This city is an interruption of common sense by the simple fact of its existence. Without effort. Without pretension. It is chaos elevated to the status of the sacred. Varanasi is contradictory, incomprehensible, indefinable, and unbearable. But it is also peaceful, healing, and reasonable. Its streets are a labyrinth where time stands still and space compresses. Yet, it is also where everything seems to expand exponentially.

The presence of death in every corner

Arriving in Varanasi is tumultuous, unpredictable, almost violent. There is no time to adapt because the city hardly lets you breathe. You want to think, feel, reflect, contemplate, and understand. But you can’t; there isn’t a single moment where nothing is happening. You want to walk the streets, but you get lost. You want to find a place to stop for a moment, but it feels as if something invisible is shaking your shoulders, forcing you to walk without knowing where. Then you realize you have to press yourself against a wall to let a cow, a motorcycle, or a group of men carrying a body wrapped in orange silk pass by. You cannot stop; you must keep going. You are inside a kaleidoscope or a surrealist dream.

Temples, cafes, clothing stalls, poverty, filth, fire, and water. Death as an obvious promise and life as a question mark. The Ganges River, as sacred as it is polluted, without that being a contradiction. All of this is Varanasi.

I arrived with the knot in my stomach of one who travels alone and feels the world is too big. But in Varanasi, that knot is forced apart because the city is so real it verges on the cruel. There is no room for pretension when the smoke from the funeral pyres seeps into your pores. When the chants echo through a city so ancient it seems to have escaped time itself. When life and death do not collide as opposites but fuse into a unity that, in Varanasi, feels natural.

Hinduism and the spiritual meaning of death in Varanasi

To understand why Varanasi breathes smoke, one must understand Hinduism. For the devotee, dying here is not a tragedy; it is the ultimate privilege: it is to achieve Moksha, the final liberation from the cycle of reincarnation (Samsara).

While in the West we struggle to retain, to accumulate, and to remain, in Varanasi, the goal is to let go, to release, to accept, to flow. The fire at Manikarnika Ghat is not merely combustion; it is the vehicle that returns the five elements to the universe. Observing the pyres that burn twenty-four hours a day is to witness the fulfillment of Dharma, the sacred order of things.

Death is an absolute that springs from each and every stone of the city. But it is not a full stop; it is a continuation, a bridge between this life and a higher order. A positive sign that resignifies and challenges our Western worldview regarding the act of dying.

I saw no tears, nor was there a tragic air in Varanasi. It wasn’t indifference either. Rather, it was a profound understanding that the body is merely an envelope. A radical acceptance of death that allowed the dead and the living to coexist, drinking chai while watching the fire with curiosity.

It was a certainty that I found moving. A promise that no one spoke because it wasn’t necessary to put into words. The infinite, the unnamable. That which all religions attempt to articulate—often in vain—was what I saw in the eyes of the people who went to Varanasi to die.

Cultural shock: What the West silences, Varanasi screams about death

My three days in Varanasi led me to compare the conception of death in both cultures. In our Western world, we have turned death into an uncomfortable secret. We hide it in sterile hospital rooms and dress it in black, as if silence could hide the inevitable. It is the subject no one wants to bring up at the table. A taboo. An inconvenience. A reason to be swept away by self-destruction. Tears and sorrow. Dark funerals, dismal nights.

Varanasi spat a different truth at me: death is bright orange and smells of fire.

By normalizing the end, the city resignifies life. There is no fear in the eyes of the elders waiting for their turn on the banks of the Ganges; there is a radical acceptance that denotes an absolute faith, which has nothing to do with Christianity. Seeing death so closely, without filters or marble walls, forced me to look at my own existence with a sharpness that hurt.

If death is as natural as the flowing river, why do we spend so much energy pretending it doesn’t exist?

Varanasi: A Radical Acceptance of the End

Walking through this chaotic city was like looking into a mirror of what we try to ignore. Watching children and dogs run among the bodies lying patiently by the river, I understood with a certain peace that death is not something that should be hidden.

Varanasi breaks your mental frameworks because it teaches you that peace does not come from avoiding the end, but from knowing that smoke is part of the air that we will all, sooner or later, breathe. In the end, we take nothing with us, except the lightness of having learned to walk through the flames without getting burned.

Varanasi was just one stop on this journey of deconstruction. You can find more chronicles and reflections from my travels through Asia here.

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A dread that often turned into panic, and other times into a blind faith toward something I couldn’t quite define. That’s how I spent nearly three months, wandering through a continent that wasn’t mine. Praying to something I didn’t know well. Some anonymous God. Some belief I imported from another life. A certainty that wouldn’t stop whispering that everything was going to be okay. And the fear, crawling up my back like a putrid shadow, tucking itself into my backpack. A duality that split me in half for two and a half months: the contradiction of solo female travel in India and the constant pulse between blind faith and fear.

The Fear: Navigating solo female travel in India

Many people ask me if it is dangerous to travel this way. The honest answer isn’t a yes or a no; it’s a sensation. I felt fear. All the time. But not because of what was happening around me, but because of what was happening inside me. The noise of India was merely a trigger for everything exploding within my mind. Like a bomb buried in some long-forgotten war, about to detonate.

Navigating this country alone means living with constant noise—not just from the streets, but from your own prejudices. It’s the fear of not understanding the “invisible order” of a place that seems to be perpetually on the edge; the fear of radical solitude and the gaze of others that you cannot decipher. The sounds, the smells, the words—the collision of thousands of realities exploding around you. People asking for photos, your friends back in Argentina saying: “How can you go to India alone?”. The air was burning, and with it, my need for control burned too.

I quickly understood that the possibility of controlling what happened was a utopia in a country that collapsed and was resurrected every minute. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t foresee even what would happen in an hour. I didn’t know where I was going to sleep, or where I was going to eat. How I was going to get there, what I was going to do. But over time, it started to be okay. It began to make sense. It became part of the charm of India—a country built on the idea of a permanent “now.”

Blind Faith

However, in the moments when fear seemed to win it all, blind faith would appear. I’m not talking about religious faith, but an absolute surrender to uncertainty. A certain absurd, naive surrender that surfaced every time I was dying of fear. Every time I felt a chill down my spine, when a voice told me to go back home, that the discomfort was too much. “You’re crazy,” they’d tell me while I tried to book train tickets in a system I didn’t fully understand. But I stopped listening to everything—the honking, the barking of street dogs.

Because I knew everything was going to be okay. I don’t know if it was intuition, confidence, or stupidity. But that was what allowed me to board a train without knowing exactly where to get off. That blind faith—intense, explosive, and foolish—was what pulled me out of my comfort zone in Croatia and led me to take that bus to the airport. In Sri Lanka, I began the journey full of doubts; in India, I ended it understanding that blind faith isn’t believing everything will go well, but knowing you’ll be capable of managing it if everything goes wrong. That there is a being inside you that is larger, more unpredictable, eclectic, mystical, sacred, and chaotic than India itself: you. Yourself.

