At 21, it’s hard to believe that https://www.theodysseyonline.com/girl-without-guidebook-part-1 everything happens for a reason. It’s hard to believe that every heartbreak, every insult, and every bump in the road has some greater meaning that we have yet to understand because it all hurts so badly and sucks so much that there’s no way any good can come from the bad. This past weekend, however, I think I finally understood.

This past weekend, I flew to Munich to celebrate Oktoberfest. Oktoberfest was, far and away, the most insane experience of my entire life. There was a lot of beer, a lot of lederhosen, and a whole lot of fun, but I’ll save all that for another article. Saturday passed, and on Sunday, I decided to visit the Dachau Concentration Camp Memorial Site. It was an incredibly sobering experience. I stood at the Catholic memorial and cried because when you sit there and consider the events that took place where you are standing, you can’t help but be overcome with emotion that so much horror and tragedy took place in the very world where you live.

Dachau Concentration Camp Memorial Site

It took so much out of me to see what I did, which I realize pales in comparison to what actually occurred, but I was ready to go home to London. I was emotionally and physically drained. I was desperate to get back to the place where they spoke the language I knew and my bed awaited me and my friends were eager to hear my tales from the weekend. That evening, I arrived at Munich International Airport, passport in hand and hopes high to be back in the city I love. I passed through immigrations, not without being intimidated and terrified by the stern customs officer who asked me practically everything from my birth date to my blood type, and made my way to my gate, knowing that in ninety minutes I’d be sky high en route back to foggy Londontown.

And then, things started to turn.

My phone’s battery was rapidly dying and I didn’t have the right charger with me. While I knew that I could make it back which some percentage to spare, my gut told me to just bite the bullet and buy a horrifically overpriced travel charger from the newsstand down the terminal. As soon as I bought it, I got a text saying my flight had been delayed by an hour. My heart sank. First off, I was stuck in Munich for another hour with absolutely nothing to do, and second, I had no idea how I was going to get back from the airport because the trains were going to stop running. I worried briefly before I was able to reassure myself that yes, there would be a way to get back—but my relief was short lived.

The notification scrolled down from the top of my phone screen and I knew—oh, I knew—what it meant: “Important information regarding your flight to London Luton.” Unless the text was that the Pope himself was going to be navigating our jet back to England, it meant one thing and one thing only: my flight was cancelled. As my fears were confirmed, my subsided fears took a turn into full-fledged panic. I was in a foreign country and had never had a flight cancelled before. I followed the equally enraged and panicked individuals at my gate to the customer service desk.

On the way there, I recognized a guy who had been on my flight to Munich. He’d been in the row across from me, and the guys sitting in front of him got rather drunk during the flight, which created quite the spectacle and led me to notice this stranger in the first place. Being the aggressively friendly individual that I am, I went up, introduced myself, and asked if he had any idea what he was going to do to get back to London. As it turned out, he was an American student studying in London too, and was also from the Bay Area. This felt promising and we—well, in retrospect, it was largely my decision—decided to join forces and figure out how to get home.

As we approached the customer service desk, we could see that the line was easily one hundred people deep already. Flight after flight to London filled up. The next available flight on this particular airline? Wednesday. Wednesday afternoon. Being a student with responsibilities, this wasn’t exactly an option for me. Flights earlier on different airlines were going to cost upwards of 700 Euros. Again, as a student, on a tight budget, this wasn’t going to work. I didn’t know how, but by the grace of God, I was getting back to London.

I racked my brain for alternatives, silently praying to God that I would make it home in time for Shakespeare and Elizabeth Literature and maybe a nap. Then it hit me like a train: the train. There were trains across Europe at all hours of the day. I turned to my new friend and told him that I was making it back to London if it was the last thing I did and he didn’t have to come, but I would love the company. By some miracle, he trusted me and followed suit (or maybe, it was the panicked look in my eye that told him this girl should not be on her own).

We made it back to central Munich, emptied the lint from our pockets and paid for last minute train tickets, recharged our phones and our already weary souls, and got pizza and wine. We joked that maybe one or the other was a serial killer, but at this point, I know that I was grateful to have some company. We boarded the train and propped up our tired feet and celebrated the fact that we were the closest to London we had been all night. I dozed in and out of sleep all night, intermittently snoozing between the yelling from drunken Germans finding their way from the final night of Oktoberfest. We transferred trains in Cologne, then again to Brussels, and then quickly detoured in Lille before finally touching our feet on British soil sixteen hours after we had set out towards home.

When I got the notification that was my flight was cancelled, I was so frustrated and angry and panicked that I couldn’t see that maybe there was a bigger reason for the universe doing this. A thousand and one things could have gone wrong with that flight. I might not have ever, ever made it back home. And while I hate to think like that, it’s true. Everyday, things happen by chance that define our days and perhaps, our lives. Moment after moment of this journey, from telling myself to buy that horribly expensive phone charger to, by chance, meeting someone in the exact same boat as I was in who would later become an ally in this whole mess, was the universe gearing me up for something greater.

I went into this whole situation pretty much planning to make a life for myself in Munich because I didn’t think I was ever getting home. I don’t know if it’s because I found a traveling buddy or that I’m getting older or some higher power willed unto me emotional maturity (it’s about time), but with the exception of ten minutes of unleashing my stress upon my mom, I didn’t cry or freak out or lose my cool. I had complete faith in the universe that I would get back to London. Every second I spent weaving my way across Europe back to England was a chance for character building. It was chance to show to myself that I was capable of handling whatever life throws my way. It was the first moment in this experience abroad that I realized what exactly going abroad is all about: it’s about growing up.

And so, the girl without a guidebook strikes again. At least this time she found her way home.