I once had a conversation with a Chinese fellow who grew up in the countryside near the Chinese-North Korean border. He mentioned being told that he could go to North Korea anytime he wants, but he simply wouldn’t be able to find food there, even with money. This image stuck with me: the great equalizer of socialism at its most destructive—everyone starves equally. I had a glimpse of what that would be like when I decided to travel to Cuba solo and freestyle—no plan, no tour, no all-inclusive, no airport pick-up, just a plane ticket and a snorkeling mask. Typically, when on vacation in a tropical country with a culinary culture, one ends up eating more than the stomach can take. My experience in Cuba was different. Searching for food turned into a treasure hunt, and returning to my rented apartment on an empty stomach became a regular occurrence. Nothing to worry about, though, I had plenty of fat reserves. But it gave me a sour taste of what locals may face on a daily basis. It all began with a delayed Air China flight landing in Havana after an agonizing hour of flying in circles. As someone who spent six years in China and has fond memories of my people, seeing Chinese flight attendants having a handful with exuberant Cuban passengers midair was quite a treat—a clash between two opposing cultures forcibly unified by an illusory political system played out in front of me. Everything got resolved after the plane landed to the applause of the passengers. In an empty airport, late at night, I was spotted by Horacio, a taxi driver. With a headache and deaf ears from the depressurizing plane, I didn’t have the stamina to haggle the price, and let him guide me through the exit and to his prized 1950 Chevrolet. It was an extremely uncomfortable yet stylish ride on the bumpy, swervy highways, seatbelt-less, with the windows rolled down to let in the humid air infused with a cocktail of undefined scents. In Cuba, it feels as if time has frozen in an undefined era. Everything is recovered, reused, and repurposed. The best illustration of this was a freshly opened private bed and breakfast I found in Varadero that resembled a museum where an eccentric old lady’s home had vomited its contents. The dining room, with its high ceiling, featured a longcase pendulum clock, an extravagant chandelier, and two alcoves cut out of dark turquoise walls, illuminating classical-style statues. To furnish this serene space: patio chairs of different styles and laminated tables. The countless knickknacks covering every available surface cause your brain to enter safe mode, blending all details into a landscape of decay and obsolescence. The unreliable internet being part of the aura of obsolescence, I wondered if my Airbnb host had learned about my delayed arrival. Fortunately, he did, and with the help of my reliable taxi driver, I reached the rooftop apartment of a three-story building in Havana Central. My host was a mechanical engineer who moonlighted as a hotel manager or tourist agent to make a living, a common practice among professional Cubans. The apartment was separated from the street by a progressively narrowing stairwell. “Watch your head! and your feet!” my host would warn me before leaving me on my own. A succession of gates that required unlocking and relocking at every stage kept the street door at bay. As I glanced down, I noticed a web of ropes starting from each apartment door and leading to the main entrance door’s lock—the ancestor of modern door buzzers. Navigating among decayed concrete buildings in search of local eateries, fresh markets, and street food in Cuba turned out to be a daunting task. What made it more challenging was the complete absence of recognizable landmarks like commercial signage, advertising, or street window displays. However, thanks to a 2011 law permitting private commerce, restaurants, shops, and cafés were flourishing. With determination, you might find an improvised cantina with a hand-written chalkboard at the entrance, offering coffee, bread, and milk. As a freestyler, you will come across many government-run cafeterias similar to the fast-food chains of North America, offering fried chicken and sugar-heavy ice cream. Be aware that the customer service in these public restaurants is hit-and-miss, with staff occasionally ignoring patrons if they have other tasks to finish first. They may be amicable if they’re in the mood or if your personality brightens the place, but they won’t waste time on meaningless chats. My apparent tourist status was probably to blame. One thing is certain: the service in Cuba forces you to reconsider your overconsumption habits and sense of entitlement. Perhaps a positive outcome of the great equalizer, the closed-knit population that relies on cooperation rather than competition, is that when there’s nothing to envy from your neighbour, you seek other forms of contact. Similar to China’s homogeneous population and landmass distribution, the cities are not fragmented by hot neighbourhoods and sinister no-man’s land. From an outsider’s perspective, this creates an urban territory safe for exploration, a rarity in the Americas. During my trip, I learned to appreciate the street food scene, which mainly consisted of cheese pizza and churros—those sticks of dough coming out of a dye and fried. One of the best experiences was sipping a freshly brewed espresso out of a ceramic cup on the sidewalks of Habana Vieja, prepared by a serene old Cuban and served through a window cut out of a wooden façade. Yet, one doesn’t get strength from fried dough and coffee. I was longing for some proteins and fibre. After some wandering in the old city, I stumbled upon a local eatery with double the flavour and half the price of tourist hotspots. To top it off, the fish a la plancha and rice and beans went down my bowel without a hitch, despite the suspiciously fast service. Air China flight circling over Cuba First successful fruit hunt in my self-catering Airbnb in