Managing Contradiction in Chaos

The hardest part of solo female travel in India wasn’t the physical exhaustion, but managing emotions like frustration in a totally chaotic context. A permanent noise that transfers to the spirit, one you don’t stop hearing even while lying in silence in your bed. It was there, listening to the noise of the nightly silence, that I understood the secret isn’t trying to eliminate fear so that faith can appear. On the contrary: fear and blind faith need each other. Two sides of the same coin, two extremes that touch and collide. Fear kept me alert, conscious, and present. Blind faith allowed me to keep walking despite it all.

The Silent Fire

Today, in the polar silence, I feel the trip is only just beginning to settle. India is a country that burns; it is immense and indefinable. Unfathomable, eclectic, mystical, sacred, dirty, contradictory. A collision of palaces, death, poverty, and reincarnation all on the same street. Faith, cows, cities, mountains, temples, street food.

India is the country I loved most because it is a process of combustion. Everything explodes, and you are no exception. It is a country that demolishes you just to see what you are capable of building with the pieces. And here I am, in the middle of the ice, looking at my remains and understanding that only when you are in pieces can you choose which parts of you deserve to be rescued, and which ones stay back there, burning forever in that air that was on fire.

If you are interested in Solo traveling, you can check out this categories:

Asia

Nomadic Life.

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In this way, Argentine resilience isn’t a statistic or a slogan: it’s a way of moving through the world. We grow up seeing how the rules of the game change, how plans fall apart overnight and are rebuilt the next day; we learn to adapt and survive amid instability. Five presidents in eleven days, the corralito, the blue dollar, attending classes sitting on the floor. Waiting for the train knowing it will be late, calculating those minutes of delay as mandatory, hoping there’s no traffic on the highway to get to work.

Disorder, chaos, improvisation—Buenos Aires that can’t breathe and won’t let you be at ease. Traffic, pedestrians, protests, lousy politicians, currency exchange offices, people begging, people laughing and drinking mate on the bus. All of this is part of the Argentine society I was born into and that has seeped into my bones, following me like a ghost even in my life as an immigrant in Europe. The skills I learned in the whirlwind of Buenos Aires are what allowed me, when I left, to work and live abroad with a backpack full of invisible resources.

What I Mean by “Argentine Resilience”

When I say Argentine resilience, I’m not just talking about the ability to endure whatever life throws at us, something that supposedly characterizes Argentines. It’s not another national or cultural product we pridefully claim as ours. I mean inventiveness in the face of uncertainty: turning scarcity into a path, confusion into method, and entanglement into shortcuts. In a context where inflation is high and economic rules can change at any moment, daily life becomes flexible out of necessity. Over time, this flexibility becomes a second skin.

The patch is an image: a mended wheel, a door held together with a different screw, a plan that mutates. Learning to save money from a young age in a currency that isn’t yours. Hiding cash under the mattress “just in case.” Having a million solutions for possible problems that could arise. But it’s also practical: learning to negotiate, ask for help, and test provisional solutions that often work better than the “official” ones.

This culture of immediate fixing instills an adaptable and creative mindset. Not everything is heroism: there’s fatigue, anger, and injustice. But there’s also a collective engine of ingenuity that activates without asking permission. A code that isn’t written anywhere but that everyone knows. Something that flows through the streets and neighborhoods of Argentina without us being able to put it into words.

How Argentine Resilience Abroad Taught Me to Live

Going abroad for someone from this context wasn’t, paradoxically, a shock—it was a continuation. Leaving the Buenos Aires metropolitan area for Croatia was a continuation of this daily struggle. One might think that leaving your own country across the ocean would mean leaving behind the identity you built.

Yet what we call “Argentineness” appeared even stronger. In the Argentine accent that comes through every time I speak English, in the words and expressions I try—and fail—to translate. The gestures, the jokes, the clichés. Unknowingly, my Argentine identity grew stronger abroad and was reinforced amidst the confusion. It was also what allowed me to survive in a new country and in a culture so different.

I had already learned to improvise, deal with changing plans, to rebuild and re-rebuild myself. To accept that I had no control over the situation and couldn’t predict what would happen. I could leave behind the life I had built over twenty-five years to embrace a new one. Leaving my career, my job, and my home in search of something new. Finding new friends, a new neighborhood, new ways of living even when everything around me seemed to fall apart. Moving countless times, learning a new language, a new social code, saving in another currency.

Living with Croatians, Poles, Latinos. Saving in kunas, euros, dollars. Working as a cleaner, receptionist, supervisor. Learning Croatian, English, and German. Knowing what you can and can’t do. Changing countries, changing neighborhoods. Moving to Barcelona and renting a room off the books from an Egyptian. The chaos that one unconsciously seeks and can’t avoid after having lived in Argentina. “This place seems too quiet,” I used to say after a stint in a small Croatian village.

From Disorder to Identity

If you come from cultures with more predictability, it can be disorienting to imagine managing life amid daily price hikes and twisting regulations. Argentine resilience doesn’t romanticize chaos: it recognizes fatigue and injustice. But it focuses on a collective response that teaches us to cope with problems and adapt constantly.

Resilience becomes identity when it’s no longer just a strategy and becomes part of personal and collective narrative. Argentine society is chaotic, erratic, yet incredibly beautiful. Imperfect, eclectic, diverse, multicultural, problematic, like a bomb about to explode. But also, in some way, harmonious. We live among the ashes of a fire that always seems ready to flare again. Yet, somehow, everything works.

Being “of the patch” means recognizing this complexity as your own. The social fragmentariness that internalizes and is proudly expressed. It’s resisting, continuing, inventing ways of being, rebirthing, and erupting again. And that was the backpack I carried from Buenos Aires to Croatia. The scar I celebrate every day and that grows stronger with each day I spend far from home.

If there’s one thing I want my European friends to understand, it’s that this isn’t about celebrating chaos, but about recognizing wisdom born from fracture: knowing how to sew paths with uneven threads. Like in the Japanese art of kintsugi, where cracks are filled with gold to make the piece unique again, in Argentina we learn to embrace our breaks and turn them into identity. Celebrating fragmentariness, imperfection, and partiality. Finding that scar without needing to cover it. Simply appreciating its beauty.

If you are interested in nomadic life, emigration and identity, you can check out this category 🙂

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Crossing the border from Thailand to Cambodia: the rustic train ride from Bangkok

Our journey started very early, at 5 a.m., when we took the train from Bangkok to the border with Cambodia. My friend and I, both Argentinians who would rather die than travel on an organized tour and known for being fiercely independent, decided to walk from the hostel we had booked on the outskirts of Bangkok with our backpacks and passports in hand.

