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The Pattern
I have carried my own bags across eleven countries. Fixed my own Wi‑Fi issues in languages I don’t speak. I am good at being alone.
But I am terrible when someone hands me something free. Terrible at receiving a small gift. It took years to notice.
The pattern was small. Almost invisible. A stranger offering a seat. A traveler sharing a snack. I smiled, shook my head, and said no thanks every time. A local pointing out a faster route got the same response.
I thought I was being strong. I was wrong.
Chiang Mai – The Spare Cable
The first time I remember it clearly was in Chiang Mai.
I was in the Yellow Coworking Space, open 24/7, two minutes from my digs. My phone battery blinked red for an hour. My charging cable had finally gone cable-land heaven. Metal prongs bent from too many airports use. I was calculating how to finish work before the battery gave up.
A woman across the table stood. Another nomad. German could be Dutch. She packed her laptop. Then she placed a spare cable next to my computer. A simple gift, a tiny gesture. Standard USB‑C. She nodded once and walked out.
I looked at the cable, then at my phone. I did not react. I didn’t know how to receive something so small.
She didn’t ask for money or wait for thanks. She just left it there.
My phone died. The cable sat in my bag for three days. I purposely donated it to a hostel’s lost‑and‑found. I didn’t make a fuss, just carried on as if nothing had happened. My refusal to receive didn’t even register.
Looking back on that night, I had written in my journal: “Someone offered me a lifeline. I treated it like a sales pitch.” On reflection, I told myself I was being independent, but I was wrong again. I was being something uglier. I couldn’t name it yet.
Da Nang – The Pork That Didn’t Bite Back
Da Nang was amazing in more ways than I could describe on paper. The people, the sea, the food.
I sat on a plastic stool at a night market, five minutes from the Dragon Bridge. Broken rice with sad vegetables. An older Vietnamese woman grilled pork skewers across from me. The smell filled my stomach ache with anitcipation.
She noticed me looking. She took one skewer, laid it on a small plate, and slid it beside my rice. “Xin chào, bạn thử xem,” she said. It was a gift. “No buy. Just try.”
I tried to refuse. I pushed the plate back. She waved her hand like I was swatting a fly. She was being courteous, and I had offended her.
I ate it quickly. Looking down at my bowl, avoiding eye contact. I mumbled something that might have been a thank-you, paid for my rice, and left.
The pork was the best thing I ate all month. Yet I couldn’t look her in the eye; I had failed to receive again.
[The Spare Cable | moneycatzzz.com]
Walking back to my hostel, I started to feel the shape of my reluctance. It was never about the financial costs; pride doesn’t even come into the equation. I was uncomfortable because she saw me wanting something. I had a need that I didn’t realize. I had no right to make her uncomfortable.
I’m an avid Marilynne Robinson fan. Her “Gilead cycle“ set of books had been a bible-like part of my life. She says, “You can’t earn a blessing. You can only be ready for it.” I wasn’t ready. I kept calculating what I owed instead of learning to receive.
Gjirokastër – The Ride
There are good times and bad times to visit Gjirokastër, Albania. January is the worst time of the year.
It had rained for two days. My poncho had ripped. My backpack was soaked. I walked toward the bus station, already late. A cream Mercedes-Benz pulled up. It’s probably 20 years old, but it looked in great condition. A man in his forties with work‑stained hands on the wheel. His wife sat in the passenger seat with an infant on her lap. A round family man. He rolled down the window and said something in Albanian. I didn’t understand.
He pointed at my bag. He gestured at the bus station sign with his hands, turned his head to the back seat.
I understood. He was offering help. I shook my head. “No thanks. I’m fine.”
He shrugged and drove away.
I walked for twenty minutes in the rain. My white Converse had turned a dirty beige. I missed my bus by three minutes. Waited an hour on a wet bench, shivering, annoyed with myself because I couldn’t receive a simple offer.
He was a family man who saw a soaked stranger with a heavy bag. He didn’t look like a threat, though looks can be deceptive. He had space, time. Most importantly, he had heart.
