Europe 2023

Paris

Oct. 1 - 3

On the evening of the first, I left Sadie and Emma behind to fly to Paris. This was my first time truly traveling solo, and I was scared. I planned my trip to Paris at the height of the Paris bed-bug outbreak, given I was dependent on staying in a hostel and taking the metro, this added to the stress a bit.

However, Paris was lovely. Not only did I find the best gluten free bakery ever, Boulangerie Chambelland, but also, Paris is, as many before me have also noted, a stunning city. I didn't think to book museum slots ahead, so I ended up spending my day in Paris walking and writing. Around sunset, I crossed the river to find yet another phenomenal gluten free bakery, appropriately named Noglu, and a tiny bottle of rosé to drink and eat in front of the Eiffel Tower at sunset.

Clox Rocaulleuix

Oct. 3 - 12

I spent October 3rd to 12th wwoofing at the lovely  Clox Rocaulleuix , a natural winery in the stunning region of Gaillac France. I arrived on the last day of harvest, and quickly got swept into the festivities that follow months of exhausting harvest work — good deal for me!

That first day felt quintessentially French. Wwoof labor on wineries tends to dwindle towards the end of harvest season, so for the first few days of my stay, it was just me and a wonderful couple from Yorkshire, Jebel and Ana. In lieu of wwoof labor, an array of intergenerational local characters joined the harvest. I don't think I have ever felt more second-hand joy than from the constant French banter and laughter between the vines that day. Our morning break was complete with coffee taken in old Amora mustard glasses covered in chipped cartoon characters, chatting with hands and mouths full of bundt cake, and what felt like dozens of hand-rolled cigarettes. At one point in my stay, a fellow wwoofer from Germany earnestly asked why I didn't smoke. When I told him I wasn't keen on getting lung cancer, he helpfully noted that his dad has been smoking his whole life and runs marathons.

As the final bucket of grapes was dumped in the tractor that first day, a battle with rotten grapes as the weapon broke out between the rows. Sticky with grape juice, we celebrated with many bottles of bubbly white wine, a dinner made by Jebel, Ana, and me before we understood the whole crew would be staying, and lots of dancing to a playlist of French disco I still dream about. After many glasses of wine, I began to pile on layers of down, merino, and fleece, unfit for the warm evening. It quickly became apparent that I had brought in COVID from London. The party raged on through the night as I slept for the next day and a half. I understood next to nothing said that day and was enthralled by all of it.

My time at Clox Rocaulleuix was idyllic, yet undeniably one of the harder parts of my trip. The French are hard to read for a sensitive Seattleite used to small-talk and fake interest. I'd never experienced such a direct and informal culture. I'm not used to sitting in silence while others talk around me in a language I don't understand. However, my hosts were kind, thoughtful, brilliant, and devoted to their community. I can say with confidence that there are few Seattleites that would open their home to a stranger who showed up with COVID without judgement.

The night I realized I had COVID I felt guilty and stupid. I sat in my bed trying to figure out how I could navigate getting to Toulouse to quarantine in an Airbnb I could not afford. When I told my hosts, they laughed at me for even considering leaving. They told me to rest and get back to work whenever I was ready, and that's what I did.

From my journal: "Everything here is a mix of romance and back pain. Despite how hard and painful a day can be, by the night you are so enchanted by the beauty of it all that you are ready to do it all again."

Cordes-sur-Ciel

Oct. 6, 8, and 9

I visited this charming medieval hilltop town built in 1222 three times while I was working at Clox Rocaulleuix. Only once was anything open in the town. The other two times, it felt like we were trespassing on an abandoned movie set — everything perfect, yet eerily quiet. At the base of the town was a wonderful local brewery with a falafel and chicken nuggets stand; a perfect refuge after a long day of work. On the sixth, Jebel, Ana, and I saw a fantastic local band play at the brewery. They were equipped with all the best instruments — accordion, sax, piano, drums, and a stellar singer.

Toulouse

Oct. 12 - 13

On the morning of the 12th, I took the short train ride from Gaillac back to Toulouse where I met up with my parents. Since they respectively retired and stopped working full time, they have become a duo of worldwide hiking adventurers. My mom's friends from a painting class she took in Spring 2023 — Martine and Caroline — graciously took us in and showed us around their city before we headed to Saint Jean De Luz on the 13th.

The few hours we were left to our own devices we spent walking, eating delicious Mediterranean food at Dar Diaf, and looking at maps — clearly gripping entertainment for everyone involved.

