the next one.

    Slow travel includes these transitions. Not just arrival, but how you move between places.

    Switzerland: Beer on the Glacier Railway

    Seeing the geography you are crossing.

    On the Swiss glacier railway, I drank Swiss beer while mountains and rivers unfolded outside the window. This is where rail feels sustainable not only in carbon terms, but in perception. You understand the terrain you are crossing because you can see it.

    Finland: Kuopio Mini Cruise

    Crossing water as part of a slower network.

    In Kuopio, Finland, I joined a mini cruise and held a local beer on deck while the boat moved across the lake. Ferries and cruises are not zero-emission, but on many routes they replace short-haul flights and keep movement continuous rather than fragmented.

    Slovenia: A Dining Car Toward Ljubljana

    Public transport can still feel dignified.

    On a train crossing Slovenia toward Ljubljana, I sat in a dining carriage that felt almost classical in style. Curtains, tablecloths, soft light. It reminded me that infrastructure can still hold dignity while doing its job.

    When we choose trains over short flights, we are not only reducing emissions. We are supporting a transport system that keeps regional connections alive.

    What These Drinks Represent

    Sustainable travel is rarely ideal. It is about using what exists and choosing lower-impact options whenever possible.

    • Walking when I can
    • Choosing rail over short-haul flights
    • Taking buses where rail does not connect
    • Using ferries when the alternative is flying over water
    • Spending locally during transit, not only at destinations

    The drinks in these photos are ordinary. Affordable. Local. Unstaged. But they mark something real: recovery, connection, and continuity.

    For me, this is what culture in motion looks like. Not a performance, just everyday rituals inside a slower, lower-impact way of moving through Europe.

  • Cities in Between 🌇

    Cities in Between 🌇

    Where Sustainable Travel Becomes Visible

    Most trips are defined by destinations. Capitals. Landmarks. Final stops.

    But when traveling overland across Europe, what shapes my understanding of movement are often the places in between.

    These are not highlight cities. They are transfer points, regional stations, ferry terminals, and small towns connected by secondary lines. They are rarely the reason for travel, yet they make travel possible.

    Regional routes that quietly hold the network together.

    A regional train waits at a modest platform. It is not high-speed. It is not new. But it connects smaller towns to larger systems. People stand beside their luggage, watching the doors open and close.

    Sustainable travel depends on these routes. Not only flagship intercity lines, but the everyday infrastructure that feeds into them.

    Rural towns that remain connected by road and rail.

    Along the way, the train passes through villages that rarely appear on itineraries. These places are not tourist destinations, yet they remain connected. Flying would bypass them entirely. Rail and road move through them.

    Connectivity is part of sustainability. If infrastructure does not exist beyond major hubs, lower-impact travel becomes limited.

    Stations that serve residents more than visitors.

    At a small-town station with faded lettering, tracks run past ordinary neighborhoods. No airport-style controls. Just platforms and schedules. These stations represent continuity.

    Road travel makes transitions gradual.

    Crossing a bridge by bus, the skyline appears gradually. Overland travel reveals transitions rather than compressing them. It requires more connections, but keeps distance visible.

    Not a destination, just a pause in the network.

    Rain falls on a small regional platform. The train pauses briefly before continuing. No landmark. No dramatic arrival. Just a functional stop within a larger system.

    High-density hubs supporting regional lines.

    In larger stations, departure boards list regional and international services side by side. Commuters, families, and travelers move between platforms. Sustainable mobility relies on density.

    Daily routines unfolding beneath train schedules.

    Under digital timetables, passengers buy coffee and snacks. The system works not because it is dramatic, but because it is routine. Lower-carbon travel depends on repetition and use.

    Transfers and waiting are part of the process.

    Waiting is part of this structure. Transfers take time. Choosing rail or bus instead of flying often means accepting these pauses. It also means staying connected to geography rather than skipping over it.

    Sea crossings integrated into the land network.

    At a ferry terminal, passengers queue quietly. Ferries are not zero-emission, but in many regions they act as essential connectors where bridges do not exist.

    Multi-modal travel depends on what exists between cities.

    Two cyclists sit beside their loaded bikes at a bus shelter. Their journey depends entirely on the infrastructure between cities.

    Sustainable travel is often discussed in terms of emissions per passenger kilometer. Rail generally produces far lower CO₂ than flying. Buses often fall in between. But numbers alone are not enough.

    Infrastructure determines what choices are possible.

    In parts of Europe, rail lines end. In others, buses fill the gaps. Ferries connect coastlines. The cities in between are where these systems overlap and function together.

    Flying reduces travel time by skipping space. Overland travel moves through it.

    If sustainable travel is about lowering impact, it is also about supporting the networks that already exist. And those networks live in the cities in between.

  • Beyond Railways: Buses as Real Connections in the Balkans 🚌

    Beyond Railways: Buses as Real Connections in the Balkans 🚌

    Low-carbon travel is not always seamless.

    In parts of Europe, especially across the Balkans, railways simply do not connect in practical ways. International routes are limited, slow, or suspended. Borders between EU and non-EU countries involve passport checks, customs procedures, and unpredictable waiting times.

    In these places, buses are not a secondary choice. They are often the only one.

    Where Rail Ends

    High-speed rail dominates headlines, but buses quietly fill the gaps.

    At Barcelona Nord, I was reminded that Europe’s transport system is layered. Trains dominate Western Europe, but buses extend the network.

    Andorra appears not as an exception, but as routine infrastructure.

