Guitar strings and Summer winds.

To travel is to take a journey into yourself.

It was John Steinbeck who wrote, "In early June the world of leaf and blade and flowers explodes, and every sunset is different."

Others call June the gateway to summer, or a love song written by nature - I call it crazy. I can’t believe we’re looking at June days already.

Ella Fitzgerald famously sang, “Summertime, and the living is easy,” but I think that’s true only if you were born here - or if you’re not averse to extreme heat.

I experienced my first American road trip last weekend, and it took me all the way to Fredericksburg. Memorial Day - the day when Americans honor the men and women who sacrificed their lives for this country - is the unofficial start of summer, or so I’m told.

April brought plenty of rain. May was quieter, not so many thunderstorms as during my first month here. I hear June might cook up many more storms, though. After all, hurricane season begins today. I overheard that states are already anxious, scrambling after the recent chainsaw massacre of agencies that once served the people for decades. The new administration refused aid to victims of storm Helena, simply because it struck a "blue" state - one that didn’t vote for him. I know, it’s crazy.

The academic year has ended, and every child and teenager now has at least ten weeks of summer holiday. No wonder so many American songs wax lyrical about the “summer of ‘69” or whatever year made them feel immortal.

My summer began with a reminder of why I’ve never enjoyed living in a city. To be out and about in a small town - despite the flood of tourists, the Memorial weekend crowds, and even a crayfish festival (in the heart of Texas, no less) on the Marktplatz - was balm for my hungry soul.

I learned something delightful: those extra-wide side streets? They were designed long ago for wagons to turn around in.

It was more than just a road trip. It was a journey back through memories. Sitting on a porch swing, looking down the row of matchbox houses with the church tower rising at the end, listening to the bell toll - I was transported. It reminded me of Bredasdorp in the Western Cape, where I grew up; of Modena, Italy, where I spent two glorious weeks; of my years in Ireland; and of my time in George, South Africa. There’s just something about the sound of a bell.

Over the weekend, something shifted inside me. For the first time since I arrived in the U.S. I felt a sense of belonging. It wasn’t the heat. It wasn’t the sun. It was the magic of music - musicians with guitars, voices that carried stories no words could ever match, drawing something deep from within my soul.

This is one thing I absolutely love about this place. Wherever you go, there’s live music - often played by men in cowboy hats and boots, whose songs tell stories that touch something universal.

I’ve watched many documentaries about this country’s history, trying to understand its soul, its people, its contradictions. Again and again, I see how every dot connects to another, just like in the history of any country. A name here, a name there - then, in the next documentary or story, another connection clicks into place.

In a small town, you know everyone, and everyone knows you. You share yesterdays, woven through generations. I’ve lived that.

But when you’re a stranger in a small town, you can quietly move through its rhythms, unnoticed. Unlike the small city I now call home, where curiosity spills over into constant, almost intrusive, questions: Where are you from? Why so many tattoos? What’s it like back home? And before you can answer the first question, the next one barrels through. It took me a while to realize that for many, it’s not about listening. It’s about filling the air with noise.

So, I found myself savoring a place where nobody sees me, where no one needs to know my story. A place where I can just be.

And that, I think, is why we need to travel. To explore. To discover. To experience. Because when we return, we are never quite the same. The journey changes us - it should change us. It leaves marks on our memory, our consciousness, our hearts, and our bodies.

To travel is to take a journey into yourself.