We had dinner with my mom's crew of French artist friends on Martine and, her husband, François' patio. Us Atwells marveled that there were places in the world where enjoying dinner outside in mid-October was not a novelty, and my dad was taught how to properly cut cheese, a piece of essential French etiquette. The evening was silly and tender. Two words that seem to sum up many of my nights in the three months I was away.

Saint-Jean-de-Luz

Oct. 13 - 16

Our three days in Saint-Jean-de-Luz, a fishing village turned tourist hotspot, was our first taste of the impossibly beautiful Basque country. We stayed in a studio apartment 200 meters from the long sandy beach this town is famous for. Life in Saint-Jean-de-Luz was easy. We got together for lunches, dinners, and for a beautiful walk up the coast through Promenade Jaques Thibaud to the Paul Jovet Botanical Garden, but otherwise let the days take us where we each needed to go. My mom spent her time water coloring the beach and picturesque Basque streets, my dad spent double time on Duolingo so he could put his 760-day Spanish streak to use when we got to the other side of the border, and I walked around with my camera listening to freshly dropped Afraid of Heights on repeat, people watched, and ate the best damn canned sardines of my life.

On our second day, my dad and I jumped in the ocean after a rainy morning expecting a cold-plunge-like experience. The clear ocean felt like bath water even after a rainy day in mid-October. Life was good!

Irun

Oct. 15 - 16

On the morning of October 15th, we took the 13-kilometer bus ride from Saint Jean de Luz to the Spanish border where we hopped on a metro across to Irun and met up with Sadie! If you are looking for good food or a stunning city, I would not recommend Irun. However, it is the starting point of the Camino del Norte, which is what brought us there.

The Camino del Norte is the most rigorous, and beautiful, of the network of Camino de Santiago pilgrimages throughout Spain and France. The Camino del Norte stretches 865 kilometers from Irun to Santiago de Compestela. We did a fraction of this route walking roughly 140 kilometers along the coast of Basque country between Irun and Bilbao over six days.

Our incredible Airbnb hosts in Irun Romy and Jesus got us all squared away for our hike, helping my mom and I set up luggage transfer, giving us detailed maps, gluten free snacks, and prized Camino passports — which we almost immediately forgot to get stamped. They were just the hosts a trip planned by 22-year-olds needed.

Sadie boldly carried her backpack full of three months' supply of clothes, hazelnut butter, and spices she picked up wwoofing on the hike. While I was never brave enough to pick it up, I am almost certain it weighed well over the 30-pound backpacking standard. This is one of many points on a growing list of Sadie's super-human-like tendencies. The rest of us carried just the essentials for six days: a change of clothes, raincoats, and toiletries.

Irun to San Sebastian (Donostia)

Oct. 16

On our first day of the hike, it quickly became apparent that hiking in the rolling hills of Basque country is equally as challenging as hiking in the Cascades. This was a shock to us proud Washingtonians. Another similarity to home: maps, trail signs, and the internet will all show different mileages for the day, all of which are underestimates. All in all, our 15-mile day ended up being closer to 18 miles, and we were exhausted by the time we reached the near-perfect San Sebastian. Especially my dad who had come down with a stomach bug the day before. We checked into our hostel then headed straight for the ocean where we floated until we could no longer feel our backs and feet. We were in bed that night, and the following five nights, before most Spaniards began eating dinner.

San Sebastian (Donostia) to Zarautz

Oct. 17

I don't remember much about this day other than that it was beautiful. Parts reminded me of what the California Central Coast must have looked like before it was developed. My dad began to recover from his stomach bug, as my mom began to come down with the same thing. We ended the day lying in warm sand, swimming in the ocean in Zarautz, and struggling to find a spot for dinner that opened before 9:00 pm. Hangrily roaming the streets of towns in search of dinner at 7:00 pm became a theme of this portion of the trip. Every day we would arrive during the siesta and then grow frustrated when the only food available until 9:00 pm was olives and tiny sandwiches. While the rest of the crew learned to snack when we arrived in a town, I consistently remained hangry until I could finally get my hands on some dinner.

Zarautz to Deba

Oct. 18

My mom woke up on the 18th too sick to hike and took the bus between Zarautz and Deba. My dad, Sadie, and I were left to fend for ourselves on this stretch of trail that bounced between sea-level and the Basque highlands countless times. It was exhausting, mesmerizing, and maddening all at once. Deba was our last town by the ocean until Bilboa, but we were all too drained to jump in by the time we got there.

