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The past few days have been an adventure that I never thought I would trek through alone. Stranded in Bali as volcanoes erupt around me, I am unequivocally helpless. Which is not a feeling I do well, apparently. I like to picture myself as a free-spirited and appropriately independent (you know, where I have friends but also like hanging out with just myself at times because I’m cool and make good puns) twenty-something. But as I cry about missing my mother in the middle of an Indonesian airport, I bluntly realize that I am neither free-spirited nor independent. I try and pull myself together with a little self-pep talk. “Having your mother would be ideal,” I say to myself. “But at this point I think you would be grateful for somebody who speaks English.” Clearly, my standards for human contact have been drastically lowered after four days alone in an airport. If I heard somebody speaking English, I would probably befriend him or her faster than Taylor Swift during squad mating season (I mean this as the highest compliment… I love Taylor. Actually, I wish Taylor was here to help me. I bet she could come rescue me in her private jet). I’ve been backpacking around Southeast Asia for a month now, and I have been around people constantly. All I had to do was get myself to the airport and home to Toronto alone. I wonder how many times I have said the word “alone” so far? Word count tells me four. That’s a lot. I’ve realized that I am no good at being alone. Frankly, I suck at it. Tough blow for a girl who fancies never letting a lack of travel companions stop her from reaching a new and enticing destination. I would love to lie to you and say that I am just a crisis-situation alone-a-phobe, but sadly that does not seem to be true. I play a game to distract myself from the fact that I cannot communicate well enough to ask when my flight will be taken off standby – I scan the Departures lounge of Ngurah Rai International Airport: • Couples in Indonesia wear matching outfits! What establishment specializes in his and hers outfits? Need to find. • Is that guy really taking up four seats in this crowded airport for his surfboard? Oh wait, he’s really cute, I’ll allow it… • The airport truly is a lawless land. That lady in the Hawaiian shirt is drinking wine and eating cheese Pringles at 8am. Should I do the same? My aimless observations are interrupted by my tour guide from the previous week, Ali, racing towards me. He gives me a hug despite the fact that I am on the fourth day of wearing the same t-shirt. What a kind soul. I must smell awful. The words come spilling out. “My flight has been cancelled and one will tell me anything. I had no idea who else I could call,” I babble. “Oh, and I cried on the Indonesian news.” (True story). Ali wastes no time marching to the front of the standby line and only materializes though a thick wall of tourists an hour later. “I got your name on the list, and you should be out of here within a few days,” he says evenly. “And in the meantime, I found a hotel that isn’t completely booked up, so you don’t have to keep sleeping here.” I cry. At least this time it’s not on the news. Ali waits with me, chatting about our memories climbing Mount Batur, and despite the fact that I cannot shake the topic of volcanoes altogether, I feel relaxed. I am imperatively grateful for the human kindness that exists in every corner of the world – the kindness it takes to use your one day off to rush to the airport to help someone you barely know. Travel has the rare ability to reveal this type of kindness. It’s why I continue to tackle the unknown, forge myself into these small corners of the universe, searching for the rare gems that remind you that you are never alone – even when it feels like a volcano is erupting all around you.