We had heard there weren’t many options to travel to Cambodia from Bangkok, and that the best was by plane. But we wanted the adventure — and the train cost just over one euro. The train, especially the third-class car we paid for, was rustic but still charming.

The stops were frequent, each one with its own story and characters. Street vendors offering fresh fruit, curious children waving at us, and an atmosphere that only a slow train can create. We, two fiercely independent Argentinians, felt both free and a little out of place, but happy to travel at our own pace. “Good thing we didn’t pay for that crappy tour,” we laughed, while watching the tall grass sway through the window.

The border, the smoke and the corruption

After several hours, we arrived at Aranyaprathet station, the last stop before officially crossing the border. With our backpacks on our shoulders, we walked under the blazing sun, weaving between trucks and cars, until we reached a yellow building where the long migration wait began. The line stretched out and branched endlessly, and those two hours became a true exercise in patience and adaptation to the chaos that awaited us.

“Welcome,” they told us once we got our visas, right after the officer casually overcharged us three extra dollars as he stamped our passports. Luckily, we had read a bit online and carried exact change so they couldn’t come up with another made-up fee. We paid, resigned, realizing that this little scam was part of the border ritual — a reminder that in Southeast Asia, order and transparency aren’t always part of the deal.

Crossing the Thailand – Cambodia Border via Poi Pet

At the border, we found ourselves in Poi Pet, the gateway town from Thailand into Cambodia. This town, seemingly frozen in time, is completely chaotic from a Western perspective. Full of street vendors, neon signs, monks walking everywhere, noise, beggars, and children chasing us to greet us. One detail to keep in mind is that this town is full of casinos. Since gambling is illegal in Thailand, many tourists cross the border for the day just to spend hours locked inside trying to win some money.

Admiring the diversity coexisting in this space—monks, begging children, and Europeans emerging from big, luxurious buildings—we shared our first impressions of Cambodia. We walked for about ten minutes, fully convinced that we would find a bus station where we could wait for our ride to Siem Reap. “I don’t know what time the bus will be, but worst case we’ll just grab something to eat there,” I told my friend as we stared in awe at the surrounding chaos.

After a few minutes, we reached the bus station. However, the parking lot was completely empty, and everything was shut down. I can still remember the look of confusion on my friend’s face and the wave of frustration that hit me when I realized the station was abandoned. Without meaning to, we were stranded at the border between Cambodia and Thailand.

When plans fall apart: embracing travel uncertainty

What do you do when your only ride feels unsafe, and you’re stranded at the border with no plan? We had no SIM card, no clear information, and were surrounded by people trying to sell us everything—from tours to souvenirs. The already tense atmosphere seemed to collapse before our eyes. As if they could smell our panic, they came closer, shouting “Where are you from?”, “Where are you going?” while we tried to figure out what to do, my stomach twisting with unease.

Ignoring one tuk-tuk driver who wouldn’t stop chasing us, we entered what looked like a private taxi company to ask for help, but had no luck. Only one person spoke English and kept repeating that the next bus would leave in eight hours from somewhere around there, not really paying attention to our panic.

Exhausted and overwhelmed, we stepped into a small local pharmacy, just looking for a pause. A boy inside helped translate, and the pharmacist, a very kind woman, offered an unexpected solution. She said her husband could drive us to Siem Reap if we paid him. At that point, it didn’t matter how much he asked—we told her to set a price. Hesitantly, the man told the boy thirty dollars. He looked at us expectantly, as if he’d asked for a fortune for a three-and-a-half-hour ride.

We said yes, not only because it was cheap, but because there was nothing else left to do. Getting into a stranger’s car wasn’t exactly safe, but in that moment it felt like the only way forward.

Trust and fear on the road to Siem Reap

The ride started off strangely, and it didn’t take long before the first moment shook our nerves and made our hearts race. Within the first half hour, the driver veered off the main road without explanation and stopped in front of a small house surrounded by trees. When we saw him get out and greet three men who appeared at the door, we looked at each other in fear.

Our survival instincts, honed in Latin America, screamed at us to get out of there immediately. “If he does something weird, I’ll grab the car keys,” she whispered, while I searched my backpack for a pen or anything I could use to defend us. “If he opens the door, I’ll stab him,” I said, knowing it was a lie neither of us actually believed.

The fear we felt in that minute turned into relief when the four men approached the trunk… just to take out a couple of boxes of ice cream cones. What we had assumed might be a kidnapping was, in reality, a simple delivery on their way to the final destination.

Nervous laughter followed as we looked at the tiny dot of our location on the map and promised ourselves never to travel without internet and to call our families as soon as we reached the hostel. We couldn’t yet understand that nothing bad was happening — we were simply interpreting the situation through our Western perspective. For us, that unknown moment was an exclamation point; for them, it was just another stop.

Unsettling moments on the road

The unexpected kept finding us. At one point, the driver tried to overtake a truck with sharp, zigzagging movements. In the middle of that chaos, he ran over a dog. He didn’t stop, didn’t even flinch. Half an hour later he pulled over — not to check on the animal, but to look at the lights and the hood for dents. The dog, as if it had never existed, was left behind on the road.

For us, it was shocking — the suddenness of it, the silence that followed. But maybe for him, it was just another ordinary scene on a road where accidents happen every day. Not cruelty, but a kind of detachment, a way of carrying on.

That made the whole ride even more uncomfortable. We couldn’t communicate with him. The only word exchanged during hours on the road was a single “Bathroom?” when he asked if we wanted to stop. We shook our heads. No. No more surprises. No more unexpected detours for the rest of the day.

Crossing the Thailand – Cambodia Border again: When Organization Meets Chaos

The journey back to Bangkok was, if possible, even more unpredictable. Swearing we would never go through a situation like that again, we bought bus tickets and decided to spend a little extra to travel safely. To our surprise, a man on a tuk-tuk came to pick us up from the hostel and took us to a secluded spot about half an hour outside the city. Pointing to an old car parked there, he told us to get in and that it would take us to the border.

With some distrust, we saw a middle-aged woman and a child in the back seat. Completely exhausted, we loaded our backpacks into the trunk and settled in, bracing ourselves for three and a half hours of total discomfort. “I don’t get it, we did all this to avoid a repeat,” we complained, our shoulders heavy with fatigue. We didn’t yet know that this was just how things worked in Asia, and that this kind of situation would repeat several times in our first weeks in Southeast Asia.