    There is no railway connection between Barcelona and Andorra. The only realistic way into the Pyrenees is by coach. The three-hour ride climbs steadily. The road narrows. The air cools. It is not dramatic. It is simply how the region functions.

    San Marino: A State Without Rail

    Where there is no rail, the bus is the system.

    San Marino has no active railway. To reach it, I took a bus from Rimini.

    The road winds upward from the Adriatic coast.

    The route climbs into the hills. There is no visible border checkpoint, but you are crossing into a sovereign state. Here, buses are not an alternative. They are the infrastructure itself.

    Crossing the Balkans

    A regional hub where road replaces rail.

    In Podgorica, buses connect Montenegro to Serbia, Kosovo, North Macedonia, Albania, and further into the EU.

    Skopje, Pristina, Thessaloniki. Road corridors where rail is limited.

    Cross-border journeys are tangible. Drivers collect passports. Officers board the bus. Luggage compartments are opened. Sometimes the process is quick. Sometimes it takes much longer. You feel the border.

    Everyday Mobility

    Practical vehicles forming the backbone of regional mobility.

    The buses are practical. Seats worn. Curtains faded. Air conditioning inconsistent.

    Daily mobility, not curated tourism.

    Passengers include workers, students, families, traders carrying large bags.

    Informal logistics networks moving alongside passengers.

    I once watched a washing machine being loaded into the luggage hold. It did not surprise anyone. These buses move people and goods together.

    The Part I Struggle With

    Scheduled stops determine comfort.

    There is one reason I still prefer trains when possible.

    Many long-distance Balkan bus routes last eight to ten hours. Most coaches do not have onboard toilets. You wait for scheduled stops. When you need a bathroom, you wait for the next one. And the facilities are often basic, sometimes not particularly clean.

    This is the only part of long-distance bus travel I genuinely struggle with. Trains offer more space and consistent facilities. On buses, comfort depends heavily on timing.

    Extending the Network

    Where rail ends, road continues.

    Despite these limitations, buses extend Europe’s mobility network where tracks end. From Barcelona to Andorra. From coastal Italy into San Marino. Across Balkan borders where rail infrastructure was never rebuilt or modernized.

    They do not compete with trains. They replace what does not exist.

    Sustainable Travel in Imperfect Systems

    Mobility shaped by geography and history.

    From an emissions perspective, buses sit between rail and flying. In Europe, rail averages around 14g CO₂ per passenger kilometer. Coaches often range between 25–60g. Short-haul flights typically exceed 150g.

    Rail is clearly lower. But in regions where rail does not exist, the real comparison is not bus versus train. It is bus versus flying.

    In the Balkans, choosing the bus is not about chasing the lowest possible number. It is about working with the infrastructure that exists.

    Sustainable travel is rarely about ideal systems. It is about making the best possible decision within real ones.

    In much of the Balkans, and in mountain states like Andorra or San Marino, buses are not secondary transport. They are the backbone.

  • Sustainable Travel at Sea ⛴️: When the Sky Becomes Water

    Sustainable Travel at Sea ⛴️: When the Sky Becomes Water

    Not every crossing requires flying.

    Ferries transform distance into experience, turning the sea into a living transition rather than empty space. Departure and arrival become visible, tangible processes. You do not disappear into the sky. You move across the surface of the world.

    From Rail to Water

    Land gradually gives way to water.

    The journey often begins on rail. Along the Adriatic coast, the horizon widens slowly. The sea appears beside the tracks. Travel feels continuous.

    The edge of Italy, where movement changes form.

    Arriving in Ancona, geography shifts. From here, movement becomes maritime.

    Industrial, practical, transitional.

    The ferry terminal is functional rather than romantic. Vehicles queue. Passengers gather. It is where one landscape ends and another begins.

    Boarding the Crossing

    A floating structure replacing the runway.

    Boarding reveals scale. The vessel rises above the dock like a moving building. Cars disappear below deck. Foot passengers climb upward.

    Transit that allows rest.

    Cabins are compact but self-contained. Unlike air travel, you can unpack slightly. You can lie down. You can sleep.

    At sea, the journey is inhabited, not endured.

    Even a small private bathroom changes the rhythm. The crossing is not a gap in the journey. It is part of it.

    Northern Routes and Everyday Infrastructure

    Sea as corridor, not obstacle.

    In northern Europe, ferries feel embedded in daily life. Baltic crossings carry commuters, families, and freight.

    Transport and social space intertwined.

    On Viking Line routes, restaurants, cabins, and open decks transform transit into shared experience. The sea becomes connective tissue.

    Signals of transition within maritime travel.

    Environmental messaging is increasingly visible. The shift is gradual but tangible.

    Infrastructure linking regions where bridges cannot.

    In Scandinavia, ferries replace highways. Engines rest while ships carry vehicles across water.

    Why Ferry Travel Still Matters

    Ferries are not zero-emission. They consume significant fuel, especially when carrying vehicles and operating overnight. Compared to rail, maritime travel generally produces higher emissions per passenger.

    In northern Europe, however, the transition is visible.

    Operators on Baltic and North Sea routes, including Viking Line and Fjord Line, have introduced LNG-powered vessels, hybrid systems, and shore power connections. These upgrades can reduce CO₂ emissions by roughly 15–30% compared to heavy fuel oil, while sharply lowering sulfur and nitrogen oxides.

    The Baltic Sea is a designated Sulphur Emission Control Area, and since 2024 maritime transport has been gradually integrated into the EU Emissions Trading System.

