Finding Home After the Fallout
A Digital Nomad’s Journey Through Europe
After my breakup with my partner, I didn’t just lose a relationship—I lost the small thread of stability I’d managed to weave into a life that never quite felt like it belonged to me. What followed was a predictable chorus from the people who were supposed to love me unconditionally. My Indian-American family, scattered across the U.S. and rooted in traditions that never fully included me, seemed more relieved than heartbroken. It was as if, somehow, they’d been waiting for the collapse.
A single Indian woman, nearing her mid-thirties, and in a relationship with another woman? Of course it was bound to fail. I could hear the silent satisfaction in their questions: What did you expect? Even in so-called progressive Northern California, I’ve been made to feel like a curiosity—especially within my own community. There’s this quiet judgment, this cultural mourning for a version of me that never existed.
So, I did the most un-Indian, un-American, and perhaps most honest thing I could do: I left.
Not forever—at least not yet. But I needed distance, both literally and emotionally. And the beauty of my job is that I could spend seven years in Tibet and my company wouldn’t notice. Remote work has its pitfalls, sure, but in moments like this, it’s freedom. The only one who might notice, ironically, is my mother—if only so she could find new ways to punish me for choosing a life she doesn’t understand.
I gave myself a month to plan. Thirty days to sketch the arc of a continent I had only flirted with on past vacations. I booked the usual suspects: London, Paris, a meandering loop through Spain and Portugal, a flight up north to explore Germany and its quieter neighbors, and then a dramatic descent into Italy to end on a high. It was supposed to be an escape. It became a reckoning.
I became a master of low-cost airlines—Ryanair, Vueling, Wizz Air—you name it. I now know the exact seat to choose if you want a window and no screaming baby next to you. But what truly seduced me weren’t the planes, it was the trains. European trains are the quiet heroes of this continent. I passed under the English Channel via the Eurostar like I was in a spy movie, zipped through French countryside on the TGV, and even took slow, clunky regionals in Spain that rattled with charm. Coming from the U.S., where trains are either romanticized relics or laughably impractical, this felt like stepping into a parallel universe.
My Airbnbs were a mixed bag—some too sterile, some too quirky—but always in the heart of life. I never quite understood why people in Europe complain about Airbnb. Over-tourism? Maybe. But I love people. I love walking into a crowded plaza, sitting at an outdoor table with strangers a foot away, and just being among them. Solitude is sacred, but in moments like these, chaos is comfort.
London was the soft landing I needed. It was rainy, overpriced, and overwhelming—but there was food that tasted like home. Not “home” as in America, but home as in dal made properly, naan blistered and fragrant. For a brief, rainy week, I felt understood.
Paris was stunning but cold—visually and emotionally. Every corner a postcard, every waiter a gatekeeper of some mysterious cultural code. I loved it and resented it in equal measure. It was like dating someone who’s beautiful and knows it. I learned to enjoy my own company in Paris more than anywhere else. I also learned to drink wine alone without apology.
Then came Spain and Portugal—sun-soaked, alive, generous. I felt my heart shift in Seville. I danced without knowing the steps in Lisbon. I let myself feel again. In these countries, I was not an anomaly. I was just another woman enjoying the evening, walking slowly, eating late, laughing loudly. It didn’t matter where I came from. I was here. And it was enough.
Northern Europe was... lovely. Clean. Respectful. Safe. But also... distant. In Norway, I found beauty in the fjords, but also a certain emotional frost I couldn’t thaw. Denmark, the Netherlands, Germany—all so polite, so functional. The kind of places where systems work, but the heart doesn’t always beat loud enough for me to hear it. I missed noise. I missed flair. I missed being surprised.
And then: Italy.
I crossed the border from Switzerland on the Frecciarossa, the crimson arrow that slices through the country like a poem in motion. It wasn't luxury, but it was real. Real people. Real speed. Real views. Vineyards rolled into lakes, and mountains gave way to sunlit fields. It was cinematic without even trying.
I stopped in Matera, almost by accident. Carved from rock, suspended in time—it was haunting and beautiful and made me feel small in the best possible way. I stayed for days longer than planned, walking the stone paths at dawn, watching life unfold like a ritual.
And then Rome. The grand finale.
There’s something wildly liberating about walking through a city that’s thousands of years old and realizing your problems aren’t that deep. Rome is messy, alive, divine, broken, glorious. I wandered for hours, filled my notebook with nonsense, and felt something that I hadn’t felt in years: peace.
So, was it safe? Mostly, yes. I had a few uneasy moments, especially in the more touristy corners of London and Paris. But never fear, not really. Just awareness. And in most places, especially in the south, I felt embraced.
Did I fall in love with the lifestyle? Absolutely. Especially in Spain and Italy. There’s time here—for food, for strangers, for beauty. People walk slower, look up more, laugh louder. They aren’t perfect, but they are present.
And Italy... Italy was the great surprise. A country so absurdly rich in culture, nature, art, and food that it defies logic. North to south, it feels like a dozen nations stitched together by espresso and passion. It’s chaotic in the way that makes your soul sit up and pay attention.
I used to think I had to choose between freedom and belonging. Now I think I just hadn’t been looking in the right places. For the first time, I’m considering applying for a digital nomad visa—and making this more than just a fling. Italy doesn’t ask me to shrink myself. It asks me to sit down, eat something, and talk. That’s all I’ve ever really wanted.
Everyone warned me Europe was slow, chaotic, behind the times. Maybe. But maybe that’s exactly what makes it feel like the future I want. One built on connection, contradiction, and imperfection.
Back in the U.S., I was too Indian to be American, too queer to be accepted, too single to be taken seriously. Here, I’m just me. No caveats. No shame.
And for the first time in a long time, that feels like enough.
