I love Europe. I was born in Berlin, raised with a rich European education and worldview. That lens has shaped me, but it’s also limited me. As much as I cherish my cultural background, it left me with significant blind spots about the rest of the world, gaps that no university course can truly fill.
So I decided to step out of the European perspective completely. Not just metaphorically, but physically. I set out to encounter the richness of other worldviews, to walk through cultures instead of just reading about them, to feel the pace of places where history isn’t printed in textbooks but written into the streets, the food, the silences.
For me, the best way to do that was to travel the world – without flying.
Travelling without planes reshapes the journey itself. I spend time in places I never would have known existed, those unnamed towns and in-between spaces that lie far from guidebooks and flight routes. Often, it’s there, in these overlooked corridors of the world, that the most meaningful encounters unfold.
Many people warn me about neighbouring countries, the dangers of crossing into unfamiliar cultures. And yes, some of those dangers are real; I’ve experienced a few firsthand. But more often than not, fear is simply fear of the unknown. It’s striking how common it is for people to believe that their neighbours are more dangerous than themselves. And yet, time and again, when I take that step across the border, I’m met with warmth and hospitality. Strangers become guides, gates open into rich cultural worlds and then, almost humorously, those same people turn around and warn me about their neighbours. There’s a lesson in that. Don’t let fear draw the map for you. Dare to step over the threshold. Open your heart to what’s unfamiliar—you might be surprised by how deeply it welcomes you.
By never stepping onto a plane, I leave behind a thread, a quiet red line that ties every step back to my home in Berlin. No matter where I am in the Mongolian steppe, a crowded market in Chongqing, or a quiet street in Kyoto, I feel connected to home by that invisible path.
And something unexpected happens along the way: countries like China and Japan stop feeling like abstract places on the other side of the world. They become part of my personal geography. In China, I feel the relentless pulse of work: the roads being repaved at 3 a.m., bridges rising through the night. In Japan, I find calm and subtle grace. These aren’t just destinations anymore, they’re chapters in a living map I’m slowly writing with my own footsteps.
If you’re wondering how far I’ve come: I left Berlin on June 4, 2023. Always heading east, through Eastern Europe, across the endless Russian forests, past the wide-open Mongolian plains, and into the high-speed worlds of China and Japan. From there, I curved south through Southeast Asia until I reached Indonesia.
That’s where things took a turn. I fell seriously ill, and doctors insisted I return to Germany. It had taken me a full year to reach that point, an incredibly enriching year but the journey wasn’t done. I hadn’t yet circled the globe.
In January 2025, I set out again. This time, heading west.
And the contrast was immediate. After just seven days, I hit the edge of the continent. Land simply… stopped. Ahead of me was the Atlantic Ocean—an overwhelming expanse of blue that separated me from South America. The thought of crossing it without flying was terrifying. There’s no real way to prepare for what it feels like to drift across a vast, empty ocean in what feels like a floating nutshell.
And yet people have done it. Centuries ago, they stepped into wooden boats without knowing what lay beyond the horizon. Curiosity triumphed over fear. That same curiosity pulled at me. I’d never been on the Atlantic, and I’d never set foot in South America. So I had to try.
For three weeks, I searched the harbours, asking around for a sailing boat that would take me across. I was about to give up—hurricane season was closing in—when I finally convinced one of the very last crews to take me aboard. Just like that, I was at sea: three strangers and I, alone for weeks in the middle of the Atlantic.
It was one of the hardest, most beautiful encounters with nature I’ve ever had.
Now, six months later, I’m on the other side. The Caribbean. At this moment, I’m standing in Trinidad, just off the coast of South America. On clear days, I can see the continent shimmering between the clouds.
A whole new chapter awaits. A new culture, a new rhythm, new languages and landscapes. And again, that quiet red thread pulling me forward—and always, somehow, back home.