Lost in Poi Pet again: chasing the van to Bangkok

After three hours, we found ourselves in Poi Pet again, walking among rundown houses and luxurious casinos. We asked the driver what to do, and he said there was a white van waiting on the other side to take us to Bangkok. He asked for a photo so they could find us, and without smiling, we let him take it and send it to who knows who. “That’s it,” I muttered to my friend bitterly, thinking of all the stories in Argentina about white vans.

After a long wait at immigration, a stranger approached, pointing at the photo on his phone that had been taken hours earlier. “Bangkok,” he repeated over and over. With no energy left to argue or feel afraid, we followed him.

The White Van

We followed him to a parking lot where we found other travelers. We argued three times trying to get someone to take us to the promised drop-off; everyone else wanted to leave us on the outskirts of Bangkok so we’d have to pay for a tuk-tuk. “Khao San,” we repeated, sipping a Coke to keep from fainting in the nearly forty-degree heat.

After many twists and negotiations with several drivers, one finally agreed to take us. We stopped a few times along the way, traveling surrounded by backpacks and with no air conditioning. The white van bounced and rattled, uncomfortable and loud, but not dangerous. Other travelers chatted about their journeys; we, exhausted and tired of socializing, put on a movie we barely managed to watch while the driver zigzagged along the roads of eastern Thailand.

By the time we reached Bangkok, we realized we had arrived five hours later than planned. But it didn’t matter anymore; all we wanted was to find a hostel, throw down our backpacks, and take a breath. To shower, change, eat something, and finally sleep after that chaotic day.

Travel Lessons: Learning to Flow in Chaos

When I talk about Asia, I always say the most important lesson it taught me was to trust the universe and let go of control. The beginning and end of our trip to Cambodia were marked by uncertainty that only made the story more beautiful. I had read many times about Buddhism and the importance of accepting impermanence and trusting the plan that our higher self designed before reincarnating in this world, but that was the first time I truly experienced it.

I embodied that feeling of full trust in what the future held and what destiny had planned for me. Like life itself, I didn’t know how or when we’d get there, but I was sure we would arrive safe and sound. Cambodia taught us that traveling isn’t always a straight path, but the best stories come when we let the universe lead and accept what comes.

Finding Beauty in the Chaos

What many might call chaos, for us was a scene full of life, authenticity, and learning. Amid the disorder, we discovered the beauty of the unexpected, the magic of improvisation, and the richness of letting the journey unfold naturally. Crossing the border from Thailand to Cambodia overland wasn’t just a chaotic experience — it was a constant reminder that travel means living fully connected to the unpredictable, and that’s exactly where the true essence of the journey lies.

If you are interested in Asia, you can check out this category here 🙂

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My first days in Bangkok were loud and chaotic, but a sense of stillness found me after visiting the temples of Ayutthaya. It was the first time I stood before the remnants of an ancient Asian civilization. What I had read about Buddhism now appeared before me—silent, tangible, and alive.

After a short train ride, we arrived in today’s Ayutthaya—a town far removed from the grandeur of its past. We rented bikes for just over a euro and cycled all day between temple ruins, stopping at 7-Eleven shops to grab drinks and snacks. Of all the sites we visited, the ruins of Wat Mahathat stood out the most. The image of a Buddha head embraced by tree roots was more than striking—it was symbolic.

This moment sparked reflections on the relationship between Buddhism in Ayutthaya, nature, and the cyclical view of time. While I had read that Buddhism sees all beings as interconnected, it was something else to witness how nature is deeply integrated into spiritual practice. Meditation and yoga are often done outdoors, in open spaces surrounded by trees, as if dissolving the boundary between body and earth.

The Buddha head in Wat Mahathat doesn’t just represent impermanence—it is a living metaphor for it. The statue, once carved and revered, now rests within the growth of the roots, showing how the spiritual and the natural are forever intertwined.

Wat Mahathat: A Symbol of Buddhism in Ayutthaya

Founded in the 14th century during King Ramesuan’s reign, Wat Mahathat was once a key religious center of the Ayutthaya Kingdom. Like many Buddhist temples, it was a space for meditation, learning, and worship. Its bond with nature is evident in its design, the carvings on its walls, and the way the ruins have merged with surrounding vegetation.

The most iconic image is undoubtedly the Buddha’s head embraced by roots. This visual isn’t just captivating—it carries profound symbolic weight. It represents how Buddhism in Ayutthaya views wisdom not as separate from nature, but as something grown within it.

In Buddhism, everything is subject to change. The tree roots surrounding the Buddha head are a vivid reminder of this. What once stood in isolation is now part of a living system—a dynamic exchange between time, matter, and meaning.

Impermanence as a Central Teaching in Buddhism in Ayutthaya

Interconnection is key in Buddhist philosophy, but impermanence is perhaps its most essential lesson. Everything changes, and surrendering to this truth is part of the path. Nature is a perfect mirror for this transience: plants, animals, rivers, even mountains—nothing escapes transformation.

We often think things remain the same, but Buddhism in Ayutthaya reminds us otherwise. As the saying goes, “You never step into the same river twice.” The water flowing beneath your feet today is not the same as yesterday—it is constantly moving.

In The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying, Sogyal Rinpoche reflects on this:
“Life is like a river, with every thought, word, and action creating ripples that extend beyond what we can see. Everything that arises is destined to dissolve; everything that begins, must end.”

The river, then, becomes a metaphor. What we believe to be stable is, in reality, always in motion.

Cyclical Time and Buddhism in Ayutthaya

The intersection of nature and Buddhism is also reflected in the concept of cyclical time. Unlike the linear time we often use in the West, many Asian cultures perceive time as a repeating cycle, deeply connected to nature and spiritual beliefs.

Belief in reincarnation—the endless cycle of birth, death, and rebirth known as Samsara—shapes this cyclical view. Every death is not an end, but a pause before a new beginning. Life ends only to start anew in a different body, a different place, until Nirvana is reached.

As The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying states, “Just as day follows night, and seasons turn in eternal return, our lives are caught in the cycle of rebirth until liberation is found.” Like the seasons, days, and growth cycles of plants, human life moves in circles.

We do not travel in a straight line but always return to start over. Just as leaves fall in autumn only to bloom again in spring, our behaviors, experiences, and challenges unfold in cycles.

This applies not only to death and rebirth but to everyday events. Each day begins with sunrise and ends with the moon’s rise. We know the sun will return, and we will rise again with it. Life’s cycles include periods of crisis, joy, growth, and rest. Often, times of introspection and mourning are necessary for new flourishing—much like trees that bloom after a long winter.

Wat Mahathat: Ruins as Symbols of Impermanence and Transformation

At Wat Mahathat, the temple ruins are more than reminders of time’s passage—they symbolize constant renewal and transformation. Though the temple no longer serves its original functions, impermanence has transformed it into something new and no less beautiful.