Deba to Markina-Xemein

Oct. 19

With my mom feeling a little better, we began our journey inland where the weather took a turn for the worse. The high winds and drizzle came with a coffee house, equipped with an espresso machine, that we conveniently stumbled upon five miles into our day.

At this point in the trip, we were all finally getting strong enough to lock in to hiking mode and just go. The miles and days began to pass by faster. Day four was mostly through managed timberlands where eucalyptus was replacing ageing pine plantations. It appeared to be a similar case to mine and Sadie's senior thesis research on forest transition from pine to eucalyptus in the highlands of Peru.

Our dinner in Markina-Xemein was unforgettable following a series of forgettable meals. In a small restaurant next door to a dingy bar, a no-bullshit, older Basque woman and her sous chef put on a two-woman cooking miracle. For €13 each, we were served a customizable four-course meal complete with soup, gluten free bread, salad, fish, dessert, and most importantly, a hearty glass of red wine on a table adorned with a white tablecloth.

Markina-Xemein to Gernika

Oct. 20

Day five met us with a biblical weather forecast of winds up to 110 kilometers per hour and torrential downpour. Nervously showing my dad the report as we headed out the door of our cozy Airbnb, he responded "hmm, that's pretty significant" and put on his hat. With that, we were off. Our ultra-light backpacking raincoats and my super chic water-repellent, zip-off overalls were quickly rendered useless. Turns out hyphenated words don't make gear more practical.

Drenched head to toe, we quickly altered our plans to stay five kilometers short from Gernika in a cozy Auberge that came with a bed and warm meal for under €10 per person. When we arrived at two, we eagerly waited for our cozy refuge to open at three. Three rolled on by with no sign of life from the hostel. By 3:15, we were all getting a little agitated. A German hiker who was waiting with us asked a Basque woman passing by if the hostel was open. She replied in Basque, but the message was clear. The Auberge was closed for the season. One of many moments in which the Google Maps business feature proved to be unreliable in Basque country.

We heated up in a nearby bar for pilgrims and began the five-kilometer trek to the historic Gernika where the sun was shining. We stayed in a rickety old hotel above a run-down dive bar and treated ourselves to a fancy dinner and a bottle of wine at Julen. As we were leaving the restaurant at 10:30, local patrons finally began shuffling in to start their nights. It was a day of learning to go with the flow when plans fall through — something my type-A self needs a lot of practice in.

Gernika to Lezama

Oct. 21

I didn't take my camera out of my pack on our final day. My only focus was getting to Bilbao. The lush green landscapes of Basque country we had grown used to, turned to roadsides with Basque separatist messaging graffitied on sides of fences, buildings, and signs.

We originally were planning on staying in the tiny town of Lezama for the night before making the short 12-kilometer trek to Bilbao on the morning of the 22nd. However, unbeknownst to us, the Bilbao night marathon was the evening of the 21st and every Airbnb, hostel, hotel, or Vrbo within a 15-kilometer radius of the city was booked out for the evening. The only affordable spot we could find was in a suburb thirty minutes northeast of Bilbao; an hour-and-a-half bus and metro ride from our ending spot in Lezama.

Bilbao

Oct. 22 - 23

My photos from Bilbao mostly consist of Picasso sculptures from the Matter and Body exhibit at Frank Gherry’s legendary Guggenheim. I fell in love with the possibility of architecture at Frank Lloyd Wright’s Guggenheim in New York when I was eight. At an age when my journal entries in school were kept under three sentences given my effort to make each letter have a curly-cue component, it was a marvel buildings too could be spirals. In Gherry’s Guggenheim and Bilbao as a whole, I felt my childhood wonder all over again. Bilbao is playful. You are pulled to cross the river from the stunning cobbled streets of the old city to the modern core’s bold buildings that play with color and geometry. The city is abundant with public spaces that meet the needs of adults and children alike. Safe spaces for children to play often sit next to restaurants and bars where parents can meet their friends for a drink. 

Over a world-class gluten free Neapolitan pizza at Casa Leotta, three blocks south of the Guggenheim, we said goodbye to Sadie. She and her backpack were off to Barcelona for immersive Spanish classes at  Camino Barcelona  a week ahead of me. My parents and I checked into Hotel BED4U on the south side of the city where we were reunited with our luggage and found inviting hotel beds for us. Needless to say, we spent our afternoon napping. The next morning, we were up early and off to Porto. 