    Average emissions per passenger kilometer in Europe are approximately:
    Rail: ~14 g CO₂
    Ferry: ~20–80 g CO₂
    Short-haul flight: ~150–250 g CO₂

    Rail remains the lowest-carbon option. But when the alternative is short-haul flying over water, ferries often represent a lower-impact choice.

    Sustainable travel is rarely about perfection. It is about direction.

    When the sea replaces the sky, movement becomes visible again.

    And at sea, that direction is slowly changing.

  • Night Trains: Aligning Movement, Rest, and Sustainable Travel 🚞

    Night Trains: Aligning Movement, Rest, and Sustainable Travel 🚞

    Night trains occupy a distinct place in European railway culture. Long before budget airlines reshaped mobility, sleeper services connected ports, capitals, and inland cities across shifting borders.

    In 2022, I boarded my first night train with an Interrail pass. I expected nostalgia. What I found was continuity. I slept deeply and arrived whole.

    That experience shaped my 2025 journey. I built part of my Interrail route around night trains, curious whether movement and rest could truly coexist.

    Bar to Belgrade

    Bar station, where the Adriatic coast gives way to inland rail.

    Bar station feels functional rather than iconic. No spectacle. Just infrastructure serving daily life.

    Rail as everyday infrastructure, not tourism theater

    The night service to Belgrade operates as connective tissue across the Balkans.

    Convertible seats transforming public space into temporary bedroom.

    The compartment was simple. Convertible seats, luggage secured overhead, strangers sharing space with quiet courtesy.

    Corridors become transitional architecture after dark.

    As darkness settled, borders were crossed quietly. By morning, Belgrade arrived gradually. No rupture. Just transition.

    Bucharest to Budapest

    Compact European sleeper design balancing density and privacy.

    The Bucharest to Budapest route felt more refined. Blue bunks stacked efficiently. Curtains offering privacy.

    The dining car as one of Europe’s last democratic travel spaces.

    In the dining car, travelers shared drinks while the countryside passed unseen. Distance became social.

    A narrow bunk. The steady rhythm of steel on rail.

    By morning, Romanian hills had given way to Hungarian plains. You do not crash into arrival. You ease into it.

    Rosenheim to Warsaw

    Mobility depends on timing, language, and awareness.

    A last-minute platform change. An announcement in German I missed. The train departed.

    I took a regional train from Rosenheim to Vienna and from there an overnight bus to Warsaw.

    The contrast was immediate.

    No berth.
    No soft corridor light.
    No gentle sway of steel on rail.

    Sleep came in fragments. Yet distance still closed overnight. Borders were crossed. Morning arrived.

    Why Night Trains Matter

    Night trains are often described as climate-conscious alternatives to short-haul flights. The environmental difference is significant. According to the European Environment Agency, rail travel averages around 14 grams of CO₂ per passenger kilometer, while short-haul flights can exceed 150 grams.

    But their relevance is not only environmental.

    Across Europe, operators such as ÖBB Nightjet are expanding cross-border services, responding to renewed demand for slower, lower-impact mobility.

    Night trains integrate rest into transit. They preserve geography instead of skipping over it.

    They may be slower than planes.

    But environmentally and culturally, they offer something increasingly rare: continuity.

  • Sustainable Travel in Europe 🌍

    Sustainable Travel in Europe 🌍

    From Pilgrimage to Low-Carbon Movement by Interrail and Beyond

    A Slow, Grounded, and Cultural Way of Moving Through Europe

    For a long time, travel meant arrival. Flights, itineraries, destinations, checked off one by one.

    But over time, I began to understand something more essential: what shapes a journey most is not where we go, but how we move.

    This series traces my shift toward sustainable travel in Europe, not as a set of rules, but as a lived practice shaped by the body, time, and low-carbon movement.

    It began with walking. And it continues, still unfolding.

    🥾 Walking: The Body as Teacher

    When body becomes the vehicle.

    In the spring of 2025, I walked the Camino de Santiago from Zamora. Three weeks of near-zero-carbon movement redefined my sense of distance, time, and presence.

    Before walking the Camino, I traveled the way most modern travelers do. I chose the fastest way to arrive. Flights, connections, time zones. As if the journey only truly began once I had “arrived.”

    But after walking for weeks, I felt something I had never felt so clearly before: The body needs time in order to enter a place.

    When movement slows down, the senses awaken. Terrain, climate, distance, fatigue, none of these are inconveniences. They are signals.

    That was when I understood that sustainable travel is not only an environmental choice. It is also a form of respect for the rhythm of the body. This is why, after the Camino, I began rethinking the way I move.

    From Camino to Sustainable Travel →

    🛤 Trains: The Low-Carbon Backbone

    Watching landscapes change instead of flying over them.

    From May to July 2025, I traveled across Europe by train, using an Interrail Global Pass. Trains allowed me to arrive gradually, watching landscapes shift in real time.

    The value of train travel is not only its lower emissions. It creates a transition space. A stretch of time where body and mind adjust together.

    On daytime trains, I watched light shift, weather change, temperatures rise and fall. On platforms, I shared waiting time with commuters, families, solo travelers. These ordinary moments brought back a sense of humanity to travel.

    Trains do not erase distance. They make distance understandable. For the body and mind, that is a form of gentleness.

    Traveling Europe by Train: Learning to Arrive Slowly →

    🚂Night Trains: Time Reimagined

    Sleeping while the land moves.

    Not every journey needs to pause at night.

    Night trains dissolve the opposition between movement and rest. Instead of losing time to airports, artificial light, and exhaustion, I sleep while the land continues to move.

    There is something profoundly gentle about waking up in a new country without rupture. No sudden dislocation. No abrupt transition. Just continuity.