I ended up in a basement apartment when the building I lived in was bought by a reseller and turned into short-term rental units. At that time, Montreal’s housing market went off the rails: the rent doubled while the quality of offers halved, leading to evicted tenants preying on new homes while current renters held on to their apartments like precious gems. During my time in the basement, I had the opportunity to contemplate existential questions, like why such spaces exist in the first place. They may offer shelter from the intense summer heat, but beyond these two months, they are moldy, damp, and dark. Aren’t basements usually reserved for survivalist bunkers, hiding dodgy siblings, or illegal housing in countries where human rights are more of a suggestion? No one should have to live in a basement, and no one should spend half their income on rent. There have to be other ways to live. So, I decided to put this theory to the test: trying on different living spaces and environments—neighbourhoods, cities, countries, even continents—to figure out what works, what doesn’t, and why. I packed up two backpacks, sold or stored the rest in a 3’x4’ locker, and went to live around the world in temporary rentals like Airbnb.  I’ve been at it for six months, and that’s how I plan to live. I’m now in a fully equipped studio that feels like a five-star hotel in Rosario, Argentina. I pay $24 CAD a night, or $700 CAD a month. This level of living at this cost was something I can never get in Montreal. I’ve explored different building types, from a courtyard house to an apartment building outside the city center. If not for Airbnb’s location, I never would have learned about certain areas of town. Transitioning to this lifestyle wasn’t a heartbreak though. I already had one foot in the door: I’m not bothered by material possessions, having picked up my furniture from the street before, and a mattress on the floor suits me fine. I gladly got rid of the cheap furniture I bought from Amazon to furnish my new apartment.  Plus, I lived in Asia previously, which allowed me to redefine what we take for granted in a given nation. But there’s still so much I want to explore or revisit, like Africa, the Balkans, or Europe if my bank account allows. Surviving on savings and being a frugal wizard (who needs daily meals or taxis?) made this choice feasible. Ultimately, the type of work I do has to align with my lifestyle. As I prefer independent and research-oriented tasks, remote work is a good fit for me. The major downside is that I miss out on the face-to-face interactions with other professionals in a microcosm that fosters relationships, and also rivalries. I have to make mingling happen in other ways, like meeting fellow travellers in housing dedicated to temporary rentals. It’s been positive – I’ve had inspiring chats with like-minded people on the move, interactions I might not have experienced if I stayed put. Meeting people is definitely easier and more frequent when travelling. I choose a minimalist, nomadic lifestyle not for more freedom, as many claim, but to get more of the feel-good chemicals that come with discovering new places—well, until they get old. Instead of buying or rearranging things around the house every few months, I just relocate. Simple. Changing homes is easy with two backpacks. I can downsize or splurge to suit my budget or mood. Or spend a night in a hostel dorm if I want to get up to date with the backpacking scene. Knowing that my stay is temporary makes it easier to tolerate noisy neighbours or network issues. Plus, I get my workout naturally just by hauling my backpacks around. Personally, I feel comfortable in transition spaces. Whether it’s in airports, train stations, ferry terminals, or even bus terminals, I get more creative, motivated, and in the flow when I’m on the move. I don’t see one lifestyle as better than the other; it’s all about personal preference.  Meanwhile, I’m working on making my mobility more efficient. I may consider upgrading to a wheeled suitcase or a rectangular backpack to simplify packing, but I’m not ready to let go of some independence and mobility. I also need to figure out the most efficient and compact way to pack, especially when it comes to carrying shoes—they’re the biggest hassle. For trekking muddy trails or navigating questionable sidewalks, then heading to a fancy restaurant without looking like a backpacker, one pair alone doesn’t do it. Every detail matters when traveling light. Every square inch of plastic. I want to be easily up on my feet but still enjoy the convenience of my tools.   Another important determinant is the length of stay: how long is too long and how short is too short? Too much novelty can be exhausting, and a certain amount of sedentarity is necessary to gain focus and process all the information coming in.   Nomadic life isn’t for everyone. But those comfortable with uncertainties and fatigued by monotony should give it a shot; it’s a natural drug with minimal side effects. While offering its perks, temporary renting also has a negative side that is different from a sedentary life. It’s about knowing which downsides you find easier to deal with. I’m still trying to understand why being stuck in one place brings me down and why a nomadic lifestyle feels so natural. Maybe we haven’t changed much as humans—we’re just restless beings lured by new territories, and some of us carry the DNA of ancient explorers more than others. Sometimes I wonder if temporary living is becoming the next big thing after homeownership. Are we done with the permanent lifestyle?