Porto

Oct. 23 - 26

Coming out of the metro station in Porto we were met with the famous blue and white azulejo tiles of Santa Catarina church. This was my second time in Portugal, and I was equally as dumbfounded by my first sight of Porto as I was stepping off the metro in Lisbon's Barrio Alto neighborhood two years prior.

It was pouring rain nearly our entire stay in Porto, which only made the industrial city more charming and cozy — at least in retrospect. To do Porto's name justice, most of our tourist activity was wine oriented. We visited the World of Wine (WOW) Wine Experience exhibit our first morning, hoping to get out of the rain before we toured an old port house that afternoon. We ended up spending three hours in a Disney-like immersive wine learning experience that was designed with the same inescapable blueprint as Ikea. It was fascinating, excessive, and came complete with a wine tasting. My mom and I giggled our way out of the museum, finding our soaked-through jackets, scarves, and hats more tolerable. By the afternoon, I was all wined out and headed back across the Douro River to the city while my parents toured Calem Port House.

Lisbon

Oct. 26 - 29

Lisbon doesn't give you much choice but to fall in love with it. It has the same charm as Paris with the warmness of a Latin American city. It's well-worn and lived in, letting you seamlessly slip into a rhythm there. We stayed in a cozy loft apartment a few blocks north of the river in the Alcantara neighborhood with colorful East African art, a blue couch, and mustard yellow throw pillows on every chair and bed.

In a city that feels innately familiar, I found myself missing my people. Our first full day there, I spent the morning and afternoon alone walking from our Airbnb through Barrio Alto to the Alfama neighborhood on the opposite side of the city. I listened to a playlist seven of my friends, and I had made crammed into a Honda Pilot on a drive between San Luis Obispo and Palm Springs in September 2021. The weather fittingly switched between sun and downpour as my phone shuffled between Alicia Keys, Nat King Cole, and Lil Wayne.

A month into my trip, I found myself lonely, immensely grateful, and ready to jump into an experience that pushed me out of my comfort zone. I said goodbye to my parents the morning of the 29th and flew to Barcelona for three weeks of intensive Spanish classes.

National Palace of Pena

Oct. 28

While I wouldn't recommend the overcrowded day trip to the National Palace of Pena, it is an undeniably beautiful piece of architecture, especially on a moody fall day.

Barcelona

Oct. 29 - Nov. 22

Barcelona has a certain electricity that encourages conversations with strangers, sharing your most intimate thoughts with friends, deep self-reflection, and feeling like you can take on this crazy world.

My first night, I reunited with Sadie and two Brits she had befriended at a bachata class the week before. I brought along Charlie, one of the other Spanish students staying in our apartment. After hunting down Sadie's half of the crew, the five of us found a tiny tapas bar, El Carro Gros, in an unassuming plaza in Sants-Montjuïc.

The five of us fell into an easy conversation over cheap beer and cava and the best patatas bravas I have ever had the pleasure of eating. Our waiter, a spunky Russian immigrant around our age would occasionally pull up a chair at the table to add to our banter, until only the five of us, him, and a stumbling local busker with a broken guitar were left in the Plaza. Hearing our English, the busker invited us to sing Amy Winehouse's Back to Black with him, which we enthusiastically agreed to.

The bar closed at 11:30, and we invited our waiter to join us at his favorite bar down the street. The now six of us stayed out until three in the morning stuck in conversation. When we finally said goodbye, it was like leaving old friends. While I'm sure the cava in my system aided in this, I have honestly never connected with strangers like I did that night.

Experiences like this came easily in Barcelona. Our British friends left the morning after my first night. However, we reconnected in London a month later. Charlie on the other hand became a dear friend of mine and Sadie's. Our WhatsApp group chat remains active as Sadie, and I try to figure out returning to Barcelona for graduate school.

Sadie left the city a week and a half ahead of me to go Wwoof near Sevilla. In my time without Sadie, I meant to do all the touristy activities I had been procrastinating investing in. However, I couldn't get enough of the neighborhoods of Barcelona, especially Gracia and El Born. That week I drank countless €2 lattes, walked everywhere I could, danced in a plaza full of Italians singing Volare, watched the new Hunger Games movie with Charlie, wrote constantly, and visited no museums.

