I still remember how on my first trip to Europe, I packed nothing but ripped jeans.

At the time, ripped mom jeans were a staple at my American college. However, in Europe, they were not. And probably never were. This is something I learned by walking through gorgeous, historic city centers dressed like I was headed to a frat basement.

Everyone else looked impossibly polished. That’s the thing about European fashion – it’s sophisticated. Structured. Tailored. Leather shoes were clicking confidently against the cobblestone. 

And there I was. Knees exposed, optimistic.

Of course no one said anything, but I could feel that subtle awareness of being unaligned with the setting.

My first time in a Muslim country – Indonesia – I made a similar miscalculation.

In hindsight, it’s obvious. But at the time, my logic was simply this: it was 80°F and sunny, and I would’ve liked to avoid a farmer’s tan. So I wore a tank top, because that’s what I had, without fully considering where I was. 

The stares came quickly. They weren’t hostile, just noticeable. I bought a scarf the next day and started wrapping it around my shoulders. It was a small adjustment, easy and respectful. Travel has a way of humbling you like that. By the time I made it to the Middle East a year later, I already had multiple scarves packed and ready to wrap. 

Then there are the languages. 

I make it a personal rule to learn at least three phrases everywhere I go: hello, goodbye, thank you. I feel like that’s the bare minimum of effort you can bring to a new country. I have a natural inclination toward language learning, but some languages are just plain difficult. It took me about two weeks to get down Turkey’s teşekkür ederim without stuttering as I was leaving the market after cashing out. 

I wanted to be polite to my kind Turkish cashiers, but I could never remember how to actually say it. As if I didn’t spend the entirety of the previous day repeating teşekkür ederim in my head, whispering it while brushing my teeth – just to forget it in the morning.

I had to ask the cashiers how to say thank you every time. They would smile. They always smile. So effort does count for something.

I’ll never forget when I first arrived in Johor Bahru, Malaysia. I booked a hostel online, and according to Google Maps, it was located inside of a sim card store. I circled the block at least ten times. I didn’t have a local phone number, so calling the hostel wasn’t an option.

The woman working in the store spoke little English, and I speak zero Malay. But through a series of gestures and hopeful facial expressions, she understood what I was asking and pointed on the map where I should go. Which was not the address given, by the way. 

I later realized the entire city was mirrored on Google Maps. Every location sent me in the opposite direction. At one point, I had to FaceTime a restaurant owner on Instagram because I wanted to go to his place and I could not physically find it. He guided me in real time, and I got there eventually. Him and I still chat every once in a while.

But maybe I should’ve tried Waze.

In Tokyo, my flight landed and I took a bullet train to Shinjuku Station, naively assuming I could simply transfer to another train toward my hostel in the Shibuya neighborhood. I was so lost. There were no English signs that I could see. I do not read Japanese. After what felt like a bit too long of wandering around underground corridors with my backpack digging into my shoulders, I gave up and walked an hour at night to my hostel. 

A quick search the next day led me to discover that Shinjuku Station is the busiest train station – not only in Japan, but in the world. I did not know this at the time. With 36+ platforms, 200+ exits, and 3.5 million people transiting through daily, no wonder I couldn’t find my way around.

It was mildly miserable, but it’s now one of my favorite stories. Being lost is usually only painful in real time. Looking back, it’s comical character development.

Recently, I’ve been a beginner in a new way. I started learning travel photography three-quarters of the way into my travels – which feels like deciding to train for a marathon after already running most of it. My wonderful boyfriend gifted me a Canon EOS R100 when he visited me in Turkey. And I fell in love with the craft.

Since then, I’ve acquired a Sony ZV-1 and a GoPro Hero 12. I now own enough equipment to look like I know what I’m doing, somewhat. But what I do not own is technical mastery. 

So when I’m walking down a foreign street and the light hits a building just right – when everything aligns so perfectly – I stand there fiddling with my settings for too long. Adjusting ISO. Googling aperture (it’s backwards and makes no sense to me). I usually get the shot, but it’s very clear to anyone who notices that I’m in my beginner phase. 

But learning is an act of love. Trying is an act of love. All of these anecdotes point to the same truth: it’s okay to be bad at things in public, and it’s okay to not know. I’ve learned that the world cares far more about curiosity than competence. People appreciate that you try to say thank you, even if you butcher it. They’ll point you in the right direction. They’ll FaceTime you to their restaurant. 

And getting lost every once in a while, is actually kind of the point.

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