I retired at 53 and have been slow traveling around the world with my husband for almost 2 years.
Last month, while we’d been renting a villa in Bali, everything next door would usually grow quiet by sunset. That’s when we got a knock on the door.
“There will be a party tomorrow night,” Kadek told us with his usual easy smile. “It might go a little late.”
Kadek, our Balinese neighbor, wanted to make sure we knew his family’s celebration might continue past 10 p.m. “Don’t worry about us,” my husband, Nigel, said.
In the days leading up to it, we’d watched preparations unfold over the wall: women carrying offerings, relatives arriving, and a miniature boat being built for the ceremony. Kadek couldn’t stop smiling whenever he talked about his son’s coming-of-age milestone. His excitement was contagious.
The following afternoon, he returned carrying a plate of roast pork.
“We’re celebrating,” he said. “Please come.”
I thanked him, accepted the food, and thought we’d fulfilled our neighborly obligations. Nigel had other ideas.
“We should at least stop by,” he said. “Just to show our faces.”
Finding community
We’d only lived next door for a few weeks, and walking into someone else’s family ceremony felt like showing up uninvited for Thanksgiving. I didn’t want anyone to feel obliged to entertain two retired foreigners who happened to be living next door.
Still, I followed Nigel through the gate.
Only then did I realize we’d been living next door to an ornate Balinese temple. We were staying in the beachside town of Sanur, about 20 minutes southeast of the airport.
The smell of roast pork lingered in the courtyard as children darted between chatting relatives. Koko, the neighborhood rescue dog, stationed himself hopefully near the food.
Somewhere behind us came enthusiastic singing. It wasn’t a band; it was karaoke. In hindsight, the occasional missed note should have given it away.
With glasses of fresh homemade tuak, a lightly fermented palm wine we’d been served at the party, in hand, we wandered over. When the men noticed us, they switched from Indonesian songs to familiar sing-alongs like “Sweet Caroline” and “Wonderwall.” We insisted they keep singing in Indonesian. They politely ignored us.
Before long, I was sharing a microphone with one of Kadek’s brothers as we sang The Cranberries’ “Zombie.” Nigel, being British, inevitably chose “Let It Be.”
Walking back to the villa later that evening, Nigel smiled.
“I can’t believe you finally did karaoke.”
“It wasn’t karaoke,” I said. “It was community.”
I’d gone next door expecting to be a guest. Somewhere between Oasis and roast pork, I forgot I was one.
A new view of slow travel
Until then, I’d assumed slow travel simply meant staying somewhere long enough for connection to happen naturally. I’d been waiting until I felt comfortable instead of finding ways to participate.
That night finally helped me make sense of the six months we’d spent traveling through Australia, New Zealand, and Bali. We’d visited breathtaking destinations, but approached all of them the same way.
When Nigel and I retired early, we embraced slow travel: renting apartments, staying for weeks instead of days, and living more like residents than tourists. I assumed time would naturally create connection.
Instead, we often remained spectators.
In Sydney, we spent a day weaving through the crowds around Circular Quay, taking the ferry across the harbor, and sharing a bottle of wine as we listened to music coming from the amphitheater.
It was exactly the kind of day I’d planned before we retired. Beautiful, efficient, and memorable. We caught the ferry back to Double Bay with frame-worthy photos — but not a single meaningful interaction beyond ordering coffee and paying for lunch.
Christchurch, down in New Zealand, offered the first hint that something different was possible. Our host suggested we volunteer for an afternoon, helping to remove protective sleeves from native saplings so they could continue growing.
We barely exchanged more than a few words with the strangers, yet I left feeling more connected to that city than after days of sightseeing.
We became regulars at the neighborhood café until our oat milk flat whites were already being made by the time we walked through the door. We walked the trails through Cashmere often enough to recognize the dogs.
One morning, a man walking his dog called out, “Hi, neighbor.”
I looked at Nigel.
“Did he mean us?”
I was absurdly pleased that he did.
Time to take charge
Looking back, I realized I’d been asking places to do something only I could do. I thought staying longer would eventually create that feeling. What actually made the difference was joining in.
After that evening in Bali, everything became easier. Our housekeeper beamed every morning when I greeted her with another local phrase. The neighborhood children waved us down to chat. Even the rescue dog that used to bark every time I walked past eventually trotted beside me.
The ceremony hadn’t changed Bali; it changed how I moved through it.
As Nigel and I plan a five-month trip to South America later this year, our spreadsheet still includes rent, walkability, air conditioning, and laundry. But we’re also looking for local cafés where we might become regulars, volunteer opportunities, communities where it’s easy to participate, and neighborhoods where life spills out into the open rather than hiding behind resort walls.
The morning after my karaoke debut, we sat by the pool drinking tea as conversation drifted over the temple wall. The scooters still buzzed down the alley, the children were still riding their bikes, and nothing about Bali itself was different.
Except this time, the language sounded familiar. I still couldn’t understand most of the words, but I recognized the voices. For the first time since we’d arrived, they sounded like home.
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