A Trip Report Written by PRASHA
Out of breath, I gazed at the reddish cliffs of Portugal’s Algarve coastline, their shadows spilled into the aquamarine sea of Praia da Blanca below. The September sun was unrelenting, stronger than I had anticipated. The water sparkled beneath the sun, and my jet-black hair felt as though it might catch fire. In that moment, the world felt silent. I was alone, exhausted from walking under the sun, and determined to reach the beach I had travelled so far to see for its ethereal sunsets. But getting there meant hiking a rugged trail I had no experience with. The route felt daunting and dangerous, especially since I was on my own.
Months later, I stood trembling on a Boston subway platform. The graffiti-smeared tile walls echoed my fears back to me. For as long as I could remember, I had been afraid of taking trains alone. This may not be a fear shared by many, but it was mine. I didn’t know that I would be facing it head-on in the city of Boston. As the screech of the Green Line echoed through the tunnel at Boylston Station, my heartbeat raced. The fear felt eerily similar to what I had faced on that cliffside in Portugal.
Before Portugal and Boston, my first solo trip to Vienna and Prague was where everything began. I didn’t expect to meet a new version of myself in Prague, or to find an adventure of the heart during my time in Vienna with a tall, blue-eyed British traveller. We met at the right place and time, and in contrast to my guarded heart back home, I was daring in this new city. I allowed myself the possibility of a genuine connection, knowing the goodbye was inevitable.
I’ve never been a hiker. I’ve never felt comfortable taking trains alone, and until arriving in Vienna, I had never fully let myself trust someone with my heart, without concern for a possible ending, even though the ending was not just possible but promised. I’ve often walked through life not with my heart on my sleeve, but clenched tightly in my fist, hoping control might offer protection. And yet, in unfamiliar places, I have felt surprisingly free. Free to take risks. Free to feel. Free to become someone braver.
This contrast unsettled me for a long time. Why did I feel fearless abroad, but hesitant at home?
Growing up, “home” has been many places: briefly it was Colombo, before we immigrated due to war; then the buzzing streets of Toronto, the quiet suburbs of Red Deer, the warm town of Wasaga Beach, and finally the growing metropolis of Calgary. I’ve been fortunate to create homes filled with art and welcoming dinner tables. Yet, the feeling of home has never felt settled in my heart. For most of my life, home hasn’t always provided me with a sense of liberty. First, it was the war in Sri Lanka that physically limited our liberties; thousands were displaced, including my family. After immigrating to Canada, a different kind of limitation took hold: the comfort of familiarity. Familiarity became a cocoon that slowly started to confine me. Although predictability and routine offered an illusion of safety, I began to feel like I was living on autopilot. Many take the same routes to work, engage in similar conversations, and conduct their lives in repetitive routines. With monotonous repetition, I noticed how easy it was to say “no” to change in fear of disruption to normality and habit. How often do we say “no” to something simply because it falls outside our usual patterns? A spontaneous coffee with a new friend. An unfamiliar bus route. A social event that takes us beyond our familiar neighbourhoods. Over time, I found myself turning down opportunities for change, embracing habit and fearing disruption and the unknown. I saw my comfort zone and wanted to remain in it. That was until I embarked on my first solo trip in 2023 to the Czech Republic and Austria. This was the trip where I began my road to bravery, when I realized that as a traveller, although my fears may exist, they do not persist. Without the pressure to be the version of myself others know, I am free to be someone more daring. The habits I’ve built in familiarity have shaped who I am; however, I refuse to be consumed by that version of myself. In contrast to who I am in where I’ve called “home”, in a new place, the sense of anonymity and spontaneity have surprised me. It has allowed me space for something essential: the freedom to become someone braver. In unfamiliar places, where I could be anyone, I chose to be my most authentic self by taking risks, embracing vulnerability, and understanding that although fear exists, it cannot persist.
Up until I arrived in the picturesque city of Prague, I battled a voice in my head that warned me not to go. The voice was loud and carried an anxious tone. It told me I wouldn’t be safe alone in a city where I didn’t speak the language, where I knew no one. That voice followed me through security checks, airport terminals and sat with me on the plane, whispering every worst-case scenario. But the moment I arrived in Prague, everything suddenly felt different. The air was cool and crisp, my surroundings were unfamiliar, and no one in this city knew who I was. Under a blanket of anonymity, for the first time in my life, I felt true liberty. Prague’s blend of Gothic, baroque, and neoclassical architecture was so strikingly different from any sight I’ve ever seen. Walking through the cobblestone streets of Old Town, I felt a sense of freedom I hadn’t known before. The absence of familiarity allowed me to shed the expectations and routines that had previously consumed me. The anonymity Prague offered was liberating. It was a city where I could be a stranger to everyone, and yet, paradoxically, I felt more connected to myself than ever. The solitude was not isolating but empowering. For the first time, I felt a quiet courage in stepping into the unknown and trusting oneself in the process.
