Kimberlee K.

I was off to a rocky start.

I was standing at the American Airlines counter at the Chicago O’Hare airport, considering bursting into tears, as the kind woman across from me typed away on her computer.

I had missed my connecting flight to Madrid after being given bad directions by an airport employee, and was now stuck in the Midwest, under threat of a snowstorm, wondering if my vacation was ruined.

“I’m not leaving you here,” the woman said in an encouraging, motherly tone, “Don’t worry, I’m going to get you there, baby.”

And she did.

15 hours and three flights later, I landed in Sevilla, Spain.

I hadn’t told many people about this trip, mostly because it was hard to explain. It was a girl’s trip, yes, but I didn’t know any of the girls, and Ashlyn Sailsbury, the person hosting the trip with Trova, was someone I followed on Instagram.

It all felt cozy to me. Ashlyn had felt like my friend for a long time. But my friends and family occasionally nodded with worry—sure, you’re flying across the world to hang out with strangers from the internet, seems safe.

And it was, I promise.

“Hi guys,” I said as I boarded our evening shuttle from the airport.

Six other girls said hello from their seats, all of us tired from our long (and at times complicated) journeys. The ride was quiet, but not awkward. We all seemed to be embracing the fact that it was actually happening; that the faces we’d seen on Zoom calls leading up to the trip, and the names that popped up in our group chat were suddenly real, three-dimensional people, and we were suddenly all in Spain, together, for this trip. This trip we couldn’t explain.

I was less nervous than I thought I’d be. As an introvert, the part I’d feared most about the trip were the other people. Spain was surely going to be beautiful, but what if none of us got along? What if we couldn’t find anything in common? What if we spent seven days smiling politely at each other, silently counting down the moments until we never had to speak again?

There were 23 of us on the trip. 23 girls from 23 backgrounds, from all over the United States. Each of us with a different reason for being on the trip, with different expectations, different worries, different hopes—what was it going to be like when you threw us all together?

The first night, we got our answer.

Seated at a long table, we talked our way through a three-hour dinner, eyes wide at each dish placed in front of us. We were unfamiliar with the combinations—like caramelized apple, cream cheese and duck liver—which perhaps bonded us instantly. In between get to know you questions, we whispered, “what is this?” “do you like it?” “I’m so proud of you for trying that.”

We collected small facts about each other, things we could pull from for the rest of the trip. We went around the table with an icebreaker, each of us introducing ourselves and detailing our morning routines, some of us nodding in agreement, some of us gasping in shock over the ways we start our days.

We were strangers but not for long.

—

We spent three days in Sevilla, and three days in Granada, with a small stop in Cordoba in between. We walked through cathedrals and monuments ripe with history and mind-bending architecture. We took guided tours, tasted fresh olive oil, and stopped every few steps to take pictures.

Each night, we all posted our photos on Instagram and then relived our day from each person’s perspective, at times saying, “I didn’t even see this! Where was this?”

Being a large group, we walked in sections, little clusters that warped and shifted.

“Car!” someone at the front would shout on a particularly narrow street, and we’d move into a single file line.

Every conversation was open to join and you could hop from one to the next without missing a beat. Different people conjured different stories, and we all shared what we learned about each other, as if we were putting together a big puzzle.

“I haven’t talked to you yet,” a girl said to me one night as we sat down for drinks, “tell me everything!”

There was a set itinerary, but it wasn’t rigid. We all followed our own paths, seeing what we wanted to see. Sometimes we split into multiple groups, each one with its own destination.

“Where are you going?”

“What about you?”

We could bounce from group to group to group, hearing all the plans being made before choosing one, knowing we’d be welcome to join in on any. Then, when we all got together at the end of the day, we’d check in with those we hadn’t seen.

“What did you do today?”

We didn’t feel dependent on each other—didn’t make it each other’s responsibility to fit the trip inside the lines we’d individually drawn—but we could rely on each other, knowing someone was always available to help if we got lost, to walk with if you went out exploring, to talk to at the end of a long day, or to sit next to at dinner and split a few entrees.

It was endlessly wonderful to see familiar faces on the streets of Spain, to run into each other and make plans, or wave as we walked (or ran) by. It made the city feel even safer, homier, like we belonged there.

Now that I’m back, I will tell my family about all the things we saw, all the places we visited, all the thousands (and thousands) of steps we took. But when I think about this trip, I’ll think mostly about the people. I’ll hear echoes of all the conversations that took place on cobblestone streets and buses and rooftop bars. I will remember laughing about light switches and gasping over churros and wondering if this boat is seriously making another U-turn. I will remember crowded hotel rooms and shiny facemasks and loud dinners that could last hours but go by fast. I will remember Spain, but also all of us in it. How we all showed up strangers, but only for a minute.