There are a million excuses inside my head, stories I told to avoid the real reason. Safety has always been a priority for a traveling nomad. It still is. I told myself safety was the reason. But receiving felt like surrender.
So I chose rain over vulnerability, rain over learning how to receive. Maybe next time, it will be different.
The Turn
Sitting in that bus station bathroom, drying my face with a paper towel, and warming my frozen fingers with the machine. The question was there, but I didn’t ask it out loud. Why was I so scared of someone noticing me?
A gift feels like a spotlight. It’s someone saying, “I see you.” Yet, I side-stepped, spent years calling that self‑sufficiency. It wasn’t strength; it was fear dressed up as independence.
I had seen good marriages dissolve because neither side knew how to bend. I had witnessed devotees in Vientiane quietly giving alms (Tak Bat) to monks, an ancient dance of giving and receiving that kept an entire culture alive. And yet, there I was, letting my phone die over an accessory. Against the larger picture of human connection, my stubbornness wasn’t noble. It was just senseless.
Then I remembered Budapest.
Budapest – A Cup of Coffee
Budapest hostel kitchen smelled like old dish soap. A young fellow traveler was staring at the Nespresso machine, jabbing the button in frustration. The machine was broken. I felt her angst. Coffee is the nomad’s oxygen. I had a bag of decent grounds in my locker. I poured her a cup without asking. She looked at it. “You sure?” she asked, “Yeah, drink up.” She said thank you. She smiled. I felt good the rest of that day.
Later as I strolled the cobbled streets of Castle Hill & Fisherman’s Bastion, I thought about her. How giving felt like nothing and everything at once. I reflected on Chiang Mai. The pork. The man with the car. Each time, I got in the way.
[The Free Mango | moneycatzzz.com]
Lisbon – The Adapter
Lisbon has always been my European base. I have many friends and a semi-permanent address here. Friends tell me my Portuguese is acceptable. Physical mail and deliveries are accessible.
I was in a café working when my laptop charger sparked and died. No backup. I was about to pack up. A guy my age slid an universal adapter across the table. “I’m leaving in ten,” he said. “Here, use mine.”No conspiracy. Just a guy and a spare charger
My chest tightened. The old reflex started. No thanks, I’m fine.
But I stopped. I looked at the adapter. It was unsalvageable. Looked at my faulty, unreliable battery. Looked at his face. I didn’t detect any agenda. I decided to try something different. I decided to accept.
I said, “Yeah. Thanks. I’d appreciate that. Just need to back up some files and close my Chrome before powering off.” Two words: thank you. He nodded. I plugged in. We talked for eight minutes about nothing. The weather. Lisbon’s hills. Then he mentioned the best custard tarts. He left, and I finished my work. My laptop stayed on.
That was it. There’s no chicken-and-egg question. No drama. No fuss. Just neighborly. I let myself receive something small. The world didn’t end, and I didn’t owe him anything. I just said thank you and meant it.
Vulnerability did not destroy me.
What I’m Learning
As I polish this essay in Mexico City, a street vendor offers me a free, icy-cold mango slice. I hesitated, at first, my hand twitched toward my wallet. Then I took the mango and said thank you.
It was delicious and exactly the tonic from the Mexican sun. I had received it without any doubt, and I bought two more pieces with gladness.
I’m learning that to receive takes courage. It’s admitting you don’t have everything you need and trusting that a stranger’s spare cable is just a cable. It is neither a trap nor a debt.
C.S. Lewis wrote that to love is to be vulnerable. I’d go further and smaller. To receive is to be vulnerable. Vulnerability is the strength that makes us stay human.
Giving and receiving use the same muscle. I’ve only been flexing just one.
Next time someone offers me a spare cable, I’m going to say yes. I’m going to receive it. Then I’ll charge my phone and offer them a mint in my backpack.
__________________
Marilynne Robinson Collection 3 Books Set (Gilead, Home, Lila)
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