The stranger things continued
A gentle reminder that trust might just be the best travel companion. (Part 2 of "The stranger things" series.)
Over the years, I’ve loosened my grip on those childhood warnings about strangers.
Especially while traveling, I’ve found myself drawn not just to the landmarks, but to the hidden stories of strangers - the cab drivers, the Uber drivers, and everyday people I might’ve once walked past without a second glance.
There’s something grounding about those brief chats. Hearing about someone’s life in a city I’ve never been to - their small joys and their everyday struggles. It makes the world feel both bigger and smaller at the same time.
It reminds me how wildly different we may look on the outside, yet how similar we are underneath it all.
These random conversations sometimes bring surprising insights, too.
Like how people everywhere seem to think America equals guns.
And how, no matter where I go, I can always count on bonding with an Asian cab driver over our shared love for SRK.
It was on one of those travels where a stranger and a story found me when I let my guard down, when I let my heart a little open.
The day started early, around 6:30 a.m. We boarded the tour bus sleepy-eyed and rain-jacketed. It was the final leg of our ten-day trip to Korea, and we were headed to the DMZ.
The bus was packed with tourists from around the world, all of us bound for that tense, surreal strip of land where South Korea ends and North Korea begins.
As the bus pulled away, I caught myself slipping into a familiar feeling - the flutter of excitement that used to wash over me as that young girl heading home from Bengaluru.
Except now, I was decades older. A mom. With a passport full of stories.
Not the kind to be fazed by strangers anymore.
Or so I thought…
Our chirpy guide, Junie, rattled off the day’s itinerary in the sing-song tone of a kindergarten teacher leading a field trip.
She narrated the history of the DMZ in halting English, her voice rising and falling like the hills we passed.
It was equal parts thrilling and unnerving to hear tales of the Korean War, the uneasy ceasefire, and the invisible line that split a country into two beating hearts.
We were about to stand at the edge of that line, peering into a land few have seen.
Let’s just say... I was hoping we wouldn’t end the day seeking asylum.
Our first stop, after a ninety-minute drive, was Gloster Hill Memorial Park. By then, the rain had settled in - steady, indifferent.
As we got off the bus, clutching our backpacks and fanny packs, I looked around at our fellow passengers, all huddled beneath umbrellas and raincoats.
There were young couples, older couples with kids, and families scattered among the group.
That’s when I first noticed him - a young chap in khaki shorts and a baseball cap, with a camera slung across his shoulder. He seemed to move through the world in quiet observation.
I wondered why he was traveling alone.
Perhaps an adventurer craving the freedom to see the world on his own? Or someone without family to travel with?
My thoughts were quickly interrupted by Junie, who instructed us to follow the misty hiking trail to the top of Gamaksan Mountain.
We all followed the muddy path, flanked by trees and blanketed in dry leaves that crackled beneath our feet.
From the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of the young lad trailing just behind our family.
Along the way, cute and cheery animal statues - squirrels strumming guitars, rabbits clutching carrots, deer and pandas scattered playfully - peeked out from the foggy sidelines.
They offered quiet company as we passed the other tourists on our bus.
As we got to the summit, the red suspension bridge (also called the Gloucester Heroes Bridge) came into view.
Suspended high above a steep gorge, it stretched across the misty mountain landscape like a red ribbon.
It swayed ever so slightly as we stepped onto it. The far end of the bridge vanished into a veil of cloud, making it feel as though we’re walking into the unknown.
We snapped several photos along the way. Junie kindly played photographer for each group, making sure every family, including ours, had a memory captured at the other end of the bridge
I chuckled when I noticed the young lad posing awkwardly for a solo shot at Junie’s insistence.
After the hike, we boarded the bus again.
The young chap sat right in front of us, quiet and alone, earbuds in, lost in his own little world.
Junie did a quick headcount, making sure everyone- from couples to solo travelers to families - was back on board before we headed to the next stop - the official DMZ tour station.
This was where we had to switch to a bigger bus.
The station was busy, like a travel hub where buses from different tour groups all came together before the final leg of the journey into the DMZ.
As we waited for our big tour bus to arrive, we wandered into the eatery section for a quick snack break.
This was where I first tried gimbap and yuja citron tea—sweet, citrusy, and comforting in the chilly drizzle.
We grabbed some cookies and crunchy snacks for the road, then found a bench outside to sit, sip, and watch the world go by.
A few minutes later, the young chap from our earlier bus strolled over and quietly took a seat beside us. He was munching on some Korean biscuits, the kind that crumble between your fingers.
We exchanged smiles and then slowly started chatting.
He was from Australia, just 21, the same age as our son, I thought.
Backpacking across the world for six months before heading home to begin his first job.