    The body travels. The mind rests. And arrival feels aligned rather than imposed.

    Night Trains in Europe (coming soon)

    ⛴️Ferries: When the Sea Replaces the Sky

    The sea as transition, not empty space.

    Not every crossing requires flying.

    Ferries transform the sea into a visible passage rather than an empty gap between destinations. Standing on deck, watching the coastline slowly recede, I can feel departure happening in real time.

    Arrival unfolds the same way, gradually, perceptibly. The sea is no longer something to be bypassed. It becomes part of the journey itself. In that slowness, distance regains meaning.

    Ferries as a Gentle Crossing (coming soon)

    🚌🚏 Buses: Beyond the Railways

    Not romantic—but real.

    Not every place is connected by rail.

    In parts of the Balkans and other peripheral regions, buses are not a romantic choice, they are the only realistic one.

    They may not be punctual. They may not be comfortable. But they exist within the everyday lives of local people. Choosing them, for me, is a form of practical sustainability.

    Not pursuing ideal systems, but selecting lower impact, more human ways of moving within real conditions.

    When railways end, movement does not stop. It simply becomes more grounded.

    Traveling by Bus Beyond Railways (coming soon)

    🌆 Cities in Between: The New Space of Transition

    Slow travel happens in the in-between.

    The greatest gift of slower movement has been rediscovering the in between.

    Not the landmarks. Not the destinations. But the spaces between cities and countries that are usually ignored.

    In these transitions, I learned to accept uncertainty, delays, waiting. I began to understand that time is not wasted. It is a container. These experiences cannot be replicated by air travel.

    Cities in Between (coming soon)

    🍷🥂☕️🍻 Drinks on the Move: Culture in Motion

    Shared tables. Moving landscapes.

    Movement is not only about distance. It is also about ritual.

    Coffee on cold platforms at dawn. Beer after long days of walking. Wine in dining cars while fields blur past the window. These small drinks are not indulgences. They are anchors.

    They root me in a place without spectacle or performance. They invite conversation, or quiet observation. They turn anonymous transit spaces into temporary living rooms.

    Tasting something local between destinations is one of the most grounded forms of cultural connection. It is not about consumption. It is about presence.

    Drinks on the Move: Tasting Europe Between Destinations (coming soon)

    If travel is an extension of life, then sustainable travel is the choice to let that extension coexist rather than extract.

    Perhaps what we are truly trying to reach is not a particular city. But a way of moving that feels more aligned with ourselves, and more respectful of the world.

  • Traveling Europe by Interrail: Learning to Arrive Slowly 🛤️

    Traveling Europe by Interrail: Learning to Arrive Slowly 🛤️

    Trains as the backbone of low-carbon movement

    In 2025, from May to July, I traveled across Europe with a three-month Interrail pass. It was about choosing trains as the backbone of my movement, and letting distance, time, and transition become part of the journey.

    After walking the Camino, my relationship with movement had already changed. I no longer wanted to “arrive” abruptly. I wanted to enter places gently. Trains offered exactly that.

    A train station is not just a stop, it’s a pause between places.

    Unlike flying, where space collapses into departure gates and arrival halls, train travel stretches geography back into something human scaled. Cities don’t disappear all at once. Suburbs thin out. Factories become fields. Fields turn into forests. Sometimes forests rise into mountains.

    You don’t just arrive somewhere.
    You watch one place slowly become another.

    Watching landscapes change, instead of flying over them.

    Daytime train journeys became my favorite classroom. Sitting by the window, I learned how light changes across hours and regions, morning softness over farmland, harsh noon sun on platforms, clouds gathering near borders, rain streaking across the glass somewhere between countries.

    Weather mattered again. Temperature mattered. Time mattered.

    Inside the train, time stretches and the mind settles.

    Interrail made this rhythm possible. With one pass, I crossed borders without severing continuity. Different languages, different rail systems, but always the same ritual: finding my platform, reading the board, stepping onto the train.

    Stations became thresholds rather than stress points. Some were grand and echoing with iron and glass. Others were quiet, almost empty, with only a bench and a sign. Each one held a pause, a moment to breathe between places.

    Borders feel different when you cross them on the ground.

    On platforms and inside carriages, I encountered people I would never meet in the air. Commuters heading home. Elderly couples with grocery bags. Backpackers half asleep. Families sharing snacks. Solo travelers staring out the window, just like me.

    We didn’t always talk, but we shared time and space. Travel felt communal again.

    Travel becomes communal when you move at human speed.
    Not every train is polished, and that’s part of the story.

    Choosing trains was also a conscious environmental decision. Rail travel produces far lower carbon emissions than flying, especially within Europe. But beyond numbers, sustainability became something I could feel.

    Less rushing.
    Less disconnection.
    More presence.

    The journey itself was no longer something to endure. It became part of living.

    Choosing trains as the backbone of low-carbon travel.
    Movement without rushing.
    Travel that stays close to the land.

    What surprised me most was how trains changed my sense of arrival. By the time I stepped off, my body had already adjusted. My mind had slowed down. There was no jet lag between where I was and where I had been.

    I arrived whole.

    Traveling Europe by Interrail taught me that sustainable travel is not only about lowering emissions. It’s about aligning movement with the nervous system, with attention, with care.

    Trains didn’t just connect cities.
    They taught me how to arrive, slowly, gently, and with intention.

    This article is part of my Sustainable Travel Series, exploring how movement, culture, and low-carbon choices reshape the way we travel in Europe.