Girona

Nov. 4

Sadie, Charlie, and I took a day trip to the medieval city of Girona during the week of the Saint Narcis festival, a celebration of the town's patron saint. On this Saturday, the town was dotted with markets selling local food, crafts, and of course, castañas (roasted chestnuts).

Madrid

Nov. 22 - 28

My final stop before leaving Spain was Madrid where my college roommate, Lauren, is working as an auxiliary English teacher for the year alongside a bunch of other friends from Cal Poly. Lauren and her four roommates let me stay in their apartment in exchange for some version of Thanksgiving dinner.

Lauren's roommate, also named Lauren, had a cousin visiting from LA, Audrey. The two of us spent the afternoon of the 22nd hunting down anything Thanksgiving related we could find. Given my high maintenance diet (no gluten and no red meat), coupled with Audrey's Lactose allergy, and Spain's love of pork, bread, and cheese, we had our work cut out for us. After visiting upwards of five supermarkets, we determined that sage and cranberries were next to impossible to find in Madrid. Yet somehow Thanksgiving went on.

I made my mom's stuffing, gluten free gravy that emulsified — a miracle as far as I'm concerned, and butternut squash roasted in butter, brown sugar, and thyme — not as good as sage, but I managed. When the rest of the crew came home from teaching, I ventured out to forage for maple leaves. Strung together with some dental floss, they added the crafty preschooler flare every Thanksgiving table requires.

My neighbor and friend from back home, Mia, happened to live five minutes from Lauren's apartment and had become good friends with another group of Cal Poly friends teaching in Madrid. She and her roommates joined our Thanksgiving, bringing Mia's mom's famous pumpkin pie.

Madrid was a reminder of how tiny this world is. Yet, how easy it is to miss out on people and opportunities in your day-to-day life. I had been surrounded by the group of girls I stayed with through Lauren for the past four years, yet hardly knew them before my trip. I left Madrid grateful for my time with this group of hilarious, generous, smart, and stylish people.

El Escorial

Nov. 26

After a day trip to Toledo was offset by our complete lack of planning, we took the advice of a bus driver in Madrid to visit the Monastery and Royal Residence of San Lorenzo in El Escorial. I would later learn this stunning world heritage site is the largest Renaissance building in the world.

Nuremberg

Nov. 28 - Dec. 10

Before this trip, Nuremberg was the only place in Europe where I had spent substantial time. My non-biological German family (my high school exchange student, Luisa and her family) are from there. I spent a month and a half in Nuremberg in 2016, the summer before Luisa stayed with my family, and then another month there the summer after I graduated high school (2019). Within moments of first meeting her family when I was 15, they treated me as family. Her dad Micha — which everyone in my family has a different pronunciation for (Me-sha, Me-kah, or My-kah) — is possibly the warmest and most sentimental person I have ever met. He and my dad have sparked an unusual friendship over the years, Micha's emotive demeanor complementing my dad's pragmatic nature.

My days in Nuremberg were simple. After a two-month hiatus from applying for jobs, I resumed my search, tucking into cozy cafes while Micha, Luisa, and Jonas were at work and school. Something about the freezing snowy city inspired me to start running consistently for the first time in years. I also read, a lot. I would curl up with a thermos of piping hot tea, spiced oatmeal, a wool blanket, and Charlie the cat every morning to read for a few hours.

Bamberg

Dec. 2

Micha, Luisa, her boyfriend (Jonathan), and I drove to the nearby town of Bamberg for a day trip, my first Saturday. Meeting Jonathan was one of the highlights of my time in Nuremberg. Like the rest of the family, his gentle and silly manner has a way of putting you at ease. Together, he and Luisa feel unstoppable.

Bamberg is one of the few German towns that wasn't bombed during WWII. The colors and narrow streets of the medieval city feel more like Prague than a Bavarian town. In its idyllic state, Bamberg stands as a reminder of the historic art and architecture lost to the war throughout the rest of the continent. The stumbling stones ( Stolperstine)  that lay outside the homes of Jewish holocaust victims memorialize the horrors that took place in the town.

Munich

Dec. 10 - 12

I made a quick pit stop in Munich before heading back to London where I flew home. I'm not sure I would recommend spending weekdays in Munich in the winter as a broke solo traveler. The city is undeniably gorgeous but lacks indoor public spaces and cozy big cafes — two essentials in my book. My Munich highlights were the Pinakothek der Moderne modern art museum and a friendly Midwesterner who sat down next to me in our hostel's cafe and preceded to tell his life story to me over a cup of coffee.