I like to rethink the idea of ruins—not as mere decay, but as symbols of impermanence and the ongoing cycle of creation and dissolution. Thinking only in terms of decay is too simplistic and overlooks the renewal that follows.

Ruins witness life’s transience and time’s flow, but they are not just echoes of a lost golden age. Viewing them solely as remnants risks missing the deep meanings gained over time.

If we see the temple only as ruins, a sign that points back to an irretrievable past, we lose sight of the significance it has acquired. Observing how nature has invaded and altered its structures invites reflection on nature’s vitality, which continues regardless of human presence.

Reflections on Buddhism in Ayutthaya and Contemporary Spirituality

The relationship between Buddhism in Ayutthaya and nature is essential to understanding Thai spirituality. Wat Mahathat exemplifies how Buddhist principles manifest in the natural world. The roots encircling Buddha statues and the stone ruins overgrown with vegetation symbolize the deep connection and interdependence of all life.

The teaching of impermanence, present both in Buddhist doctrine and in Wat Mahathat’s landscape, invites visitors to reflect on life’s fragility and the need to live harmoniously with nature—cultivating compassion, wisdom, and inner peace.

Cyclical time, as explained in The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying, reminds us that everything that begins has an end but that within every end lies the chance to begin again. Like Wat Mahathat’s ruins—and our own lives—things break down and are reborn. Impermanence is the gateway to liberation and deep understanding of life’s eternal cycle.

Ruins may be understood through the lens of cyclical time rather than as final endpoints. Freed from their original meanings, these spaces become symbols of transformation. They invite us to contemplate the new meanings that time bestows.

To see ruins only as decay and destruction ignores the transformations that enrich their symbolic power. Like humans, we break, perish, but we always are reborn and reinvent ourselves—gaining wisdom and experience through countless cycles.

If you are interested in Asia and buddhism, you can check out my category here.

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What Does Being Foreign Really Mean?

When I left Argentina, I wasn’t aware that I wasn’t just moving away for a few months—I was leaving my family, my friends, my career, and the life I had built over the years. Above all, I was letting go of a sense of self I had fiercely maintained through my early twenties—a sense I had thought irreversible.

After taking that leap into the unknown, I realized the ocean didn’t just separate me from everything I knew—it was an abyss with no return. The feeling of being foreign in a new continent, where I didn’t know anyone, overwhelmed me. For the first time, I was submerged in total uncertainty: who I’d meet, what I’d do, and how I’d survive.

Grieving the Identity You Leave Behind

That year, I arrived in Croatia planning to connect with distant cousins and the land of my great-grandparents, not to awaken the depths of my spirit or resurrect a desire for perpetual travel. I didn’t know the language or anyone; I had under a thousand euros and no plan. Yet, I knew I had to be there.

Nothing was as advertised. The pandemic, the mix of good and bad people I met, the hunger, and the impossibility of getting residency or work—all taught me that leaving your country and taking a leap isn’t as rosy as travel memoirs make it out to be. The heartache, the melancholy, the burning emptiness—it all made it clear I couldn’t return home, yet I couldn’t stay stuck in a limbo between what I wanted and what I thought should have been.

When Home No Longer Exists Anywhere

Suddenly, I realized that the identity I had proudly held for years was incompatible with my new reality. I knew that I wouldn’t get far unless I was willing to dismantle myself and adopt the unknown as my guiding flag. I let myself fall, allowed destruction to consume me, to shape me. At that point, I no longer knew who I was, what I wanted, or what scared me. The only certainty was that I was foreign, without European citizenship, trying to build a path in a completely unfamiliar world.

The Unexpected Beauty of Being Foreign

Without direction, I embraced what felt like my only certainty and embedded it into my identity: being foreign, a rootless soul who had left their country unsure of when—or even if—they’d ever return. At first, this idea of being foreign, even in the depths of my own heart, felt like a hurricane tearing apart my sanity. But over time, it became my engine, the reason I got up every day to keep going.

Though I made friends, formed strong bonds, learned the language, and earned respect in my work, in my heart I knew I didn’t fully belong. But it wasn’t painful—it felt empowering, opening me to all the blessings the universe had in store.

Yes, I was foreign, but that wasn’t a bad thing. It wasn’t a mark of homelessness—it was the banner I carried with pride. The sign remained, but the meaning was completely transformed. I wasn’t trying to return to a home I could never go back to because I had irrevocably changed. Instead, I was finding comfort wherever I was.

Returning Home as an expat

Initially, I believed I would only be foreign outside my country. But I soon realized that uprootedness had imprinted on my skin and soul in ways that nothing could erase. When I arrived at Ezeiza airport after two years, I greeted my family and friends, yet it was not the same me stepping off the plane. The foreigner returning couldn’t shed her wandering identity—like a coat left on a hook.

Coming back to Argentina, I didn’t find an unfamiliar country—it was precisely the same: same streets, routines, same conversations. But I was different. I had seen things no one around me had, lived experiences I couldn’t fully translate into words. I had spent two years waking up not knowing what would happen next, with unpredictability as the only constant.

It took me time to accept that Argentina would never feel like home—not in the same way it once did. My deep love remained, but the roots were gone. I knew I loved my homeland, yet I knew I would leave again sooner than later.

My love had not wavered, but it wasn’t enough to give up being foreign. The idea of traveling with an identity that was perpetually “not me” had woven itself into my heart like ivy. I realized that the universe kept affirming that I had to plunge into the unknown, let go, embrace the permanent destruction of essence, and become a question mark standing on its own.

The Price—and Freedom—of Being Foreign

I won’t lie: being foreign, even in your own country, can sometimes hurt. The loneliness, the inability to find people who understand the questions that stir in your soul—it’s a weight I might carry forever. Yet, at the same time, defining myself as a wanderer allows me to be whoever I want without boundaries. Not belonging anywhere, I travel knowing I can build a temporary home wherever I choose.

As both curse and blessing, a path with no return, I surrendered my soul to impermanence, the unknown, curiosity, and unending chaos—not searching for resolution anymore. A question without a single answer, an ellipsis, a signifier that never seeks one finite meaning but is redefined infinitely.

If you are interested in nomadic life and emigration, you can check out the articles in this category! 🙂

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During my trip to Malaysia, I visited the famous Putra Mosque, also known as the Pink Mosque, located near Kuala Lumpur. Its architecture is stunning: pink marble, majestic domes, and a serene lakeside setting in Putrajaya. But beyond its aesthetic beauty, what truly marked me was the experience of covering my body inside the mosque. It was a symbolic act that went beyond the physical. Upon entering, all women were required to wear a robe that covered our entire bodies, from head to toe.