  • From Camino to Sustainable Travel 🥾

    From Camino to Sustainable Travel 🥾

    It has been almost a year since I set off from Zamora in late March and began walking the Camino de Santiago.

    Those three weeks on the Camino did not give me clear answers at the time. Instead, they planted something quietly. Over the months that followed, that seed slowly grew, reshaping how I understand travel, movement, and arrival.

    Spring on the Camino, when the river slows, my pace follows.

    In 2025 Spring, I chose to walk the Camino step by step with my own body. Later, I spent three months traveling by train and short-distance cruises within Europe, moving gradually from city to city. This rhythm made something very clear to me: when movement slows down, the body, emotions, and awareness are able to arrive together.

    I used to travel very differently. I moved frequently between continents, Europe, the United States, Asia, often within short periods of time. Those journeys were efficient and exciting, but they left me feeling fragmented. My body would already be in a new time zone, while my thoughts were still lingering on the continent I had just left.

    At dusk, the landscape changes slowly—an invitation to pause.

    The way I traveled in 2025 was not only about reducing carbon emissions. It became a shift in how I live. When I stopped rushing to cross distances and allowed myself time to truly enter a place, something inside me softened and aligned.

    On the Camino, I often walked alone. My footsteps landed on dirt paths and stone roads, passing through open fields, forests, streams, and quiet villages. The yellow arrows appeared again and again. They did not rush me or promise a destination, they simply pointed forward.

    The arrows don’t point to an ending, only to the next step.

    And yet, I was not always alone. Along the way, I met pilgrims from many different countries. Sometimes we walked together; sometimes we simply shared a short pause. Language was not always necessary. Under the same sun and with the same tired legs, understanding came easily.

    In the afternoons, we would stop at small village bars, cold, freshly poured beer, simple tapas on the table. Spanish sunlight spilled across the wood surfaces, a light breeze passed through the streets, and time felt generous. These ordinary moments became some of the clearest memories of the journey.

    Cold beer, olives, and a pause that feels exactly right.

    The train journeys and short European cruises that followed continued this same rhythm. Cities were no longer places I skipped over; they were connected, one by one. Outside the window, landscapes changed gradually, and my thoughts were given space to settle.

    This way of traveling feels gentler, to the environment, and to myself. It is not about achieving perfection or zero impact, but about making conscious choices before each movement.

    Now, I find myself drawn to this kind of travel, where movement is not only about reaching a destination, but about practicing a way of living that can be sustained over time.

    When the body, mind, and spirit arrive together, the world opens itself in quieter, kinder ways.

    This article is part of my Sustainable Travel Series, exploring how movement, culture, and low-carbon choices reshape the way we travel in Europe.

  • 🕊 From Spirits to Spirit: My Journey to Clarity

    🕊 From Spirits to Spirit: My Journey to Clarity

    October 19, 2025. It was a crisp and gentle Sunday in early autumn. Invited by one of my Spirits course teachers, I attended an event called The Art of Drinks. The atmosphere was lively yet refined, filled with the aromas of spirits and the hum of cheerful laughter.

    I wandered from booth to booth, tasting whiskies from Scotland, Taiwan, the Netherlands, and Japan, along with gin, vodka, brandy, rum, champagne, wine, beer, and sake. By the end of the day, I had sampled nearly every type of drink imaginable.

    Some of the spirits felt like old friends, while others were delightful first encounters. Each glass carried its own personality and story. Some evoked old memories, others felt strangely familiar, like meeting someone new yet somehow known. I recalled the first time I truly tasted whisky, how it felt like meeting a soul through a glass, sensing its aroma, warmth, and depth, while rediscovering a part of myself in the process. It was a form of reverence for time itself. I have always been moved by the craftsmanship behind whisky: the art, the oak casks, the climate, the years of patience, and the invisible Angel’s Share that vanishes into the air. Every drop holds the breath and patience of time. As I tasted all those varieties that day, I realized I was not just drinking. I was in conversation with time.

    From 1:30 p.m. until closing at six, my glass was never empty. Between one sip and the next, I felt pure joy and satisfaction, a familiar kind of bliss that was almost intoxicating in its completeness. I thought to myself, this was not just a feast of the senses; it felt like a final farewell to my seven years of loving alcohol.

    People say seven years make a lifetime. Human cells renew completely about every seven years, symbolizing rebirth. I had lived through a full seven-year cycle with alcohol, seven years of ecstasy, loneliness, creativity, and escape, each emotion magnified through the lens of intoxication.

    As I drank that afternoon, a memory surfaced. In the autumn of 2020, someone once asked me, “If tonight were your last supper, what would you choose to have?” I answered, “A dozen oysters with a fresh pint of Guinness.” That, at the time, represented the purest and most honest form of satisfaction I knew. But that afternoon at Art of Drinks, a quiet realization arose within me. Wasn’t this, in some way, my last supper already? All my favorite spirits were gathered here. Their aromas, textures, and finishes intertwined like a personal symphony. I savored every sip, completely immersed in the moment. For the first time, I felt that my life was whole. Even if it ended right there, I would have had no regrets.

    The next morning, October 20, I woke up with a splitting headache, so hungover that I could barely move. Yet deep inside, there was a strange sense of peace. A quiet voice echoed in my mind: “It’s enough. Time to move on.” It was not a command or a confession. It was a realization, like reaching the end of a long road and finally seeing the way out.

