Sharing Stories Has Enriched My Life Beyond Measure

I traveled the globe for years and received an invaluable education sharing stories with strangers

Iwas pondering about my life on the crest of a sand dune near the small, coastal village of Diabet, Morocco. The year was 1973 and I was testing the waters on my first international adventure.

Three girls who looked like teens had passed by the day before. Checking me out until shyly drifting away.

They had returned and now sat closer. I was alone, looked similar to them and they couldn’t resist the tug of their curiosity. Who was this woman staring into waves dancing under the sun?

I glanced over and gave them a warm smile. They whispered excitedly together until the boldest stood up and approached. Her friends trailing behind.

“Do you speak English?” she inquired.

“Yes, I do. Do you want to practice? We can talk if you wish.”

That was enough. They eagerly surrounded me, questions spilling out in strongly accented, basic English.

“Where are you from? What is your name? How old are you? Aren’t you afraid to be alone?”

I told them I had been traveling with my best friend until we arrived in Marrakesh. She felt afraid in Morocco and left for Spain to be with her husband.

This was a pivotal point in my 22 years of life. I decided to head out solo instead of returning to Europe. It seemed far too tame after the spice markets and casbahs in Morocco.

Lynn and I parted ways, much to her trepidation and concern for me. I turned south and planted my first steps forward into a nomadic cycle that would continue for the next two decades.

I was undergoing a metamorphosis on that warm, golden dune. A caterpillar, morphing into a butterfly.

My path felt confirmed by the appearance of these engaging young women. We spent an hour together, then agreed to meet on the dune the next day.

After I admired their intricate braids, they ran their fingers through my thick, long locks and consulted with each other in Arabic. The next afternoon they showed up with combs and parted my hair into three sections.

Their fingers nimbly flying, they wove rows of tiny braids while showering me with small happenings in their lives. The school they attended, the languages they spoke, their family members and the customs in Essaouira, the nearby town where they lived.

Their arranged marriages were a big topic. They couldn’t get enough of hearing I was free to marry anyone I chose. They were taken aback I didn’t need my father’s permission to travel.

I was a free agent, without the constrictions they vehemently protested in their own lives.

During our fourth get together I realized pages in the National Geographic magazine were flickering alive before my eyes. I was the adventurer I had always wanted to be!

I made a bold decision when this epiphany hit. I would be an explorer of human stories. My heart beat faster. I felt my intuition patting my back. You go girl! Make up your own rules in life.

When I decided to move onward a week later, we hugged each other like we had been friends for years. And indeed, our lives had merged meaningfully through our tales.

I returned to Spain with a completely different agenda than I had previously considered. Fellow travelers had been recounting their favorite journeys and I felt drawn eastward.

I threw out any notion of an itinerary. Everywhere I went locals or travelers shared their stories about hidden gems. Their guidance often led me away from main routes and into wonderlands where few had trodden and I was very willing to go.

Once I gained road chops, I saw patterns playing out through the communion of stories. I didn’t have the campfires of ancient times. Where elders gathered to share their wisdom under the light of the full moon.

Instead, I entered an ongoing stream of folklore. Simply showing up and linking to another life in one brief passage of time. This travel dynamic played out every day and to my advantage. Story sharing was my rapid path to understanding and adapting to multiple changes.

An ancient Greek mariner and I were on the same boat to Ithaca Island. We had been eyeing each other during the voyage. Coming into port, I was standing at the railing and he approached.

“Hello young lady. Do you speak English?”

“Yes and so do you!” I answered with surprise.

He pointed to a new looking home with a fresh coat of white paint and lovely turquoise trim. It almost glowed in the late afternoon sun. It stood proudly as we glided smoothly into the harbor.

“That’s where my daughter and her family live. They speak English too. They lived in Australia for ten years. My wife and I stayed with them for a while, but we missed our island so we came home.”

“They’ve returned because they think we’re old and need help. Young people can be such idiots.”

He snorted with laughter at this point. It was infectious and made me grin.

“They have a room for rent. You would like staying with them.”

“Let me think about that. I have a ritual when I land in a new place. I like to sit somewhere and observe where I’ve landed before making decisions. But I appreciate your advice. Thank you!”

We talked together until the boat docked. I was captivated by his sparkly blue eyes, wry smile and deeply creased, sun-worn face. We separated, I found a restaurant and ordered a coffee that arrived thick as mud.

Sipping on the strong brew, I spied the mariner striding along the port sidewalk toward his daughter’s house. I ditched my mind and reached for inner knowing instead. Should I follow him?

Yes, of course you should! Why are you even asking?

I shouldered the light pack I always traveled with and headed off. The ancient mariner was sitting in a comfortable chair on the sparkly house’s veranda. He greeted me with a nod of approval.

His daughter Georgia, her husband Dennis and their 12-year-old daughter came as soon as he called them. I knew right away I had struck gold.

This big hearted family took friendliness to new levels. They gave me a hug and ushered me to an immaculately clean, tastefully decorated room that would be mine for the next three weeks. The rent was so minimal I argued to pay more and was refused.

Georgia informed me she was a cook and had a small restaurant for locals next to her impressive, modern kitchen. She had moussaka in the oven. Was I hungry? A no-brainer, stated out of politeness since I was obviously drooling.

A rather extraordinary series of events played out in pre-dawn dark around two to three times a week. Mini earthquakes. Strong enough tremors to jiggle my bed from the wall to the center of the room. Good thing I had been pre-warned.

Dennis knocked on my door the first time, assuring me he and his daughter would move the bed back in the morning and I should go back to sleep. I did. Our morning began by moving furniture back in place.

Georgia produced one feast after another and enjoyed refilling my plate. She thought I needed plumping up. The cuisine was delicious and I was more than happy to comply.

I joined in after-dinner discussions with their extended family on the wide and comfortable porch. We pulled out books and perused myths together.

I was included in family meals and Georgia steadily refused payment. I made up for her generosity when I left. A tidy little stash of dollars under my pillow and specialty chocolates I knew the family favored.

One day I felt the pull to shift and let the family know I would be heading out the next day. Ancient Mariner looked at me with woeful eyes, then grinned.

“There’s a handsome young fisherman in the harbor who says he’s in love with you. The whole town knows about it. You probably don’t know who he is because he doesn’t speak a word of English. He’ll weep when he sees you on the boat.”

“But I do know about him and he’s learned two English words. Every time I walk past his boat he looks up at me and says, “Marry me.”

He rolled his eyes and guffawed. “You should hear him in the bar at night. He wrote a poem about you and after who knows how many shots of ouzo, he shared it with his drunken sailors.”

Yep, time to head out.

There are countless stories I’ve heard and still remember vividly, from voices of all ages in nearly every corner of the world. They’re as varied as the humans carrying them. And every single one has been intriguing on one level or another.

Our stories are similar to a sleight of hand performed by an adept magician. A snippet of someone’s life levitating in the air, light as a feather. Released, then gone with the wind.

What we choose to tell is a statement in itself. These two memories rose to the surface without bidding, although others more gripping are waiting.

Perhaps it’s because they’re the kind of simple story that sticks. The ones about humans connecting.

I’m all ears for whoever shows up and wants to share their story. Short or long, I give my attention. We are seen when listened to and it makes us feel good. Plus, I get another opportunity to see the world through a slightly different shift in my lens.

This is how I became a global citizen. Sharing stories and listening to others tell theirs across this wild world of ours.

Enough about me. Spill the beans, open the gates and let me in on one of yours.