It wasn’t a hijab—the veil that covers the hair and neck—but an abaya or jubah, a loose, long robe provided to visitors as part of the entrance protocol. While I was used to covering my legs and shoulders when visiting temples in Asia, this was the first time I had to completely cover my body.

This time, I found myself wondering: why did my body have to disappear in order to be accepted in that space? From my Western, feminist perspective, I don’t intend to judge a religion I don’t practice, but rather to highlight the issue Islam has with the female body.

Are some bodies more acceptable than others? Why? And from my position as a traveler, where do we draw the line between respect and self-effacement? Are we supposed to simply follow imposed rules, or is there room for questioning?

Covering the Body in a Mosque: Respect or Silent Submission?

In Islam, women’s dress codes are linked to the concept of modesty (haya), respect, and devotion. These rules apply not only in religious spaces but also in the daily lives of many Muslim women, deeply rooted in cultural, religious, and social traditions.

My visit to Asia was my first real encounter with this culture, so distant from our Western imagination. While I had met Muslims before, I had never been surrounded by such orthodox practices, nor in a place where all women had to be fully covered.

Not just in Malaysia, but even at the airport in Qatar, I saw women wearing these long robes, which they didn’t remove—not even to eat. Even in the region’s humid heat, only their hands and eyes were visible.

Although seeing women completely covered made me uncomfortable, I understood I was immersed in a different culture. But when those rules were imposed on my body without my consent, tensions arose that were hard to ignore.

It became a choice between staying and respecting their customs or leaving, unable to experience the culture I had traveled to explore. Was donning that robe about respect—or about control? Cultural integration or silent submission? Was I wrong for not wanting to wear it, or were Muslim women wrong for accepting being segregated, veiled, and placed in a separate prayer space?

So I wondered: how much should a foreign body adapt, blend in, or even disappear in order to enter a sacred religious space? What does it really mean to “respect” a culture, and where does that respect end?

Judith Butler and the Regulated Body in Religion

These questions inevitably led me to think of Judith Butler, who in her works Gender Trouble and Bodies That Matter, argues that the body is never outside of discourse. It’s always shaped, produced, and marked by social and cultural norms. In her words, “The body is a regulatory fiction; its materiality is shaped by norms determining what can appear as a body and what cannot.”

Wearing that robe at the mosque, I felt like an external norm was regulating my entire physical being. I wasn’t just asked to cover myself—I was asked to disappear as a visible subject, as a woman. It was as if every part of me was inappropriate and had to be hidden—not just my legs or shoulders, but even my hair.

I couldn’t help but wonder: why would that God care whether I was male or female? Why must all traces of femininity be erased in order to have a spiritual experience? If this is truly about modesty and free will, then why was I forced to cover myself, from head to toe?

In that moment, I realized the idea of the female body in Islam is built on very different foundations than in the West. To be accepted, the female body must be concealed. To be a woman is to be covered and silenced—as if respect is tied to invisibility.

Travel, Adaptation, and the Right to Question

Travel inevitably requires stepping outside of your own framework—and sometimes, entering a space that demands symbolic sacrifices. In the name of respect, we’re sometimes asked to leave parts of our identity behind, to soften them, to quiet them. This is seen in Buddhist or Hindu temples, which require long pants or skirts and covered shoulders—regardless of gender.

But in mosques, it’s specifically the female body that must be completely concealed. Not just knees or shoulders, but every aspect that marks a body as feminine. As if it were something impure or shameful, we are expected to cover even our hair, like it’s something we should be embarrassed about.

As a traveler, I’ve always embraced my status as a foreigner—respecting others and taking a step back to observe. But that day, wearing that enormous robe, the discomfort was too intense for me to remain a passive observer.

Experiencing it firsthand made me question how women raised in this system feel. Do they truly feel comfortable? Is there space for questioning, or is this simply a norm they’ve followed unquestioningly since childhood?

This raises the question: does being an observer mean we have to be impartial? We often assume that not belonging to a culture invalidates our insights. But maybe our position—free from the doctrines instilled from early childhood—allows us to form valid and valuable perspectives.

Shouldn’t travel also be an opportunity to question these norms, instead of just obeying them? As travelers who have seen many cultures, we are in a unique position to build a view that is not impartial, but perhaps more complete and global.

Final Thoughts: What It Means to Cover the Body in a Mosque

Wearing that robe at the Pink Mosque was deeply uncomfortable. Not just because of the physical heat, but because of what it symbolized. It reminded me that some bodies must hide more than others to be deemed worthy of entering sacred spaces. The female body, seen as temptation and corruption, is not welcome unless completely erased.

In this sense, what’s called “respect” for a culture often reproduces unquestionable patriarchal structures. When following a rule that silences millions of bodies is considered “respectful,” we lose the ability to question it.

This isn’t about judging a religion or culture. It’s about reflecting on how we, as travelers, position ourselves. As women who don’t belong to the Muslim world, we must ask: what are we willing to accept, what makes us uncomfortable, and what can—or should—we question?

We must also find balance between passive acceptance of foreign customs and the imposition of our own values. Our perspective may not be “right,” but it’s shaped by lived experience—and that experience is rich, and valid.

We can observe without condemning. And we can question without imposing.

I believe it’s necessary to reflect on the very act of covering up. It’s not just physical—it’s a powerful gesture of silencing that needs to be told, analyzed, and even resisted. Because covering the body in any mosque isn’t just a rule: it’s a way of saying which bodies matter, and which ones must disappear in order to be accepted.

Have you ever had to cover yourself to enter a temple or mosque? I’d love to hear your experience.

If you’re interested in culture and religion in Asia, check out these posts:

• Buddhism in Thailand
• The Duality Between the Traveler and the Fugitive
• Bangkok: Between the Sacred and the Profane

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Angkor Wat, a temple complex located in northwestern Cambodia, stands as a testament to the greatness of the Khmer civilization. Beyond its architectural grandeur, the spiritual meaning of Angkor Wat reveals profound insights into the religious beliefs and cultural transformations of its time.

When I visited the complex in early December, my eyes welled up with emotion standing before that monumental work. Perhaps these temples were no longer at their peak, yet their grandeur far exceeded my expectations. I believe that thinking of them merely as “ruins,” in the sense of remnants of a civilization, limits the breadth of their meaning.

What I perceived were numerous meanings and the transformation these temples had undergone over nearly a thousand years. One thing that captured my attention was the coexistence of Buddha statues alongside Hindu figures. Although Angkor Wat was built to honor Hindu gods, over time Buddha images were incorporated.

I find it interesting to think that, although this temple was built based on Hindu religion, the spiritual meaning of Angkor Wat evolved over time. It became a space where two distinct religious currents — Hinduism and Buddhism — could coexist. In this sense, what initially was a place to worship gods became a place where different lines of thought lived side by side. One was no longer related to gods but to Buddha and the promise of enlightenment.