His eyes lit up when he spoke. Soft-spoken, and observant, he carried the gentle curiosity of someone seeing the world for the first time, entirely on his own terms.
I found myself wondering about his story. Was he of Asian descent? Mixed roots?
But it didn’t really matter. In that brief hour, he was a fellow traveler, a gentle soul, and an almost-like-a-son we met on a rainy afternoon in Korea.
He offered us his biscuits. I ate them without a second thought - so unlike my younger, more suspicious self.
We offered our snacks in return.
He mentioned he plans to visit US soon, and my husband, ever the generous and hospitable guy he is, said “If you find yourself in California, message me. And you’re welcome to stay at our home.”
And with that he handed the young chap his contact details.
The boy smiled, quietly tucked away the phone number, and nodded.
I rolled my eyes. What’s wrong with you? We barely know the guy.
My husband just smiled and we continued our conversations.
But somewhere in the back of my mind, I suddenly turned into that young girl on that Bengaluru bus, clutching her Parle-G biscuit with suspicion.
Stranger danger - grown up, older, wiser, yet still there. Lurking quietly like a shadow. One that no amount of years or experience can fully erase.
We wrapped up our tour and finally returned to the city.
At the last bus station, we said goodbye to the young Aussie traveler. He’d promised my husband he’d reach out if he ever found himself in the U.S.
We didn’t think much of it at the time. It felt like one of those casual travel exchanges that drift away once spoken.
We were greeted by a sky that had fully surrendered to the rain.
We hopped into an Uber, too tired to talk, the kind of happy-tired that settles in after a day full of sights, stories, and small, beautiful moments.
After a few more days of savoring Korea, we flew back to San Jose and slowly eased into the familiar rhythms of daily life - office runs, music practice, work calls, laundry.
The old cadence settled back in, and weeks blurred into routine.
Then, one day, my husband got a message. It was from the Aussie chap we’d met on the DMZ tour.
He was in the Bay Area and wanted to visit.
“Just for a night”, he asked, “Can I crash at our place?”.
My husband, bless his generous heart, said yes without a blink. I, meanwhile, froze.
A stranger. From another continent. Who we’d known for all of 30 minutes over Korean biscuits and citrus tea. Now planning to sleep under our roof?
My mind spiraled. I’ve seen the thrillers. I know how this goes.
A stranger knocks. The family welcomes him in.
Cue dramatic score.
Cut to black.
I was convinced we were going to be the next episode of Dateline.
I told my friends.
Some reassured me: “He’s just a backpacking student trying to save money.”
Others cautioned: “Hide your passports. Lock your bedroom doors.”
My gut said it would be fine.
But decades of inherited programming kicked in hard.
“Don’t trust strangers”,
“Always be alert”,
“He could be a serial killer with dimples and a charming accent”.
So, I launched into action.
I checked the locks. Twice.
I texted a few friends in ALL CAPS.
I googled his name just to see if anything alarming came up.
I stashed our passports in a random drawer he’d never find (I hoped).
Then I did a slow sweep of the house, noting every object that could double as self-defense weapons, just in case.
That brass collection from India? Surprisingly solid.
The day came.
My heart raced, palms sweaty, nerves pulled taut. I spent the whole day in a low simmer of anxiety, bracing for the unknown.
By evening, a text pinged, he was almost in our neighborhood.
I took a deep breath, walked to the door, and opened it slowly, every muscle on high alert.
And there he stood, with his backpack and stroller bag in tow.
Polite. Soft-spoken.
Holding a gift basket brimming with candles and lotions.
For a moment, all my mental alarms went silent, replaced by a flicker of surprise.
Candles and lotions.
I don’t know many 21-year-old guys who show up with a curated welcome gift.
I smiled politely while my brain ran silent background checks in real time.
Our furbaby, Coco, gave him the ultimate test, one long sniff, followed by an enthusiastic tail wag.
Ohh. Coco had approved. That had to be a good sign, right?
He settled in quickly, devoured my masala chai and samosas like he hadn’t eaten all day. We ended up chatting for hours about Australia, travel, and life.
All the while, I kept smiling, nodding, and mentally running background checks in real time. My brain hadn’t fully signed off yet, just moved into cautious surveillance mode.
He was well-read, articulate, and deeply respectful.
For a 21-year-old, he had an impressive grasp on government policies and the Australian way of life.
Somewhere between talk of external affairs and sips of chai, my shoulders began to relax.
We took him out for dinner at a local Indian spot. He tried parathas and chaat and looked genuinely delighted.
Meanwhile, I kept one eye on the butter chicken and the other on his body language,
quietly running trust evaluations.
Even as I wanted to like him, trust him, welcome him...that nasty voice in my head kept whispering, What if?
What if he sneaks into our rooms at night?
