The reason why I came to Europe in the first place is due, in most part, to the unsurmountable amount of pain that had been pressing heavy on my chest for over a year now.
There’s a common misconception that living in NYC means you’re easily adaptable to change. It’s a hustling, bustling city where transition is welcomed and New Yorkers are supposed to meet change head on.
However, I don’t agree.
Last weekend, I was trying to explain to someone why I travel alone.
With fall finally upon us, Manhattan sidewalks are scattered with the first swirls of fallen leaves, fiery oranges and reds kissing the tips of trees. The hot summer air is suddenly lighter, shadows longer, and the air more heavy. Full of thoughts for the winter to come, Fall wraps its arms around our bare shoulders and caresses us with it’s frosted touch.
When life isn’t fair and times get tough, I, more often than not, find my solace in Ernest Hemingway.
It was the middle of June and I was traveling with a broken heart.
The promise of adventure hung in the crisp summer air as I got into the back of a cab at Barcelona-El Prat Airport.
I fell in love with Gstaad, Switzerland the moment I set foot in it.