🐢 Slow Travel and Slower Realizations
I used to think travel meant ticking places off a list. Paris? Done. Goa? Checked. Udaipur? Took the selfie. I believed movement was proof of adventure. The more I moved, the more I thought I was living.
That changed during a trip that was supposed to be “quick.” A 4-day getaway to a tiny hill town I'd barely heard of. But thanks to a landslide (and perhaps fate), I ended up stuck there for nearly two weeks. And that’s when I accidentally stumbled into the world of slow travel.
The first few days were frustrating. No signal in the guesthouse. No major tourist spots. Just quiet streets, tea stalls that closed by sunset, and a view of the same hills every morning. I felt antsy, like I was wasting time. “I should’ve picked Manali,” I muttered to myself.
But slowly, the pace around me began to seep into my bones. I stopped checking the clock. I started walking without Google Maps, letting instinct (and smell of hot samosas) guide me. I visited the same chaiwala every morning—not because I had to, but because I wanted to. I learned his name was Rajesh, that he’d been running that stall for 18 years, and that he adds a pinch of cinnamon because “everyone needs warmth first thing in the morning.”
That’s when it clicked: slow travel isn’t about seeing less. It’s about seeing deeper.
I sat in local cafes for hours just people-watching. I joined a small group of elderly women on a temple walk and heard stories I’ll never find in any travel brochure. I learned to make aloo parathas from a home stay aunty who refused to let me leave the kitchen without eating three.
The days started blending together, not in boredom, but in a rhythm. I was no longer “doing” travel. I was just being in it. No packed itinerary. No pressure to post. No running from place to place to “make it worth it.”
And something inside me shifted.
For the first time in a long time, I felt rest that wasn’t tied to sleep. I wasn’t tired, I was still. I realized how much of my regular life was built around rushing—rushing to reply, rushing to decide, rushing to be somewhere else. But here, everything was slow. And that slowness made space for reflection. For gratitude. For conversations with strangers who didn’t care about my Instagram handle.
When I finally returned home, I didn’t bring back a bucket list of experiences. I brought back a pace—a permission to go slow. To take detours. To sit still. To walk without a destination.
Slow travel taught me that it’s not the miles that matter, but the meaning.
And sometimes, the greatest journey is the one within.
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