The World Is a Mirror: How Traveling Taught Me Who I Am

A Crash Course in Being Uncomfortable

I used to think I knew myself. After all, I’d managed to cultivate a fairly buttoned-up version of Briar Montgomery in my little Napa Valley bubble: polished, palette-trained, and fluent in wine adjectives like "unctuous." But then I booked a ticket to France for a semester abroad, and let me tell you, nothing shatters your carefully curated identity quite like confronting the complete chaos of a new culture.

Picture this: I arrived at the Paris train station, full of baguette-fueled optimism, only to encounter a ticket kiosk screen entirely in French. Turns out "uccello," my attempted translation for bird, doesn’t apply to train routes (or anything useful). The ticket agent’s raised eyebrow suggested I was nouveau-level ridiculous. I stood there, sweaty and defeated, realizing two things:
1. I couldn't turn back.
2. My ability to "pair" things was useless without phrases like "where is the platform?"

Travel is an instant humbler. You fumble, you falter, and—here’s the kicker—you grow. It throws you into situations where you're forced to adapt, fail with grace, and rebuild. It breaks the illusion of control, which is honestly kind of freeing when you get used to it.

The Art of Ordering the Wrong Thing

Growing up nestled in Napa Valley’s plush restaurant scene, food and wine were practically my native tongue. I had been a 20-something sommelier-in-training who actually enjoyed saying words like "tannin" unironically. So imagine my embarrassment the first time I confidently mispronounced “poulet rôti” (roasted chicken) at a family-owned bistro in Provence. I said something more like “pool ratty.” Cue the waiter’s stifled laughter and my deep red blush, a shade not unlike an overripe Pinot Noir.

That humbling moment taught me a valuable lesson about perfection: Nobody cares. Perfectionism might work on a carefully curated Napa wine menu, but the world beyond my tiny universe demands presence, not precision. The wrong order, the botched pronunciation, the overcooked duck confit—they’re all part of the human experience.

By the time I traveled through Italy, I was leaning into my mistakes. One evening in Tuscany, I ordered what I thought was a vegetarian lasagna but turned out to be some glorious, meaty masterpiece. The table next to me applauded when I said “grazie mille” with what they jokingly called my “American accent deluxe.” Did I feel silly? Absolutely. But guess what—I also made a friend that evening and got a free recommendation for the best gelato in Florence (hint: it always comes from the unassuming places, not the flashy ones).

So, here’s a tip for fellow culinary travelers: Embrace being wrong. Order fearlessly. It might just turn into your best story yet.

Solo Travel Tackles Your Inner Control Freak

One thing nobody tells you about solo travel is what a terrible backseat driver your inner monologue can be. Somewhere between missing a bus to Copenhagen and accidentally hiking the wrong trail near Bordeaux, I realized how loud my inner Type-A tendencies were. “You’re supposed to be appearing worldly and organized,” it hissed. “Instead, you’re lost, covered in bug bites, and eating vending machine trail mix. Très pathetic.”

But here’s the secret I learned: The messy stuff is the good stuff. Sure, my detours were rarely glamorous, but they became the moments that made me laugh later—or cry, in a cathartic, cleansing way.

For example, during one particularly aimless afternoon in the French countryside, I stumbled (quite literally, thanks to some poorly chosen wedge espadrilles) into a lavender field. The hum of bees and the overwhelming perfume stopped me in my tracks. I sat down, dusted myself off, and decided to just be. No itinerary, no urgency. Just lavender, sun, and me figuring it out one blister at a time.

If you need actionable advice here, it’s this: Let yourself get a little lost. Skip the 12-stop checklist. Let beauty find you, even if it means ruining your shoes in the process.

What I Learned About Relationships on the Road

Travel taught me there’s no dating profile, no restaurant reservation, no perfectly manicured vineyard sunset that compares to raw human connection. It turns out romance—or even just relatability—isn’t about having all the answers. It’s about how you show up when things don’t go to plan.

Take the Italian wine festival fiasco. I had agreed to meet a handsome expat named Luca (because, of course his name was Luca) at a festival in Chianti. Long story short, his “I’m stuck in traffic” text came two hours into my solo wandering. Instead of sulking, I poured myself a glass of Sangiovese, joined a locals-only trivia game—losing, naturally—and ended up laughing with a group of retirees who knew more about soccer than wine but loved it nonetheless.

When Luca eventually arrived (traffic in Tuscany is truly a mystery), we clicked immediately, but not because of some script I’d planned. It was because I was already there, alive in the moment, connecting with the world around me. Relationships are most magnetic when we’re open and unguarded, not rehearsed or perfect.

My takeaway? Beware of over-preparing. In love, just like travel, the best connections happen when you’re comfortable enough to go with the flow.

The Power of Storytelling in Every Language

One unexpectedly magical thing about travel is the way it reminds you of your own stories—and helps you collect new ones. My background as a writer and storyteller has always made me alert to the beauty of a well-crafted moment, whether it’s a quiet vineyard at sunset or a Parisian street corner that smells like butter and fresh bread. But it wasn’t until I started traveling that I realized storytelling isn’t just reserved for grand meals and poetic prose. It’s in the tiny moments, the fleeting connections with strangers, and the letting-go of all the pretense.

For example, during my semester abroad in France, I became friends with an elderly woman who owned the bakery below my flat. She spoke little English, and my French was rudimentary at best, but every morning, we “talked” in the universal language of croissant recommendations and exaggerated gestures. Ten years later, I still think about Marie and the way her eyes lit up when she described a particularly “magnifique” batch of pain au chocolat.

You don’t need perfect words to connect. Whether it’s with a stranger across the café or, better yet, yourself on an unspoken journey, the stories stick with you.

Final Thoughts: Don’t Wait for the Perfect Trip

Let me leave you with one last piece of wine-soaked wisdom: There’s no perfect season, no perfect itinerary, no perfect time to finally go. In both life and love, travel thrives on imperfection. Don’t wait until you feel fluent, organized, or worldly enough—book the ticket anyway.

Wherever you go, you’ll find pieces of yourself scattered in the cities you explore, the meals you share, and the embarrassing mistranslations you laugh off. What you learn might surprise you: how resilient you are, how adaptable, how deeply capable of joy and connection you’ve always been.

So pack a bag, bring an open mind, and maybe wear better shoes than I did. You’ll thank me later. Bon voyage!