Getting Lost and Found in Strasbourg
Magical Strasbourg in the fog.
It was early November, the kind of cold where fog lingers low over the water like glass someone has just breathed on. I was a few days into a vegan river cruise up the Rhine, from Basel to Amsterdam. It was all quiet river, castle silhouettes, the kind of landscapes that feel borrowed from a dream.
I was traveling alone for the first time in years while Mike was home focusing on medical treatment. After nearly a year of battling a debilitating illness, his new treatment plan gave us hope he’d be well enough for the next trip. Together, we’d decided I should still go on this one. So on a sunny autumn afternoon in Basel, Switzerland, I boarded the MS Grace carrying equal parts hope and exhaustion.
On the first evening, after I’d unpacked and relished the quiet of my stateroom, I went to a gathering for solo travelers. I envisioned finding another woman to pal around with, someone to share meals and book recommendations with. Instead, it was me and three men. Kind men, but not quite what I was expecting. Another woman arrived late, but we didn’t click either.
By breakfast the next morning, two of the men had found me sitting alone and joined me. They were kind and eager to connect, but I could feel their energy fasten onto me, like I’d become the safe place to land. I was polite, of course, but I realized that if I didn’t gently shift course, my whole trip might turn into another form of caretaking instead of the rest I desperately needed.
During those first twenty-four hours, I kept passing the same woman in different places. Petite like me, warm smile, the kind of presence that feels like a door you hope might open. We crossed paths again that afternoon, and before she could get too far, I took a breath and introduced myself.
“Would you mind if I sit with you for dinner?” I asked.
She smiled and, without hesitation, said, “Of course.” Then it seemed to occur to her that I was traveling alone.
“You come find us,” she said when I told her that I was on my own. “We are always here for you, no matter what. No pressure.”
That woman was Lorna.
Her daughter Shelley joined soon after.
And just like that, I felt less alone on the river.
Originally, when I was planning the trip, I assumed I’d spend a quiet morning in Strasbourg, our second stop on the trip. Just me, a city park, and a little space to exhale after such a heavy year. But when Lorna and Shelley asked if I wanted to join them, I felt so at ease with them, so grateful for their presence, that saying yes felt like the most natural thing in the world. I wanted to go with them. I wanted to see what we might find together. I had no agenda beyond that.
Shelley was our unofficial navigator. She had mapped out the path in advance, so Lorna and I happily followed her toward the tram. Before she could locate the right platform, though, an older French woman took one look at us and instantly decided we needed her. She spoke no English. We spoke no French. It didn’t matter.
Through gestures, stern nods, and a kind of benevolent insistence, she ushered us onto the correct tram and then rode it with us. She chattered brightly the whole way, asking where we were from, tapping the tram map to show where we were headed. We didn’t understand, but we tried to show our appreciation through Google Translate. When we reached our stop, she didn’t simply wave goodbye. She walked partway with us, down a street she clearly hadn’t planned to travel that morning. A stranger who refused to let us walk alone.
Our first stop was The Great Synagogue of Peace, a pale, elegant building clad on the front with a latticed wall made up of stars of David. We tried to go inside but were told apologetically by a man with a cane and kind eyes that visitors aren’t allowed for security reasons. A few minutes later, as we were debating next steps, he came back outside to apologize again and offered to walk with us toward the city center.
We walked together through air laced with cigarette smoke and a ribbon of car exhaust, all of it softened by the damp, foggy scent that rises from old cobblestones in the fall. After Mr. Weil told us his name, he told us a bit of his family’s story, how some escaped Germany and how some didn’t. Lorna mentioned remembering that her grandparents spoke Yiddish to her when she was a child. When he responded in Yiddish, something shifted in her: recognition, softness, a tiny homecoming between strangers. She glowed from that interaction for the rest of the afternoon.
Before parting ways, he took my hand, looked into my eyes, and said, “Good Shabbat.”
I didn’t grow up with Shabbat blessings, but the words landed on me like a soft blanket. A wish for peace. A wish for wholeness. A wish, I realized, that I desperately needed. The blessing moved to my heart and, unexpectedly, my eyes misted. I held his hand a moment longer and whispered back, a little clumsy, “Good Shabbat.”
The rest of the day unfolded gently. Shelley navigated us to Cinnamood for gourmet vegan cinnamon rolls. They were warm, spiraled refuges that thawed our fingers and lifted our spirits in that way only something sweet and shared can do.
With warmth restored, Lorna declared her mission to buy Strasbourg ornaments to add to her collection. She bought three. Because joy sometimes comes in multiples.
Later, at the vast cathedral, Shelley darted into nooks to capture photos while Lorna marveled over the religious art within.
As I took part in all these glimmering moments, I kept circling back to how I’d begun the trip believing I needed solitude. What I needed, it turns out, was company.
Kindness kept arriving, first in two new friends who let me into their adventures, then in two strangers who cared for us without hesitation. I landed in Strasbourg thinking I was traveling solo. Instead, I fell into a small river of generosity that carried me from tram stop to synagogue to cinnamon rolls to safe return.
Their welcome softened something in me. Because they made space for me, I found myself making space too. Eventually, all but one of the men I’d met at the beginning found their way into other groups. The one who didn’t was often sitting alone, so as our group expanded, I invited him to join us. He folded into our little orbit as naturally as I had. Kindness widening the circle, the way it does.
It turns out belonging doesn’t always announce itself.
Sometimes it just sits beside you at breakfast.
Sometimes it walks you to a tram you could have found on your own.
Sometimes it takes your hand and wishes you peace and rest.
Sometimes it shows up when you’ve been carrying a year that was too heavy and says, Come with us. You don’t have to do today alone.
By late afternoon, we were back on the ship in our own separate cabins, but the feeling of being held by new friends, by strangers, by the quiet goodness of people stayed with me. I’d set out looking for a quiet morning. Instead, I found connection: unexpected, insistent, freely given.
And maybe that was the real healing I’d come for.
If you’d like to know more about the river cruise I took, it was with Vegan Travel.
I’m grateful to Lorna and Shelley for the kindness they showed me on this trip. With Lorna’s blessing, I’m sharing her professional link here.