Finally, the abandonment of the gods did not mark the end of the Khmer civilization nor of Angkor Wat. Rather, it marked the beginning of a new period and a paradigm shift. In this way, its existence was redefined but not ended. Simply, following the principle of impermanence, destruction led to the rebirth of that culture and society.

The Spiritual Meaning of Angkor Wat: The Rise of a Civilization

Built between 1113 and 1150 AD, Angkor Wat was designed by King Suryavarman II, one of the most emblematic monarchs of the Khmer Empire, who reigned in Cambodia in the 12th century. The temple was originally dedicated to the Hindu god Vishnu, considered one of the three principal gods of Hinduism, along with Brahma and Shiva. During this period, the Khmer Empire reached its peak, extending over vast regions of Southeast Asia, and Angkor Wat became its religious, political, and cultural center.

The temple reflects the transition of the Khmer Empire from a predominantly Hindu culture to a Buddhist one, which would occur later in the region’s history. Although originally a Hindu temple, Angkor Wat is also considered by Buddhists as a symbol of their own spirituality due to later adaptations and the continued religious importance of the site. However, its connection with Hinduism, particularly the cult of Vishnu, remains one of the most notable aspects of its identity.

Angkor Wat: A Reminder of Impermanence and Its Spiritual Meaning

One of the most fascinating aspects of Angkor Wat is its architectural design, which is not only an engineering marvel but also carries deep symbolic meaning. The temple was conceived as an earthly representation of Mount Meru, a sacred mountain that, according to Hinduism and Buddhism, lies at the center of the universe. In Hindu traditions, Mount Meru is the home of the gods and the axis of the world, a place where heaven and earth meet.

Angkor Wat is oriented to resemble Mount Meru, with its five main towers representing the five peaks of this mythological mountain. In the temple’s design, the central structure of Angkor Wat, with its large towers, symbolizes the summit of Mount Meru, while the outer walls of the complex are aligned with the mountains that surround this sacred mountain in Hindu cosmology. This symbolism reflects the connection between the earthly kingdom and the divine, the human world and the spiritual.

Angkor Wat as a Reminder of Impermanence

This concept of impermanence is deeply reflected in the ruins of Angkor Wat. Despite being conceived as an eternal spiritual center, the passage of centuries has transformed the temple. Rain, heat, and the invasion of the jungle have eroded its structures. Statues of Vishnu and other gods, once revered with devotion, are now partially defaced and covered in moss. This deterioration, however, does not erase the glory the temple once represented; rather, it underscores the message that even the most sacred and powerful places are subject to the cycles of destruction and renewal of the universe.

Angkor Wat, in its magnificence and eventual ruin, reflects the paradox of life itself: everything created is destined to disappear or transform. The gods of Angkor Wat, in their sculptural and symbolic representation, were once objects of veneration and worship, but over time they have been forgotten, or at least have lost the prominent role they once had. The disappearance of Hindu religious practices in Cambodia and the gradual transformation of the temple into a Buddhist site are reminders that beliefs, cultures, and civilizations are destined to evolve, and what today seems eternal can be replaced or even forgotten tomorrow.

However, destruction should not only be understood as a loss. Impermanence is not just a reminder of the fragility of existence but also of the capacity for adaptation and resilience. The ruins of Angkor Wat, though eroded by time, remain a place of veneration and reflection. In Buddhism, which eventually prevailed in the region, acceptance of impermanence is seen not as something negative but as an opportunity to find peace in embracing constant change.

Conclusion: Reflections on Impermanence and the Legacy of Angkor Wat

Angkor Wat is not just an architectural marvel; its spiritual meaning transcends time and connects with the very essence of life, death, and rebirth. Its relationship with Mount Meru and its symbolism in Hinduism teach us about the fleeting nature of power, beliefs, and civilizations, while reminding us that everything built—whether a mountain, a temple, or a culture—is destined to transform.

In its decay, Angkor Wat reveals its deepest message: the acceptance of impermanence as a fundamental part of the human experience. Walking among its ruins, we can learn to embrace the transience of everything we love and find peace in the fleeting world around us

Have you visited the temples? let me know!

Interested in asian culture? you can check out more articles in this category!

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When I mention the culture of Split, I’m not just referring to the Diocletian Palace, but also to Stari Grad. To the Riva promenade, the port, and its turquoise beaches. I’m not talking about just a couple of buildings, but about the way the waves crash against the stones of the port. I also refer to the cafés where thousands of tourists sit on the Riva, contemplating the vastness of the sea. I’m talking about the feeling of being immersed in a temporal journey that appears in the corridors of the old city.

In this sense, every time I wander through the alleyways of the Stari Grad, observing Roman columns and Christian churches coexisting harmoniously, I ask myself countless questions: What traces have these civilizations left? How have cultural and religious changes in this space not only shaped the city of Split but also influenced our understanding of what a place’s legacy truly means?

From the Roman Empire to the arrival of Christianity, the palace has been a witness to society’s constant transformation. But what this process of change leaves behind is not only the physical impact on the structures, but also an intangible legacy. These are the echoes of beliefs and customs that marked the history of this place and that coexist in harmony. The multiplicity that has defined the cultural legacy of Split and its effects today.

The Overlap of Civilizations: Traces that Never Disappear

If we think of the heterogeneous character that defines Split, we can affirm that the cultural traces we encounter are the result of centuries of change. The Diocletian Palace began as a royal residence and a gem of imperial power. However, when Christianity arrived, the place was radically transformed. Roman temples were suffocated by churches, attempting to cover up the imperial past. Egyptian sphinxes were seen as symbols of paganism, many of which were destroyed, like the one without a head that guards the entrance to the old Temple of Jupiter.

However, these traces are not simply relics of a lost past, but an active reminder of multiplicity. Today, the imported Egyptian columns, Roman temples, and Christian churches are visible marks of a profound transformation. While Christians sought to silence the traces of pagan religion, the pink Egyptian columns mixed with the walls built in the name of God testify to a pre-existence that never completely disappeared.

What is fascinating about Split is that the legacy doesn’t represent a process of replacement. That is, there wasn’t a total destruction of the previous culture. Those headless sphinxes represent traces of past civilizations. Every structure, every wall, every stone seems to tell a story of how Roman culture gave way to Christianity, but never fully disappeared. Beliefs did not dissolve, but rather fused with new ideas, creating something distinct.

Tourism and the Cultural Trace: How Do We Live with the Legacy of the Past?