    I thought of one of my favorite films, Big Fish. At the end of the story, when the father’s life comes to its close, everyone he had met, helped, or shared adventures with appears to bid him farewell with smiles and applause. Then he transforms into a great fish and dives into the river, swimming freely into a new journey. That scene always brings me to tears. And I realized, the many drinks I had enjoyed the day before were like the companions of my own life’s journey. They had accompanied me through countless nights, led me into worlds of flavor, scent, and emotion. But now, I felt gratitude and the readiness to say goodbye.

    Quietly, I told myself: From this day forward, I will no longer drink in daily life. I will only drink while traveling, to learn about local culture, craftsmanship, and history. Not to escape, console, or numb myself, but to understand the world and connect with it more deeply. This decision came peacefully. There was no struggle, no nostalgia, no sadness. Like a leaf falling when the season arrives, I simply followed the rhythm within.

    Now two and a half weeks have passed since that day. For the first time in seven years, I have gone more than two weeks without a single drink. To my surprise, I feel no emptiness, no anxiety, no loss. Instead, my body feels lighter, my mind clearer, my spirit cleaner. In the first week of sobriety, I began clearing years of digital clutter, deleting almost fifteen thousand emails, organizing notes and documents from 2013 to 2025. It felt like revisiting the story of my own life, each file a reflection of a past moment. I reviewed them and then I let them go. Then came the physical and emotional spaces. I decluttered my home and quietly re-evaluated my relationships. Some connections no longer resonated, so I let them fade with grace. At the same time, new friends began to appear, people who felt calm, sincere, and aligned with this new energy.

    I noticed that the kind of people I attract has changed, and so have the conversations. Before, we often spoke about appearance, pleasure, and material desires. Now, we talk about journeys, books, spirituality, and the inner experience of being alive. This is not merely a change in drinking habits. It feels like crossing an invisible threshold, entering a new world that is quieter, brighter, and freer. I have finally embodied the transformation from Spirits to Spirit. From the material world of alcohol to the invisible realm of spiritual freedom. From outer intoxication to inner awakening. From unconscious repetition to conscious choice.

    I can finally feel the depth of life through clarity. This is both an ending and a beginning. I know I will keep traveling, exploring, and tasting the world. But this time, I will do it with awareness and intention. Every sip, every breath on the road ahead will be a mindful step toward the freedom of the soul.

    (more…)

    October 19, 2025. It was a crisp and gentle Sunday in early autumn. Invited by one of my Spirits course teachers, I attended an event called The Art of Drinks. The atmosphere was lively yet refined, filled with the aromas of spirits and the hum of cheerful laughter.

    I wandered from booth to booth, tasting whiskies from Scotland, Taiwan, the Netherlands, and Japan, along with gin, vodka, brandy, rum, champagne, wine, beer, and sake. By the end of the day, I had sampled nearly every type of drink imaginable.

    Some of the spirits felt like old friends, while others were delightful first encounters. Each glass carried its own personality and story. Some evoked old memories, others felt strangely familiar, like meeting someone new yet somehow known. I recalled the first time I truly tasted whisky, how it felt like meeting a soul through a glass, sensing its aroma, warmth, and depth, while rediscovering a part of myself in the process. It was a form of reverence for time itself. I have always been moved by the craftsmanship behind whisky: the art, the oak casks, the climate, the years of patience, and the invisible Angel’s Share that vanishes into the air. Every drop holds the breath and patience of time. As I tasted all those varieties that day, I realized I was not just drinking. I was in conversation with time.

    From 1:30 p.m. until closing at six, my glass was never empty. Between one sip and the next, I felt pure joy and satisfaction, a familiar kind of bliss that was almost intoxicating in its completeness. I thought to myself, this was not just a feast of the senses; it felt like a final farewell to my seven years of loving alcohol.

    People say seven years make a lifetime. Human cells renew completely about every seven years, symbolizing rebirth. I had lived through a full seven-year cycle with alcohol, seven years of ecstasy, loneliness, creativity, and escape, each emotion magnified through the lens of intoxication.

    As I drank that afternoon, a memory surfaced. In the autumn of 2020, someone once asked me, “If tonight were your last supper, what would you choose to have?” I answered, “A dozen oysters with a fresh pint of Guinness.” That, at the time, represented the purest and most honest form of satisfaction I knew. But that afternoon at Art of Drinks, a quiet realization arose within me. Wasn’t this, in some way, my last supper already? All my favorite spirits were gathered here. Their aromas, textures, and finishes intertwined like a personal symphony. I savored every sip, completely immersed in the moment. For the first time, I felt that my life was whole. Even if it ended right there, I would have had no regrets.

    The next morning, October 20, I woke up with a splitting headache, so hungover that I could barely move. Yet deep inside, there was a strange sense of peace. A quiet voice echoed in my mind: “It’s enough. Time to move on.” It was not a command or a confession. It was a realization, like reaching the end of a long road and finally seeing the way out.

    I thought of one of my favorite films, Big Fish. At the end of the story, when the father’s life comes to its close, everyone he had met, helped, or shared adventures with appears to bid him farewell with smiles and applause. Then he transforms into a great fish and dives into the river, swimming freely into a new journey. That scene always brings me to tears. And I realized, the many drinks I had enjoyed the day before were like the companions of my own life’s journey. They had accompanied me through countless nights, led me into worlds of flavor, scent, and emotion. But now, I felt gratitude and the readiness to say goodbye.

    Quietly, I told myself: From this day forward, I will no longer drink in daily life. I will only drink while traveling, to learn about local culture, craftsmanship, and history. Not to escape, console, or numb myself, but to understand the world and connect with it more deeply. This decision came peacefully. There was no struggle, no nostalgia, no sadness. Like a leaf falling when the season arrives, I simply followed the rhythm within.