What if he steals everything, or worse?
Will I wake up with my head still attached?
Will I even wake up at all?
Back at home, I paced the living room more times than I care to admit, turning on the security alarm, checking locks and imagining elaborate escape plans.
I told myself to relax, but my brain wasn’t having it. It was running through every thriller movie plot I’d ever seen, none of them ended well.
Meanwhile, my husband and son were calm as cucumbers, going about their evening as if we hadn’t just invited a total stranger from across the globe to sleep under our roof.
By late night, we all retired to our rooms, hoping to catch some sleep.
I sheepishly texted my neighbor to check in on me the next day, just in case.
Chanted a few mantras. Whispered a quiet prayer.
Just my average bedtime routine… when a stranger is sleeping five feet away.
Night fell. There was pin-drop silence everywhere.
The fan hummed steadily. Coco snored gently beside the bed, blissfully unaware of the psychological thriller playing in my head.
I pulled the comforter over me, as if its thick fluffiness could protect me from any horror that might descend in the dead of night.
My mind refused to rest.
I tossed and turned. And tossed again.
Every creak, every sigh of the house made my ears perk up like a watchdog.
I lay there, mentally preparing my ninja moves, just in case things went south.
I glanced at my iWatch: 12:00. 1:00. 2:00. 2:30…
Eventually, exhaustion must have won over anxiety.
I don’t know exactly when, but I gave in. My eyes finally shut, and I fell into a deep abyss.
Until...
…
…
Something jolted me out of it.
A thump, maybe? A rustle?
I blinked into the dim blue of early morning, disoriented, still caught between dream and reality.
The room was too quiet, too still.
Then came the thud.
Followed by a snort.
And then …
BHAAM.
A furry face appeared beside my bed, eyes gleaming, tail wagging like a happy little flag.
“COCO!”
He let out a delighted huff and dove in for a big, slobbery lick.
I laughed through the shock, clutching his wiggly body. Somehow, this chaotic wake-up was exactly the comfort I didn’t know I needed.
I looked around.
I was alive.
This wasn’t a dream.
I slipped out of bed and tiptoed out of the room like a detective in fuzzy socks.
The house was still.
Everything was in its place.
No drawers ransacked.
No shadowy figures lurking.
No Dateline episode in the making.
Just pure, unadulterated peace.
Sunlight filtered through the curtains as I heard soft footsteps approaching.
Out he came, smiling, well-rested, and genuinely grateful.
“That was the best sleep I’ve had in a long time,” he said.
“The bed was ridiculously comfortable.”
I smiled politely, nodding like the gracious host I was trying to be.
But inside? Oh, inside I was cringing at myself.
The absurdity of it all hit me in waves.
This poor 21-year-old kid was just looking for a safe place to crash during his travels. And here I was, mentally drafting a survival guide, and preparing for a plot twist that never came.
Fear has such a funny way of dressing up in worst-case scenarios, doesn’t it?
Later that morning, after a sumptuous breakfast of egg avocado toast and masala chai, he packed his bags and got ready to leave.
Before heading out, he told us if we ever visit Australia, he’d be happy to help plan our trip.
And you know what? I believed him.
Once he left, I collapsed onto the sofa and slept for hours, finally freed from the grip of my overactive imagination.
No more stealth-mode vigilance. Just sweet, uninterrupted sleep.
A few days later, he sent my husband a thoughtful thank-you message.
And since then, we’ve received photos and videos from his travels - Chicago, India, Singapore…
As I scrolled through them and caught glimpses of his cheerful and smiley face, something unexpected stirred in me - a small pang of guilt.
Maybe I should’ve let my guard down, just a little.
Maybe I should’ve spent more time simply enjoying those hours with this young Aussie traveler, instead of mentally scripting escape routes and preparing for imaginary doom.
Maybe, in trying so hard to protect myself, I missed a chance to connect.
And the strangest part?
I found myself quietly looking forward to his return.
For a second chance at this, a do-over without the paranoia or thriller-movie soundtrack playing in my head.
I have a feeling he’ll be back in the US someday. And when he is, we’ll probably host him again.
Only next time, there’ll be less masala, more chai, and maybe a little more trust.
And this time, I plan to actually sleep through the night.
That night taught me something about fear and about trust.
How often do we let our wild imaginations run the show, spinning stories darker than reality?
And yet, when we open our doors and our hearts to strangers, we might just find the scariest stories aren’t true.
Sometimes those fears and stories come from childhood programming, and that’s not our fault.
Sometimes, all it takes is a simple hello and an open hand to remind us the world is a little less frightening than we think.
So here’s to trusting a little more, worrying a little less, and maybe, just maybe, getting some real sleep next time you invite a stranger home.
-`♡´-
Love, always!