Today, thousands of people visit Split. In this sense, the context has changed radically. It is no longer that small city my grandmother used to talk about, but a mass-tourism destination. In this regard, as I watch visitors take photos and listen to stories about Emperor Diocletian, I wonder: how do we live with this legacy? Are we truly connected to the stories and cultures that left their mark? Or do we simply consume them as another attraction?

Are we aware of the millions of people who walked those same spaces? Can we feel the embraces, words, or tears that were shared there? As visitors, can we truly engage with the place we arrive at, beyond the postcard image? Can we see the cultural traces of the civilizations that passed through Split beyond the surface? Can we perceive how Romans and Christians left not only structures but also ways of thinking and beliefs that still influence the city today?

The mix between the inherited culture of Split and modern-day Croatia evokes various questions related to today’s society and tourism. The reflection is: how should we relate to a place’s cultural legacy? Should we simply preserve and admire the traces left by past generations, or should we also question the meaning of these legacies and how they affect us today?

What Do We Do with the Traces of the Past?

My years living in my grandparents’ country showed me that fragmentation deeply marks Croatia. Diversity runs through not only the city of Split but also the many empires that ruled these lands. The fate of the thousands of Croats who, like my grandparents, emigrated to America in search of a better future. Wars, conquests, immigration, and independence describe the history that Croats inherited. This country’s history is not linear but defined as a fragmented line. After independence, the new generations carried the weight of a complex past that, in a sense, divided society again. Some nostalgic for Yugoslavia, others ardent admirers of the European Union, all share the heritage of disintegration.

In this sense, this process of transformation is not something that happened centuries ago; it is still happening today. The traces of the past force us to confront our own beliefs and customs. They don’t disappear; they are part of us and our identity. And as we immerse ourselves in the history of Split or Croatia, we can see how those same traces blend with contemporary values, mass tourism, and globalization.

The Living Legacy: Split as a Symbol of Continuity and Change

What you can learn by walking through the ruins of Split is that cultural legacy is not something that is preserved immutably. It is something that is lived and experienced, that evolves, adapts, and transforms. Not only the passage of the Roman Empire and Christianity, but also wars and fragmentation. Independence, mass tourism, and the European Union. A legacy that stays alive and merges with the present, constantly reshaping itself.

However, sometimes, the traces of ancient cultures dissolve among the rush of the present. Just as with our family history, we forget where we came from and our origin. But, even if we ignore it, we are bound to this connection with our past and heritage. Not only politically as a society but also as individuals.

Fragmented and broken, our identity is not a straight line nor is it uniform. Often, we cannot put it into words or explain what we feel. Perhaps immersing ourselves one day in the streets of an old city will help us reconnect with our past, with diversity and fragmentation.

Perhaps a more conscious form of tourism that encourages reflection will help us perceive the past for what it is: a constant presence that shapes the present. It is part of us and our everyday lives. Traces are not static monuments but a story that continues to unfold. Just like my grandparents’ story, those traces we leave behind never completely disappear.

Have you visited Split? What do you think about the past and its relationship with the present? Let me know!

If you are interested in identity and fragmentation, you can visit my article about Croatia and Returning to a Land that’s not mine

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My name is Nadia. I’m a literature teacher and the writer behind missnomada.com, a blog where I reflect on life, slow travel, and inner transformation. Buddhism found me at a moment of personal crisis, and it offered me tools that reshaped not only how I move through the world — but how I meet myself along the way.

For me, Buddhism became an anchor. Not as a religion, but as a way of seeing. Its teachings helped me face the constant movement of nomadic life without fear — and even with gratitude.

That’s why I want to share with you some of the Buddhist books for conscious travelers that have truly helped me on this path.

The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying — A Mirror for the Soul

If I had to name just one book that changed my life, it would be The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying by Sogyal Rinpoche. This book came to me at a time when I needed to understand endings. Not only physical death, but the small deaths we experience when we leave a place, a version of ourselves, or someone we love. What I found was not darkness, but clarity.

A deep reminder that impermanence is not an enemy — it’s the nature of all things.

This book speaks of life as preparation, as presence, and as a process of letting go. It’s not only about dying; it’s about learning to live consciously and compassionately. And as travelers, isn’t that exactly what we do? Die to the known, again and again, and open ourselves to what’s new?

“Learning how to live is learning how to let go.” — Sogyal Rinpoche

This is one of those Buddhist books for conscious travelers that I believe everyone should read at least once, especially if you’re walking a path of both outer exploration and inner awakening.

👉 Get it on Amazon

More Buddhist Books for Conscious Travelers and Spiritual Nomads

Over the years, I’ve carried some books in my backpack that felt like teachers. Below are a few that I return to often — not because I’m trying to memorize their words, but because they remind me who I am when I forget.

These are perfect Buddhist books for conscious travelers, digital nomads, and seekers of a deeper journey.

1. Buddhism for Beginners – Thubten Chodron

A simple, clear, and beautiful introduction to the foundations of Buddhism. If you’re just beginning to explore meditation, karma, or the Four Noble Truths, this book is a very accessible starting point — without losing depth.

👉 Get it on Amazon

2. Just One Thing – Rick Hanson

Although not strictly Buddhist, this book draws on Buddhist psychology to offer practical exercises for cultivating calm, presence, and self-awareness. I love how compact it is — ideal for reading slowly, maybe one page a day, while traveling.

👉 Get it on Amazon

3. The Inner Philosopher – Lou Marinoff & Daisaku Ikeda

This book is a conversation between East and West — one that touches on personal growth, ethics, and how to find meaning in everyday life. It doesn’t preach. It invites.

👉 Get it on Amazon

Travel, Impermanence, and the Inner Path

Living as a nomad means constantly saying goodbye — to people, to landscapes, to routines, and sometimes even to parts of yourself. That’s why impermanence isn’t just a concept we read about — it’s something we live.

And this is exactly why these Buddhist books for conscious travelers matter: because they help us stay grounded while we move, and awake while we let go.

We often think of spiritual practice as something static, done in temples or quiet rooms. But what if the journey itself is the practice?

What if each border crossing is a letting go?
Each new place, an invitation to be fully here, now?

For me, traveling is no longer an escape.
It’s a return — to myself, to the present, and to what truly matters.

Final Thoughts

If you’re like me — a traveler with a spiritual hunger, someone who seeks meaning as much as beauty — I hope these books guide you as they’ve guided me.

These are more than just Buddhist books for conscious travelers. They are companions for the journey, mirrors for the soul, and invitations to walk the world with more kindness, clarity, and courage.

May your path be light.
And may you always carry something sacred — even if it fits in your backpack.

If you are interested in Buddhism, you can check out my article about Buddhism in Thailand

This article contains affiliate links. If you choose to buy through them, I may earn a small commission — at no extra cost to you. Thank you for supporting this project and helping me keep writing from the road.

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