    Now two and a half weeks have passed since that day. For the first time in seven years, I have gone more than two weeks without a single drink. To my surprise, I feel no emptiness, no anxiety, no loss. Instead, my body feels lighter, my mind clearer, my spirit cleaner. In the first week of sobriety, I began clearing years of digital clutter, deleting almost fifteen thousand emails, organizing notes and documents from 2013 to 2025. It felt like revisiting the story of my own life, each file a reflection of a past moment. I reviewed them and then I let them go. Then came the physical and emotional spaces. I decluttered my home and quietly re-evaluated my relationships. Some connections no longer resonated, so I let them fade with grace. At the same time, new friends began to appear, people who felt calm, sincere, and aligned with this new energy.

    I noticed that the kind of people I attract has changed, and so have the conversations. Before, we often spoke about appearance, pleasure, and material desires. Now, we talk about journeys, books, spirituality, and the inner experience of being alive. This is not merely a change in drinking habits. It feels like crossing an invisible threshold, entering a new world that is quieter, brighter, and freer. I have finally embodied the transformation from Spirits to Spirit. From the material world of alcohol to the invisible realm of spiritual freedom. From outer intoxication to inner awakening. From unconscious repetition to conscious choice.

    I can finally feel the depth of life through clarity. This is both an ending and a beginning. I know I will keep traveling, exploring, and tasting the world. But this time, I will do it with awareness and intention. Every sip, every breath on the road ahead will be a mindful step toward the freedom of the soul.

    (more…)

    Land of Sake, Japanese craftsmanship and delicate aromas.
    Tasting the freshness of Champagne Lanson.
    The depth of Glenmorangie Signet.
    Warm smiles and shared stories with passionate Master blender from Vecchia Romagna brandy in Italy.
    Kavalan Single Malt from Taiwan.
    Riserva Anniversario Limited Edition, celebrating heritage and time.
    Zuidam Millstone Dutch Whisky, Dutch distilling artistry.

    October 19, 2025. It was a crisp and gentle Sunday in early autumn. Invited by one of my Spirits course teachers, I attended an event called The Art of Drinks. The atmosphere was lively yet refined, filled with the aromas of spirits and the hum of cheerful laughter.

    I wandered from booth to booth, tasting whiskies from Scotland, Taiwan, the Netherlands, and Japan, along with gin, vodka, brandy, rum, champagne, wine, beer, and sake. By the end of the day, I had sampled nearly every type of drink imaginable.

    Some of the spirits felt like old friends, while others were delightful first encounters. Each glass carried its own personality and story. Some evoked old memories, others felt strangely familiar, like meeting someone new yet somehow known. I recalled the first time I truly tasted whisky, how it felt like meeting a soul through a glass, sensing its aroma, warmth, and depth, while rediscovering a part of myself in the process. It was a form of reverence for time itself. I have always been moved by the craftsmanship behind whisky: the art, the oak casks, the climate, the years of patience, and the invisible Angel’s Share that vanishes into the air. Every drop holds the breath and patience of time. As I tasted all those varieties that day, I realized I was not just drinking. I was in conversation with time.

    From 1:30 p.m. until closing at six, my glass was never empty. Between one sip and the next, I felt pure joy and satisfaction, a familiar kind of bliss that was almost intoxicating in its completeness. I thought to myself, this was not just a feast of the senses; it felt like a final farewell to my seven years of loving alcohol.

    People say seven years make a lifetime. Human cells renew completely about every seven years, symbolizing rebirth. I had lived through a full seven-year cycle with alcohol, seven years of ecstasy, loneliness, creativity, and escape, each emotion magnified through the lens of intoxication.

    As I drank that afternoon, a memory surfaced. In the autumn of 2020, someone once asked me, “If tonight were your last supper, what would you choose to have?” I answered, “A dozen oysters with a fresh pint of Guinness.” That, at the time, represented the purest and most honest form of satisfaction I knew. But that afternoon at Art of Drinks, a quiet realization arose within me. Wasn’t this, in some way, my last supper already? All my favorite spirits were gathered here. Their aromas, textures, and finishes intertwined like a personal symphony. I savored every sip, completely immersed in the moment. For the first time, I felt that my life was whole. Even if it ended right there, I would have had no regrets.

    The next morning, October 20, I woke up with a splitting headache, so hungover that I could barely move. Yet deep inside, there was a strange sense of peace. A quiet voice echoed in my mind: “It’s enough. Time to move on.” It was not a command or a confession. It was a realization, like reaching the end of a long road and finally seeing the way out.

    I thought of one of my favorite films, Big Fish. At the end of the story, when the father’s life comes to its close, everyone he had met, helped, or shared adventures with appears to bid him farewell with smiles and applause. Then he transforms into a great fish and dives into the river, swimming freely into a new journey. That scene always brings me to tears. And I realized, the many drinks I had enjoyed the day before were like the companions of my own life’s journey. They had accompanied me through countless nights, led me into worlds of flavor, scent, and emotion. But now, I felt gratitude and the readiness to say goodbye.

    Quietly, I told myself: From this day forward, I will no longer drink in daily life. I will only drink while traveling, to learn about local culture, craftsmanship, and history. Not to escape, console, or numb myself, but to understand the world and connect with it more deeply. This decision came peacefully. There was no struggle, no nostalgia, no sadness. Like a leaf falling when the season arrives, I simply followed the rhythm within.

