I thought I knew what kind of traveler I was. When I started, I had a plan, Mexico, Central America, then South America, then Europe. I was going to see everything.

I knew from the beginning I wanted to travel slowly and actually experience places rather than rush through them. What I didn't plan on was returning to the same ones over and over.

In late December two years ago, I did two weeks of fast travel. Mérida to Belize City to San Ignacio to Tikal, Guatemala, and back into Mexico, ending in Querétaro. I stayed in seven or eight places and took every form of transit you can imagine.

By the time I got to Querétaro, it was colder than I'd packed for living in warm climates. Instead of resting, I had to go on a mission to find more layers. I was exhausted in a way that felt physical and something deeper.

I'd barely unpacked when I wrote to my Airbnb hosts and asked if I could stay for five weeks. When they said yes, I felt pure relief. I was so glad I didn't have to pack everything. I felt like I physically couldn't do it again.

I ended up staying in Querétaro for three months.

I've been to Guanajuato City five times. San Miguel de Allende five times (they are an hour and a half apart by bus). I keep going back for specific people, specific communities, and the fact that both cities are almost entirely walkable.

That last part matters more than I expected. In the US, neighbors are separated by driveways, cars, and distance. Here I walk to people's houses. I run into friends. The city is part of the relationship in a way that just doesn't happen when you drive everywhere.

Guanajuato especially doesn't quit giving. The city sits in a bowl, so everywhere you go, hilltop, alleyway, hidden staircase, opens into a completely new view. 360 degrees of color. The way the sun hits those buildings at certain hours is stunning in a way that still stops me mid-step.

This time, when I left, I left a suitcase there. At a place I house sit, with dogs I already love and friends I'll see again. That felt like something.

It's the same community that showed up when I got COVID there and was sick for weeks. Neighbors brought medicine, checked in on me, and brought treats on my birthday. When you're far from home and not feeling well, that's not a small thing.

Meeting people on the road takes real effort. You have to be deliberate: Facebook groups, dating apps, friends of friends, walking up to the stranger reading alone in the café. It works, but you have to show up.

Then there's Dolly.

She's a dog I've house-sat three times in less than a year in San Miguel. When we walk together, she already knows people. Strangers stop to greet her. She introduces me to her city in a way I never could alone.

Connection in a brand new place feels hard. Once I'm somewhere I've already been, it's pretty easy.

The faster I traveled, the less capacity I had to take in what I was experiencing. Tikal was extraordinary. I'm glad I went. But you can't absorb a place you're already leaving.

Slow travel rewired how I think about uncertainty, too. I plan less far ahead now. I structure my work around travel rather than the other way around, staying put during heavy workloads and moving when things are lighter. I've learned to let the next thing reveal itself.

After two and a half years, I want to slow down even more. Get a base somewhere. But I've built a rhythm of moving, and I'm not sure I want to trade it, not for furniture, not for decorating a space, not for rebuilding a kitchen from scratch.

I am leaving suitcases in Guanajuato and at Dolly's, though. Maybe that's the start of an answer.

I'm not sure where it all lands yet. What I do know is this: I thought slow travel meant seeing everything. What I didn't expect was wanting to see the same places over and over. The same friends. The same food. The same views of beautiful cities that somehow keep showing me something new.