My long-time dream of an African safari became a reality with a last-minute flight to Nairobi, just before a two-week Christmas break. I had a demanding job in Mumbai and didn’t have time to plan, so I relied on my trusty guidebook to lead me to the best budget options once I arrived. Even though I was taking a two-week trip from a full-time job, I kept my budget tight. Perhaps out of habit or preference, I find more enjoyment in spending the night in a campsite with little obstruction between me, the locals, and the wilderness rather than being trapped in a golden prison with more pampering than a low-maintenance person can handle. After booking my tour, a guide and driver picked me and my three tour companions up from our respective hostels in Nairobi. We headed in the direction of Nakuru National Park, where we would spend the night in a charming hotel before heading to the Flamingo Lake and the Baboon Cliff. The lake itself is bordered by a wide plain of dark grey argyle, where zebras, buffaloes, and some rhinos can be seen roaming among safari vans and private vehicles alike. Before the end of the day, we headed to the main attraction, the Mara reserve, where we would spend the second night camping. Encountering massive yet familiar wild animals in their natural habitats was a truly astonishing experience. Nothing else matters much when you are at arm’s length of a herd of elephants, going about their daily routine in the open, with complete indifference to the tourist vans that swarm around them like a persistent daily annoyance. Despite the breathtaking sights, I couldn’t shake a nagging unease that gradually crept in, leaving me with a lukewarm memory of my safari. It was as though I had become a pawn in a thrill-seeking industry, a frantic, profit-driven race to chase wildlife, which eclipsed the serene marvels of the Earth’s cradle. While not surprising, this aspect of the travel industry tarnishes many bucket-list destinations, to the detriment of ethical considerations and genuine contemplation. I’m aware of this reality of travel, and am willing to temporarily drop my high-standard principles when I voluntarily decide to seize an opportunity for an easily attainable lifetime memory. I had longed to camp in the wilderness alongside the Maasai people, with wildlife somewhere in the distance. My hope was to relive the otherworldly night I experienced while sleeping on a sand dune in the Thar desert of Rajasthan. The memory of that night stayed with me – the tranquil presence of my camel and guide nearby, the invisible vault of the sky and distant stars as my only roof, and the pungent smell of the camel blanket regulating my temperature and grounding me against the soft sand. However, upon our arrival at the savannah camping ground, after a full day of wildlife watching, my tour companions and I couldn’t shake the feeling that the atmosphere was somewhat wrong. It might have been the result of too many people confined to a small area, or perhaps it was the muddy ground marbled with puddles that marbled the ground after a rainfall. The persistent tension planning from the working staff in a hurry to get the job done added to our discomfort. The highlights of my trip was ultimately overshadowed by my brief visit to Uganda, a neighboring country often overlooked. This small, landlocked nation reignited my passion for discovering the peculiar experiences hiding in less conventional places, rather than pursuing sought-after trips that often fall short of the idealized versions we imagine during daydreams. As our van was heading out of the park after another day of sight hunting, something extraordinary happened. Out of nowhere and without warning, a cheetah with playful cubs decided to rest beside the road in front of our vehicle. The cubs played carelessly and tirelessly in the tire tracks, while mother reclined in the grass, seemingly unbothered by our presence. Oblivious to the enjoyment they granted us, the cubs kept on living their lives to an extent that left us unable to absorb any more of the moment. Reluctantly, we resumed our way, feeling elated but somewhat melancholic, our driver and us alike.