    Now two and a half weeks have passed since that day. For the first time in seven years, I have gone more than two weeks without a single drink. To my surprise, I feel no emptiness, no anxiety, no loss. Instead, my body feels lighter, my mind clearer, my spirit cleaner. In the first week of sobriety, I began clearing years of digital clutter, deleting almost fifteen thousand emails, organizing notes and documents from 2013 to 2025. It felt like revisiting the story of my own life, each file a reflection of a past moment. I reviewed them and then I let them go. Then came the physical and emotional spaces. I decluttered my home and quietly re-evaluated my relationships. Some connections no longer resonated, so I let them fade with grace. At the same time, new friends began to appear, people who felt calm, sincere, and aligned with this new energy.

    I noticed that the kind of people I attract has changed, and so have the conversations. Before, we often spoke about appearance, pleasure, and material desires. Now, we talk about journeys, books, spirituality, and the inner experience of being alive. This is not merely a change in drinking habits. It feels like crossing an invisible threshold, entering a new world that is quieter, brighter, and freer. I have finally embodied the transformation from Spirits to Spirit. From the material world of alcohol to the invisible realm of spiritual freedom. From outer intoxication to inner awakening. From unconscious repetition to conscious choice.

    I can finally feel the depth of life through clarity. This is both an ending and a beginning. I know I will keep traveling, exploring, and tasting the world. But this time, I will do it with awareness and intention. Every sip, every breath on the road ahead will be a mindful step toward the freedom of the soul.

    (more…)

  • 🎭 Bregenz, Austria 🇦🇹 Where Opera Meets the Lake

    🎭 Bregenz, Austria 🇦🇹 Where Opera Meets the Lake

    There are cities that sing softly, and then there’s Bregenz, where the entire town performs. Sitting gracefully on the shores of Lake Constance (Bodensee), this Austrian gem feels like a place where art, water, and imagination flow together. I came here out of curiosity, but I left feeling as though I’d attended the world’s most poetic rehearsal that never truly ends.

    Why Visit Bregenz?

    Bregenz isn’t just a lakeside town; it’s a living stage. Each summer, thousands gather for the Bregenzer Festspiele, a world renowned open air opera festival that transforms the lake into a set. I’d seen photos before, but standing before the floating stage made my jaw drop. Where else can you watch a performance while the sunset paints the Alps gold behind you?

    The magic of the Bregenzer Festspiele, an opera that floats on Lake Constance. View on Google Maps

    A Stage on the Water

    Each production has its own spectacular stage design, part sculpture, part dream. From the surreal face of André Chénier (2011/12) to the whimsical playing cards of Carmen (2017/18), and this year’s haunting set of Der Freischütz, Bregenz proves that art can be both bold and buoyant. I walked along the floating platform, imagining the actors performing against the backdrop of clouds and waves. The stage creaked gently underfoot, a reminder that this masterpiece lives and breathes with the lake.

    Posters of past productions, each one more imaginative than the last.

    The Festspielhaus, part opera house, part architectural statement, facing the water like a proud ship. View on Google Maps

    The Art of Engineering and Emotion

    Behind the beauty lies brilliant engineering. The stage for Der Freischütz stands on 158 oak and steel pillars driven deep into the lake. The eerie, moonlit village seems to float, a metaphor for life’s fragile balance between art and nature. Reading the story of the doomed marksman while standing beside the cold, silent water gave me goosebumps. In that moment, I understood that Bregenz doesn’t just build sets, it builds experiences.

    The haunting stage of Der Freischütz, where opera and engineering meet.

    Life by the Lake

    Bregenz may be famous for its opera, but daily life here is far from theatrical. Locals bike along the promenade, families enjoy lakeside picnics, and the scent of espresso drifts through cozy cafés. I stopped by Cuenstler Café, where colorful umbrellas hang from the ceiling, a cheerful metaphor for Bregenz itself: playful, creative, and never afraid of a little rain.

    Colorful umbrellas at Cuenstler Café brighten even the cloudiest Bregenz afternoon. View on Google Maps

    Bridge Between Countries

    Economically, Bregenz thrives on trade, tourism, and cross border collaboration. Its location at the junction of Austria, Germany, and Switzerland has made it a cultural bridge for centuries. Locals speak a soft Alemannic German dialect, and conversations flow as easily as the Rhine River that feeds the lake. The people seem grounded yet open, proud of their traditions but always curious about what floats in from across the water.

    Lake Constance, shared by Austria, Germany, and Switzerland, uniting cultures through water. View on Google Maps

    Modern Design Meets Nature

    Further down the promenade, I discovered modern sculptures rising from the shore, sleek, minimal, and surprisingly poetic. They mirror the region’s mix of tradition and innovation. Just beside it, sleek yachts like the Sonnenkönigin (Queen of the Sun) glide across the emerald water, reflecting the balance of nature and luxury that defines this corner of Austria.

    Modern art installation by the lake, a dialogue between sky and water.

    The futuristic Sonnenkönigin, a floating symbol of modern Bregenz. View on Google Maps

    Reflections on Water and Art

    As I watched the clouds drift across the lake, I realized Bregenz teaches an important lesson: beauty doesn’t need to be loud, it can be steady, reflective, and quietly transformative. The lake doesn’t compete with the stage; it completes it. Just like in life, harmony comes not from control, but from flow.

    I left with a sense of awe, not just for the art I saw, but for the way it mirrors human emotion: our struggles, our dreams, our longing for connection. Bregenz reminded me that sometimes, the most powerful performances happen not under spotlights, but under open skies.

    And if you ever find yourself standing at the edge of Lake Constance, take a deep breath. Listen. The water might just be singing back to you.