This sense of bravery followed me from Prague to my next destination: Vienna, Austria. The city of Vienna was where I was introduced to bravery in the form of vulnerability. I never expected that a trip to Vienna would lead me to meeting a very interesting traveller from England. Let’s call him British Boy. We only had 24 hours together before he departed for Prague on the same train that had brought me from Prague (how hilariously twisted is life, maybe if I stayed in Prague a little longer…). We decided to explore Vienna together in the short time we had. Those 24 hours were the closest I ever felt to discovering magic. From St. Stephen’s Cathedral to the Vienna State Opera, the Austrian National Library to the Volksgarten, we talked, laughed, and lingered well into the night, long after restaurants had closed and no other light but the moonshine fell upon us. Those fleeting hours revealed to me a contrast to how I have typically behaved with my heart. I had spent years with my guard up, especially in Calgary, where romance often felt transactional and emotionally distant. To be honest, dating in Calgary is not for the weak of heart. It would be easier to blame the lack of romanticism and the shortage of emotional availability in Calgary as a reason why I have walked its streets with my heart clenched in my hand. However, the city is not the reason. I am. In Vienna, I was different; I was not protecting myself, but rather, I was present, and I let my heart be seen. I knew my time with British Boy would be brief, and yet I felt bold to say yes to something so fleeting, knowing it would hurt when it ended in 24 hours. For once, I wasn’t trying to protect myself from the inevitable goodbye, instead, I chose to experience what I had for as long as I were to have it. There is immense courage in vulnerability, and I found that part of me in Vienna and have carried it ever since.
My road to self-growth eventually took me to Portugal, where the challenge was more physical than emotional. I had travelled to Portugal alone, drawn by the vibrant hilly streets of Lisbon, the rolling waves of Cascais, the history embedded in Sintra’s ancient palaces, and the ethereal sunsets of the Algarve coastline. Each of these places promised something unique, but it was the challenge of reaching Praia da Blanca in Lagos that would push me beyond my comfort zone. The cliffs surrounding the beach were not the type of landscape I was accustomed to, and the route was hardly marked. As the path grew steeper and more rugged, I couldn’t help but feel the weight of my uncertainty. Hiking had never been a pastime I embraced, particularly not in such unfamiliar and daunting settings. No one was beside me in Portugal to hold my hand or to show me the way. Back in Canada, I would have turned back the moment the path felt too difficult or uncertain, the idea of failing or appearing foolish enough to make me retreat. Yet here, alone and without an audience to observe my hesitation, I sat with my fear. I sat with it long enough to realize that although my fear of getting lost or hurting myself existed, it did not persist past my determination. I was too focused on the destination of getting to the place I had envisioned in my mind for so long, to stand in the beautiful waters of Praia da Blanca and watch the sunset. Each step towards Praia da Blanca felt like a rebellion against the limits I had placed on myself. As the beach finally came into view, I was immensely proud of myself, for I had done something difficult, something unfamiliar, something on my own. Completing this hike felt monumental. I proved to myself that the version of me who travels, who takes risks, who embraces the unknown, isn’t a different person. She is simply a part of me.
Just as Portugal tested me physically on my road to bravery, Boston would challenge my emotional strength in subtler, but no less significant, ways. Boston challenged me not about cliffs or love, but rather, it was about doing something that, to most people, probably seems small: riding the train alone. At home, I had always avoided taking trains alone. Stories of transit crime, confusion, and the subtle pressure of familiar faces watching had kept me off the trains for too long. It felt safer to stick with what I knew, such as the familiar routes of the same buses in trusted areas that seemed easier to take. But underneath that safety was fear: fear of exposure, fear of getting it wrong, fear of not knowing what to do. In Boston, avoidance wasn’t an option. If I wanted to explore the city and save money on Uber, I had to get on that train. If I wanted to take a day trip to the neighbouring town of Witchy Salem, I had to get on a train. The need to get on a train appeared to be unavoidable on this trip. I remember standing on the platform, heart racing, seriously considering turning back. But something had shifted in me. Prague had shown me courage. Vienna had taught me vulnerability. Portugal had proven my strength. I remembered that although fear has existed in my life, it has not persisted. I stepped onto the train, heart pounding, and stayed. Each stop made the fear smaller. I trusted myself more with every ride. With each ride, surrounded by unfamiliar faces and unknown routes, my fear got quieter. I started to trust myself. The same girl who once panicked at the thought of solo transit was now navigating a foreign city with growing confidence. To others, that might not sound like bravery. But for me, it was everything. It reminded me that courage isn’t always about dramatic acts. Sometimes, the greatest acts of bravery are about quiet persistence. About staying on board even when your heart races. About choosing growth over fear, even when no one’s watching.
Reflecting on my journeys, from the cliffs of Portugal to the subways of Boston, the cobbled streets of Prague to the candlelit night in Vienna, I realize that travel has been more than just a series of destinations for me. The journey has served as a mirror, revealing parts of myself I had long kept hidden. With every journey, I shed the protective layers I’ve built over the years, embracing vulnerability, spontaneity, and growth. Yes, fear may exist, but it cannot persist. These experiences have taught me that the boundaries I once thought defined me were often self-imposed. With this growth, I no longer see myself as someone with a “travel version” and a “home version.”
The brave, vulnerable, curious traveller is me, and she exists everywhere I go, if I let her.
The greatest adventures lie just beyond the edge of comfort, and my best ones are yet to come.
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