Adventures in the Mildly Unexpected: Finding Your Feet in Unfamiliar Places

Not every solo travel story is about drama or daring. Sometimes, the most memorable moments are the ones you didn’t plan — the small surprises, the odd turnings, the quiet flickers of feeling that catch you off guard.

This isn’t about being fearless or chasing extremes. It’s about those mildly unexpected moments that gently change your perspective — the ones that remind you that finding your feet in a new place is its own kind of direction.

You arrive in a new place expecting something: excitement, novelty, maybe confusion. But what often greets you is something smaller. Something more real than dramatic. A moment that surprises you — not with danger or drama, but with recognition, contradiction, or stillness.

I used to think the threshold of a journey was the gate at the airport, the passport control queue, the bus or train ride into town. But over time, I’ve realised it’s something more internal. The real threshold is not a place — it’s a feeling.

Let me explain.

London: A Strangely Familiar Beginning

I didn’t grow up travelling to the UK. In fact, I didn’t set foot in London until my mid-fifties. But when I finally did, I felt — from the moment I stepped onto the Tube at Heathrow — as if I’d arrived somewhere I already knew.

It wasn’t nostalgia. It wasn’t déjà vu. It wasn’t even logical. it was something stranger than that — a quiet, unprovable sense of belonging.

I’d only recently obtained my British passport (a bureaucratic nod to my ancestry that I’d never acted on), and as the customs officer waved me through with a cheerful “Welcome home”, I felt something change.

From there, everything moved easily. I bought an Oyster card. I found the right platform without having to double-check the signage. I stepped onto the Tube with my suitcase and sat among Londoners, scarves wrapped tightly against the raw spring air, as though I did this every Tuesday.

And that feeling of casual belonging in a place that should’ve felt new never really left me.

Yes, I still saw the city through a visitor’s eyes. Even as I ticked off all the tourist landmarks — Trafalgar Square, Covent Garden, Buckingham Palace, the V&A, and long walks through Kensington Gardens — I never quite felt like the tourist I really was.

I was just…there. A woman with her own routines, morning coffee and a pain au raisin from Pret, evenings with my son, afternoons doing whatever took my fancy.

I’ve often wondered whether it was my English heritage asserting itself, or simply the comfort of being somewhere that asked nothing of me.

Maybe it was coincidence. Perhaps it doesn’t matter. But in a life full of unfamiliar places, London felt like a second skin. I felt as though I “belonged”.

And I still don’t quite know why.

Tainan: The Slow Shift Toward Comfort

After a comfortable 3-hours-or-so train ride from Taipei, I arrived in Tainan feeling slightly smug. I’d navigated Taiwan’s high-speed rail, found my way across town, and even managed a minor hotel mix-up without too much drama.

I had no real plans for the day, which is sometimes the best way to begin.

That first evening, I walked the streets, hoping to stumble across something interesting — a night market, a temple, maybe just a good bowl of noodles. Compared to Taipei’s polish and pace, Tainan was slower, scruffier around the edges, tired from too many humid summers.

At first, it didn’t charm me.

Walking through a small park strewn with litter and leaves, I felt disappointed, though I couldn’t have said exactly why. It was probably just fatigue. But as I moved along a narrow street lined with tiny shops, with men sitting on small stools outside the shuttered doors, a sudden chill raised the hairs on my arms. The evening darkness was closing in. My sense of orientation had slipped. It didn’t feel comfortable.

Hurrying my steps, I turned into another street, this one brightly lit and cheerful, and the sensation disappeared, as if I’d walked out of a dark cloud I didn’t know I’d entered.

Memorable Meals: No Translation Required

With all the signage in Chinese, finding somewhere to eat dinner was confusing, but eventually I chose a small restaurant that looked approachable.

The woman behind the counter spoke no English. I spoke no Chinese. But she found me a table and presented me with the menu…in Chinese. Eventually, sensing my bewilderment, she raised an eyebrow and said the one word of English she seemed to know: “Chicken?”. I nodded, relieved to be somewhere that felt welcoming, despite the language barrier.

I returned the next night. And the next. Each time, she greeted me with “Chicken?” and, after a pause, “Different?”.

She brought variations of the same dish — one packed with spicy chillies, one with mushrooms, one with peanuts — we laughed, and when I smiled, she smiled back.

We didn’t share a language, but the ritual became its own kind of hospitality. The street — and the town — began to feel familiar. I began to feel as if I fitted. Those days spent in Tainan proved enjoyable and exciting, as I gradually uncovered its delights.

That’s the strange beauty of slow-burning places: they don’t ask for your affection. But they earn it.

Helsinki: Kindness in the Cold

Before I arrived in Finland, I’d been warned — gently — that Finns weren’t exactly chatty. (I should have known…my father was a Finn.) They were kind and generous, yes. Just not conversational. “Don’t take it personally,” someone had said. “They’re not being rude. They just don’t do small talk.”

So when I was approached by a slightly dishevelled man at a tram stop, gesturing and muttering in Finnish, I braced myself. He stepped closer — a little too close — a smell of alcohol on his breath. His voice rose. I stepped back and shrugged, trying to signal my unwillingness to engage with him.

Eventually, I managed, “Sorry, I don’t speak Finnish.”

He shot back in perfect English, “What the f—— do you speak?”

Ah! Not exactly the national welcome mat.

I froze. Then, without a word, a woman further down the platform gave a small nod and beckoned me over. I moved instinctively.

She waited until the man wandered off, then said, lightly, “He just wants cigarettes. You’re alright now. Stay with me.”

It wasn’t a big gesture. She didn’t offer comfort, just presence.

In that moment, everything I’d been told about Finnish reserve cracked slightly. What I found instead was quiet kindness — unembellished but entirely real.

Later, I would notice it again and again: tram drivers helping with directions, shopkeepers switching seamlessly to English, strangers stepping in without fanfare.

It wasn’t dramatic. But it stayed with me.

What I Took With Me

None of these moments were particularly grand. They weren’t the highlights I’d list if you asked me for must-see sights or travel tips.

But they were thresholds.

Not because they challenged me, but because they moved something inside me.

A sense of comfort in the unfamiliar. A slowly earned affection. A quiet reminder that people — wherever they are — tend to surprise you, often in good ways.

Of course, I will always love the “exciting” aspects of travel — the wonderful sights and thrilling experiences — but along with those, I also tune into the gentler, more grounding kinds of adventures. Not the ones with a story arc or a punchline. But the ones that show up unannounced and leave quietly — after changing your perception just enough.

These are the kinds of adventures I value most now.

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