Why venture to galaxies far, far away when Earth is right there, ripe for exploration? Our planet buzzes with captivating customs and life forms just waiting to be uncovered and investigated. And the breathable oxygen makes the process all the more enjoyable. Sure, our world has been explored many times over, and travellers are often left with the same memories of fairytale castles, millennial-old temples, and mountain-perched pagodas. Yet, each experience is filtered through our personal perspectives, making the interpretation of the same world boundless.  All the serendipitous opportunities and encounters along the way contribute to shaping this unique perspective. By letting space to spontaneity, you’ll open doors to even more wonder and experiences at every turn. Reflecting on a decade of solo travel, I’ve concocted five key principles that have guided me along the way. Investigate the true frontiers Back in my early travel days, I was on a mission to check off every country on the map. My list of places to see grew faster than I could keep track, and brief layovers was enough to count as a country milestone. But thanks to newly gained wisdom, my focus shifted from quantitative goal achievement to observing  how different regions morphed into one another. Where are the boundaries and continuities of the human geography landscape. Or simply put: where does one place end and another begin, really? And even more mind-bending: how can the same cultural traits be found in cultures separated by oceans and mountain ranges, or even located on opposite sides of the globe?  When I first embarked on an overland journey across the Asian continent, I found myself wondering how much time and distance were necessary before I finished quitting China and started entering Laos. How much does a country spill beyond the boundaries imposed by politics? As my travels continued, I questioned the moment when I truly found myself somewhere else, and how that somewhere else revealed itself.  To sum up, I measure my progress by regions covered and not by countries visited. Maintain the pace To grasp the moment of change between countries or regions, it’s important to maintain a steady and deliberate pace. Avoid favouritism, rushing, shortcuts, or lingering.  Sure, some places may be so incredibly charming with their laid-back vibes and out-of-this-world scenery that they command a longer stopover. However, like with people, I prefer when I have to learn to love a place. Unpopular destinations are just waiting to be appreciated for the unique qualities they conceal. Less inspirational places, whether entire countries or overlooked neighborhoods in famous cities, deserve exploration with equal curiosity and focus. Their lower popularity among tourists can be used as an advantage.  Overindulging in comfort can cloud your objectivity. I want my memories of a region to create a seamless movie reel in my mind, which would allow for a better appreciation of the distance travelled and the changes in landscapes. Experience time dilation Embarking on an open-ended backpacking journey might be the easiest and safest way to experience time dilation. For those who have left the confines of a stationary life, time takes on a dynamic quality. A single day can feel like a week, while an entire month can vanish in the blink of an eye. It’s time travel without the need for unreliable machines or convoluted theorems. When you travel to new places, even the most routine activities are reinvigorated by the strangeness of the surroundings. Tasks like going to the bank, doing laundry, or using public transportation, which might have become automatic in familiar territories, regain their significance and novelty. This heightened awareness of the present enables us to capture moments that might otherwise slip in the many folds of apathy, like those fleeting interactions with a roadside villager that bridge the space-time continuum for a few seconds. Aim for directionless travel When you’re fixated on a specific goal, you often miss the unexpected gems hidden along your path. True exploration must be free from predefined objectives or purpose. Real discoveries happen when you stop looking for them, revealing themselves along a path you wouldn’t have taken if you stuck to the most efficient route.  To truly uncover the unforeseen, you need a driving force—a grand or seemingly unattainable goal that will keep you going. This forward momentum into the unknown opens doors to discoveries, which may divert you away from your initial plan. My decision-making style is directionless, fuelled by impractical dreams, and often diverted by a captivating reality. External forces acting on me during my journey can manifest as a chance encounter, an enticing opportunity, or an unpredicted destination. What keeps me motivated is the drive of moving forward. Listen to the Walls Being drowned under theories and research in my daily work, I find little motivation to read about the countries I intend to visit. Thus, when travelling to a remote and unfamiliar destination, all my senses and awareness are dedicated to absorbing the kind of knowledge that cannot be found in documents. I prefer experiencing history firsthand rather than through books. I like to pretend I don’t know anything about the culture and politics before I enter a new country, which isn’t far from the truth. This approach allows me to recreate the excitement and wonder that early explorers might have felt.  While this approach might raise some eyebrows, I deliberately avoid guided tours when visiting historical sites. Instead, I prefer to “accidentally” stumble upon a group and steal a snippet of explanation from the overzealous guide in the process, then drift off into a quiet chamber and let the ancient walls speak for themselves. What I’ve learned from the time-worn walls when stepping into neglected millennia-old buildings has often been more enlightening than a scripted and condensed narration based on recorded sources.