Mountains & Molehills: On Living Alone in a New City

Emma Glickman

July 17, 2018

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Last summer, I made the executive decision to pack up and ship off to Poland for two months. The rope tugging me in had something to do with my Jewish ancestry, a long-held interest in the Holocaust, and above all, my travel bug. The travel bug has always lived inside of me, nurtured by my adventurous family, but I wanted space to define my own authentic love for new places, cultures, and people. You could say I was rebelling against some unspoken challenge to prove the legitimacy of my self-proclaimed wanderlust. (I hate me too a little bit for using that word, but it just had to happen). So when July rolled around, I took off with two duffels, zero adulting skills, and a shit ton of anxiety. When fanciful ideas suddenly become an imminent reality, I tend to contract a serious case of cold feet. That’s what happened as I touched down in this recently post-Communist country full of heavy accents and complete strangers.

It was tough - often, but not always. I settled into a neatly packaged routine: wake up at 7 am, make myself a creative (#vegan hah) breakfast with the 3 ingredients I owned (oats, banana, peanut butter), walk a mile to work in either sweltering heat or relentless rain, sit at my office desk from 8:30 to 5:30 listening to podcasts or reading an e-book clandestinely in the corner of my screen, work out at my boss’s swanky ass gym (on a good day), then walk home to another meal made of bananas, oats, and peanut butter. I felt like a self-sufficient adult, but wasn’t actually seeing the greater city of Warsaw that begged to be explored. I was on the ground in a brand new city, but my inexperience and general apprehension about living alone kept me from breaking out of my safe little cycle. Not much had changed in my day-to-day since moving from California, and I liked it that way.

As the first week passed and I realized I hadn’t seen beyond a two block radius of my commute to and from work, my travel itch re-emerged, stronger than ever. I had to actually do the shit I said I was going to do - explore, learn, grow, listen, take it all in with wide eyes and open hands. That weekend, I set out on foot to uncover Warsaw, a city rich with history and cultural gems. After that, I just kept going: weekend trips to Krakow (where 137 remaining Jews are rebuilding their presence), Prague (home of red rooftops and gingerbread), and Vienna (I walked 3 miles in pouring rain to tour a stunning old jewel collection), plus more exploration of my home base. The mobility and flexibility of walking everywhere was something I’d never experienced before. Back in the States or on family trips, walking was a tiresome chore, a drag, a reluctant concession when Mom & Dad nixed the ease of a taxi ride or an Uber. Here on my own, with no parents calling the shots and no one to answer to re: my itinerary, I found that a 2 mile walk was actually a blissfully blank slate of free time. I could stop in all the artisan shops, sprawling parks, authentic cafés, and free museums that drew me in. However, there remained one necessity for my escapades up and down different European cities: a good podcast. One thing that filled the tiny pocket of homesickness that never quite seemed to go away was the sound of American voices. Kinda weird, a little sad, but great companionship with lots of knowledge gained along the way.

All was well in my little world. I felt proud of my burgeoning independence and reaffirmed curiosity towards the world. Then, my elevated heart rate revealed to me that I was doing something seriously wrong - and had been for upwards of a decade. It needed to be fixed.

Outside of the work week, I had no obligations to anything or anyone except myself. But every time I ventured out to see these new places, my feet moved too quickly, my heart rate accelerated, and my mind raced like Seabiscuit. I was perpetually in a rush, which significantly impeded my capacity to appreciate everything around me. At some point in my Silicon Valley childhood, the lightning pace of my surroundings had embedded in my own psyche, and I don’t think I’d ever slowed down since. I was programmed to work, think, and live swiftly, constantly maximizing my efficiency and ability to cram things in. I didn’t let myself catch a break. This little epiphany didn’t reveal itself until I found myself out of breath on my way to a museum that was in no danger of closing for the next 6 hours.

But there I was, speed walking towards my destination, overtaken by the stress of getting to Point B as quickly as possible. I stopped in my tracks, paused my Invisibilia episode, and began a total mindset makeover. “Slow down,” I told myself on that empty Polish sidewalk. “You’re creating problems for yourself where none actually exist. No one is timing you or keeping track of your whereabouts. The whole day is your oyster, the whole summer is yours for the making. Is all this hurry and stress valid? Or is it just your default state of being?” I concluded it was the latter. So, while still a few blocks from the museum, I turned my thoughts into actions and took my sweet time getting there. Taking the fire out of my step and rigidity out of my plans required lots of self-checks. I’d still find myself in a hurry for no reason at all, and then actively override the voice in my head that told me I needed to keep plowing forward. This little epiphany segued into a second one, which I probably preached to several captive listeners in Serra last year. (This is my belated apology to all you poor souls.)

The ~grand takeaway~: My whole life has been marked by very little adversity - so little, in fact, that I barely had anything to complain about. But I somehow always found something. Too much work, too little sleep, trivial friendship hiccups, fleeting family turbulence, bombed a test, didn’t get my way here and there. As it dawned on me that I make mountains out of molehills in terms of unwarranted stress, I realized that my habit didn’t stop at my constant state of urgency. I'd found ways to make myself unsatisfied on a daily basis in basically every aspect of my life. Sounds pretty awful, I know, but I’d challenge you to reflect on the words that come out of your own mouth. Do you frame even the slightest inconvenience as a personal grievance? When your workload feels heavy, do you find solace by ranting about the sorrows of schoolwork with a classmate? Is your go-to conversation starter more often than not something negative? I can only speak for myself and give all of the above a fat yes. Complaining is easy and addictive, and like gossip, spreads like wildfire.

Cliché revelation details aside, I concluded that I’d make it my mission for the next year to limit my complaints to situations that were objectively negative. Ex: a loved one becomes seriously ill, life takes a really unfortunate turn, etc. The rest of that summer became my training period. I fucked up a lot of times. I’d find myself silently stewing over the uncomfortable heat, inconvenience of a long walk, or disappointment of a closed restaurant when I was hungry and tired. But in the spirit of my new resolution, I slowly taught myself to reframe all the petty negative thoughts that entered my brain, so that by the time they left, the heat was a manageable warmth and the closed café meant the opportunity to amble down a few more bustling blocks in search of another option.

Bottom line: I was doing just fine.

I’m still getting there. I am not even close to championing my own dogma, nor will I be for the foreseeable future. But the first step to change is acknowledgement, and I’ll pat myself on the back for digging deep and identifying a real roadblock to my own success and happiness. Nothing super impressive, but it’s a step up from blissful ignorance and privilege. I’m better now at counting my blessings, seeing the good in things, spending more time in the silver lining. And boy does it feel good to drop the added weight of expendable complaints. Operation Declutter My Mind? It lives on today, in full effect as I take on a city slightly closer to home.