Transformed by Travel: Globally Grown – Part 6.
The year is 2011. My backpack, affectionately nicknamed “Mzansi” after my home country South Africa, felt heavier than its contents suggested. Not with clothes or fancy gadgets – those were scarce. Its weight came from the sheer audacity of my plan: backpacking through Europe, passing through Rome, all on a shoestring budget fueled by the South African Rand. Let me tell you, the exchange rate wasn’t exactly in my favor.
Forget fancy hotels and gourmet meals. My Roman adventure was painted in shades of shared tent spaces in bustling campgrounds on the city’s outskirts, the aroma of instant noodles (a frequent dinner companion), and the triumphant discovery of the cheapest, yet most delicious, slice of pizza I could find. My daily budget for food and drink could sometimes be measured in just a few Euros, a constant reminder of the financial tightrope I was walking.
But oh, the sights! Despite my rumbling stomach, the sheer magnificence of Rome was a feast for the soul. The Colosseum, a silent giant whispering tales of gladiators and emperors. The Roman Forum, a sprawling landscape where history felt palpable under my worn-out sneakers. St. Peter’s Basilica, an overwhelming display of artistry and faith that left me breathless. Every corner turned revealed another layer of history, another breathtaking vista.
Being a woman traveling alone added another dimension to the experience. There were moments of vulnerability, yes, navigating unfamiliar streets and languages with limited resources. But those moments were often overshadowed by the kindness of strangers, and the new friends I made who were traveling with a similar idea in mind. A shared meal with fellow campers from across the globe, a local pointing me in the right direction with a warm smile, the unexpected generosity of a trattoria owner slipping me an extra bread roll. These encounters, born out of necessity and a willingness to connect, became the real treasures of my trip.
One afternoon, after a long day of exploring, I found myself standing before the iconic Trevi Fountain. The water shimmered under the Roman twilight, coins glinting at the bottom like fallen stars. Clutching a few precious Euro cents, I made my wish and tossed a coin over my shoulder, a silent promise to return to this magical city, and to make my way back to South Africa in one piece where someone very special was waiting for me (we ended up getting married for 12 wonderful years soon after my return). It wasn’t just a tourist ritual; it felt like an affirmation of my journey, a small act of hope amidst my budget constraints.
Looking back, one of the most significant aspects of that trip was the near absence of technology as we know it today. In 2011, “smartphones” were still a relatively new phenomenon for many, and data roaming charges were exorbitant. Finding a place to charge my basic cell phone was a mission in itself, often involving a hunt for internet cafes that charged by the minute. I would resort to public electric outlets located in the campground, where I would plug in with many other desperate travelers just trying to get word back hope that they were still okay. Google Maps wasn’t the constant companion it is now.
This technological limitation, however, became an unexpected gift. Without the crutch of instant information, I had to rely on my own wits and the kindness of others. I had to ask for directions, decipher maps the old-fashioned way, and engage in actual conversations to figure things out. I learned to trust my instincts and developed a knack for asking the right questions, even with a language barrier. This forced me to step outside my comfort zone and truly connect with the people and the environment around me. Even the local Polizia Locale, not to mention they looked absolutely amazing in their uniforms and they agreed to take a cheesy picture with me.
That backpacking trip to Rome, fueled by a meager South African budget and navigated with limited technology, was more than just a sightseeing adventure. It was a crucible that forged resilience, resourcefulness, and a deeper understanding of human connection within me. The lessons I learned – the importance of asking for help, the beauty of unexpected kindness, the ability to navigate uncertainty – have stayed with me long after the tents were packed away and the pizza became a distant memory. That journey, that time in Rome, played a significant role in shaping the woman I am today, in fact it probably helped me in some way with my own story of emigrating to the USA, a lesson etched not in digital memory, but in the rich tapestry of priceless lived experiences.
