It is just before 6 a.m. I am sitting at the back of a local bus, on my way to a small village in the Antioquia region. Medellín slowly disappears behind the fogged-up window.
The day is breaking. The few passengers around me are still asleep. Colombian music plays softly at the front of the bus. The road becomes narrower, more rural.
I have been traveling for a week now. The first days were shared. Today, I leave alone.
For the first time, I truly feel the departure.
The city fades away. Silence settles in. The adventure begins now.
I arrive in Caicedo late in the morning. Steven is waiting for me. We walk toward a farm perched on a hill. I follow slightly behind him and the farmer. Rows of coffee plants stretch as far as the eye can see.
A little later, Steven takes out his equipment. He weighs the beans harvested here. He adjusts the grind. He heats the water to the right temperature. Each gesture is precise.
We drink this coffee facing the hills. It was grown, harvested, and dried here.
I don’t say much. I observe. I smile. I taste.
After a few days spent between farms, I return to Medellín before setting off alone again.
It wasn’t the first time. Back in 2015, I had already crossed the United States alone. I kept from that journey a rare feeling, a simple kind of freedom, without witness.
Leaving again, far and for a long time, was not an escape. It was a way of returning to that space.
When you travel alone, you cannot hide behind someone else’s rhythm. You decide. You doubt. You move forward. You face yourself, outside your comfort zone, more attentive to what truly matters.
Going so far reminds me of something essential: I like being alone. I like choosing my own rhythm. Doing what feels right, when it feels right.
This journey was not only about distance.
It was about coming back to myself.
Philippe