Seeing Everything isn't...Everything

A snail embracing the concept of slow travel, in Rosenheim, Bavaria, Germany

There was a time when I absolutely wanted to see everything.

Or at least as much of everything as I could possibly cram into the time I had.

When I took my first international trip to The Netherlands in 2019, I traveled the way a lot of us do when we're finally getting to see places we've spent years dreaming about. There was so much to see and never enough time to see it. So I made itineraries. I filled days. I tried to squeeze every possible experience out of every hour.

And honestly? There is nothing wrong with traveling that way.

Sometimes you feel like you have a lot of catching up to do.

I certainly did.

For most of my life, Europe was somewhere over there. Somewhere I wanted to go, somewhere I imagined going, somewhere I assumed I'd visit someday. So when “someday” finally started happening, I wanted all of it.

View of the sunset over Zürich's picturesque architecture and river, seen through a window.

In 2025, I spent a month in Europe. The first two weeks were in Switzerland—beginning in Zürich, exploring the surrounding area, then spending the second week in the Alps.

And then I made my way into Germany.

I bounced around there, too.

Lörrach. Frankfurt. Berlin. Back to Lörrach. Places in between. Trains and stations and hotel rooms and new streets outside new windows.

I was still moving.

But somewhere in Germany, something changed.

I don't know that I could point to the exact moment it happened. It wasn't one spectacular landmark or some cinematic revelation where the music swelled and suddenly I understood the meaning of life.

It was quieter than that.

Germany felt visceral to me.

I didn't just enjoy being there. I felt something there.

And instead of leaving satisfied that I had finally “seen Germany,” I left wanting something completely different.

Street view of Lörrach, Germany, with a charming blend of residential rooftops and distant rolling hills under a pastel sky.

I wanted to go back.

Not because I'd missed some attraction.

Because I hadn't finished being there.

So when I started planning my return to Germany, I knew I wanted to see Bavaria and the Alps. That part was easy.

What surprised me was what I didn't want.

I didn't want to choose the most magnificent place.

I didn't want to build a trip around the places everyone told me I had to see.

I didn't want to wake up every morning, pack my things, check out, catch another train, drag my suitcase across another set of cobblestones, and begin again.

I wanted a place.

A small place.

Somewhere I could stay long enough for it to stop feeling like a destination.

So I started looking at towns.

Not the best Bavarian towns. Not the ten most beautiful places in Germany. I was looking

Exploring the scenic path back to Rosenheim from the next bus stop, surrounded by lush greenery and a clear blue sky.

for somewhere that could simply hold my life for a little while.

And eventually I found Rosenheim.

I didn't know then what Rosenheim would become for me.

I just knew it wasn't Munich.

It wasn't trying particularly hard to impress me.

People were going to work. Buying groceries. Walking their dogs. Riding bicycles. Waiting for buses. Drinking coffee. Getting annoyed when Deutsche Bahn did Deutsche Bahn things.

Life was happening.

And for the first time in my travels, I started allowing myself to participate in that life instead of constantly leaving it in search of the next thing worth seeing.

I learned where to buy groceries.

I had favorite walks.

I wandered along the Mangfall and the Inn.

I sat in cafés without worrying about whether I was “wasting” valuable vacation time.

I rode buses.

I missed bus stops.

I walked back.

I watched ordinary mornings happen.

And somewhere along the way, I realized something:

A tranquil and lush scene along the Mangfall River in Rosenheim, Germany with vibrant greenery and reflective waters creating a serene natural tapestry.

I don't want to see everything anymore.

That doesn't mean I've stopped being curious.

Good grief, no.

Give me a train and I'll still happily disappear somewhere for the day just because I've never been there before.

But I'm becoming less interested in collecting places and more interested in experiencing them.

There is a difference.

When you're trying to see everything, a place can become a series of things to accomplish.

You saw the cathedral.

You photographed the square.

You visited the museum.

You ate the thing you're supposed to eat.

You got the picture.

Next.

But when you stay somewhere for a while, something else begins to happen.

You start noticing things that would never make an itinerary.

The sound outside your window in the morning.

Which bakery seems busiest.

The route people take home from work.

The elderly man who rides his bicycle past you.

The particular sound a German pedestrian crossing makes.

The river changing after rain.

Which bus gets you home.

A missed bus stop led to the discovery of this stunning landscape in Rosenheim, St. Peter, Westerdorf, Germany, with lush green fields against a backdrop of majestic mountains. No regrets.

The moment you realize you no longer need Google Maps to get there.

None of those things are attractions.

And somehow, those are increasingly the things I remember.

Maybe this is just what happens after you've spent enough years trying to get somewhere.

Eventually you want to be somewhere.

I still want to see new places. There are countries I've never visited, trains I haven't taken, towns whose names I don't know yet.

But I don't need to see everything.

In fact, I think I'm beginning to understand that trying to see everything can sometimes keep us from seeing very much at all.

So now I leave room.

For missed buses.

For long walks.

For sitting beside rivers.

For going back to the same bakery.

For getting on a train because I'm curious what's at the other end.

For changing my mind.

For doing absolutely nothing particularly noteworthy.

And sometimes for standing somewhere unfamiliar and thinking:

I have no idea where I am, but apparently we're doing this now.

That's the kind of travel I'm interested in these days.

Not seeing everything.

Being there long enough to notice something.

That's joywanderings.

Embracing the art of slow travel, taking a moment to relax by the tranquil Inn Spitz in Rosenheim, Germany, where the Mangfall and Inn Rivers meet.

Not a race through Europe.

Not a checklist.

Just wandering slowly enough to notice where I am.

And seeing what happens when I stay awhile.