When I turned eighteen, I felt something inside me shift. It wasn’t about age; it was about freedom. Until that moment, I couldn’t travel legally, and yet for years I’d been dreaming about it — about adventures like the ones I used to read in books, full of mystery, unknown lands, and brave explorers. But when I finally could go, I realized that if I didn’t do it now, I might never do it.

So I decided: I will go. I will go somewhere far.

At first, it was supposed to be a trip with friends. We made plans, talked about routes, destinations, excitement — but as time went on, one by one, everyone backed out. In the end, it was just me. And that’s when I understood that if I really wanted to go, I had to go alone.

Spain sounded like a faraway dream — sunny, warm, full of life — and I chose to reach it the simplest way possible: by hitchhiking. The only problem was money. I had just 50 euros in my pocket. But the fear of not going was bigger than the fear of failing. So I told myself: I’m doing this anyway.

Before leaving, I met my friends for a small celebration — because who knows what could happen on the road? The night went long, and so did the drinks. When I woke up the next morning, I found myself on the other side of the city, without my documents. I had lost them. My great adventure was suddenly impossible. I was devastated and ashamed.

For a week, I hid in my flat, waiting for new documents to arrive, not talking to anyone, not even answering calls. It felt like the journey had already failed before it began. But when the new papers finally came, I knew there was no time to lose — I packed my enormous 120-liter backpack, filled it half with food, and set out to hitchhike toward Spain.

The first rides came easier than I expected. People were kind. Even those I couldn’t speak to — my German was nonexistent and my English still poor — somehow understood me. I met strangers who offered me food, stories, even comfort. A group of Mexican boys wanted to buy me McDonald’s; a woman tried to give me sandwiches. But I refused all of it politely. I wanted to rely only on myself, to prove I could survive on my own. I was shy, but proud.

One woman in France stopped for me in the smallest car I’d ever seen — a Smart, packed to the brim. I thought there was no chance I’d fit, but she somehow squeezed me in. The heat was unbearable, and I hadn’t slept for hours. I kept falling asleep in her car and felt terrible about it — as if I were disrespecting her kindness.

Then there was a man who drove me through Spain. The journey was long and strange — he kept telling bizarre stories about women across Europe and had this odd habit of constantly touching himself while talking. It was uncomfortable, but at the same time, I remember thinking that he, too, was just a person sharing his version of the world.

There was also an Arabian man — we didn’t share a single language, yet for hours, we somehow talked. Through gestures, tones, and pure energy, we managed to understand each other deeply. It felt unreal — as if conversation didn’t need words at all.

Nights were their own adventure. Once, with nowhere to go, I slept on a slope between two highways, holding my feet against a tree so I wouldn’t roll down. Cars rushed by above me, the air thick with the smell of asphalt and wind. It was strange, a little frightening, but peaceful too — a kind of freedom I had never known.

Not every moment was beautiful. On one road in Spain, the police stopped the driver I was with. Out of panic, I started digging through my giant backpack to find my ID. When I finally handed it over, the policewoman looked at me blankly and said, “I don’t need your documents.” And in that exact moment, the shampoo bottle in my backpack burst open, flooding all my things. My entire bag was soaked in the smell of cheap shampoo — everything useless, sticky, and absurd. I could only laugh.

But then — Barcelona.

When I arrived, I felt a wave of triumph. I’d done it. I, an eighteen-year-old kid with no money, had made it to Spain. The city was alive — streets buzzing, air filled with voices, sea breeze in the distance. I took the metro for the first time in my life, and it felt like stepping into a movie. Underground tunnels, fast trains, people rushing — everything was so new.

When I reached the beach, I sat down on the sand. It wasn’t the most beautiful beach — in fact, it was probably the worst one in Barcelona. But it was mine. My first sea. I remember staring at the water and thinking, I made it.

But as the day faded, a new feeling appeared — a deep loneliness. I suddenly felt very far from home, surrounded by a city that didn’t know me, didn’t care who I was. I realized I didn’t want to stay. I had done what I came to do — and now, I just wanted to go back.

So I did.

When I returned to Slovakia, I was filled with energy and pride. It was unbelievable — I had crossed Europe, reached Spain, and come back with the same 50 euros still in my pocket. I hadn’t accepted anyone’s help, and most of the things in my backpack turned out to be useless. But that didn’t matter. What mattered was that I had gone.

And when I came back, I knew one thing for sure:
If I could do this, with nothing but courage and a backpack full of nonsense, then what else might be possible?