It wasn’t the Eiffel Tower.
Or Times Square.
Or the wine-tasting tour in Cape Town.

It was a quiet afternoon in Oaxaca, Mexico.
I had just spent my last $12
on a colectivo to the mountains.

No tour guide.
No Wi-Fi.
Just a hand-painted sign that read:
“Hierve el Agua – 3km.”
So I walked.

The sun was ruthless.
Goats crossed the path like they owned it.
A boy herded them barefoot
while whistling a tune older than Google.

When I reached the edge,
I saw it a petrified waterfall, frozen in time,
with natural pools and a view that silenced every voice in my head.

Locals were swimming in their clothes.
A woman sold tamales wrapped in banana leaf,
and I bought one with the coins left in my shoe.

No resort could’ve planned this.
No itinerary would’ve suggested it.
But that’s the beauty of cheap travel:
It forces you into the world,
into people’s real lives.

Where the spice isn’t mild for tourists.
Where the buses aren’t on time,
but the stories always are.

That trip cost me almost nothing
but I still carry the view,
the steam of that tamale,
and the feeling of being completely
and beautifully lost.