No Wifi, No Problem.

What pre-digital travel taught me about spontaneity, connection, and the magic of not knowing.

Landing in a new country takes some acclimatising.

Especially when you’re travelling solo, and don’t know a soul.

In the pre-smartphone days, you had to rely on the kindness of strangers – improvised sign language, a map drawn on a napkin, a chat with whoever was sitting beside you on the bus.

Connection wasn’t optional.

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Now, everyone carries their personal assistant in their pocket: Google Translate, TripAdvisor, offline maps, ride-share apps, a camera, and an escape hatch – all squeezed into one slab of glass.

No doubt about it, it’s made travel a whole lot easier.

But quietly, I think it’s stripped away something essential.

There was a time, not so long ago, when travel was full of surprise, serendipity, and those strange little accidents that become your best stories.

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Take this one. I was in my early twenties, sitting in a pub in the UK. No phone. No screen to disappear into. Just a pint and a face open enough to be approached.

A lairy bunch of locals struck up a conversation. Turns out, they were members of a Bristol indie band called The Spasmodics. By closing time, they’d invited me to join them on their tour of the south of France. And because I am me, I said yes.

A few days later I was in London, trying to catch a train to the Calais ferry. There was only one problem: Aussies need a visa for France – and I didn’t have one.

If Google had existed, I could’ve avoided this hiccup. But it didn’t, so I made my way to the French consulate and joined a long line of equally confused Australians. While waiting, I made a few new friends. We got our visas, went to the pub to celebrate, and then on to the night ferry – more drinks, and a stomach-churning boat ride to France. It was hysterical.

I spent the next week in a graffiti-scrawled van, bouncing through southern France with a band of misfits hell-bent on causing trouble wherever they went. One of the most outrageous, unforgettable experiences of my life.

Imagine how easily that might’ve slipped through my fingers if I’d been on my phone that day in the Bristol pub. Chances are, I’d have had earbuds in, a video playing, maybe a message thread bubbling away. And none of it would’ve added up to a story I still tell all these years later.

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Now, here I am in Hoi An – a sweet little city in Vietnam, all canals and lanterns, with an old town full of winding alleyways and quirky cafés. It could be the perfect place to settle in, get some writing done, meet some fellow travellers, make new friends.

But as I wander the streets, something feels… off. Everyone seems to be searching feverishly for the next hashtag-worthy photo, barely noticing the people right beside them. No smiles shared, no conversations sparked, no mingling. They’re all here – just not with each other.

Even in the cafés – where you used to be able to put down your book and spark up a casual conversation – it feels like everyone’s sealed in their own quiet capsule. Not unfriendly – just unavailable.

Maybe that’s why I’ve found myself gravitating towards retreats.

In the monasteries and retreat centres, we are required to surrender our phones. For a week or two, strangers live together without their screens. Dog-eared paperback books appear. Eye contact returns. And between bouts of noble silence, conversations flow and laughter rolls across the dining tables. Connections are made.

And we leave with new friends, not just followers.

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OK, I’m feeling nostalgic, blaming technology in a moment of travel-weary loneliness – things were better in the good ol’ days. I get it.

I’m sure people are still having unforgettable travel adventures, making real connections as they go – maybe even more so, thanks to the tech in our pockets.

All I know is that as I wander through the snap-happy crowds here in Vietnam, I’m finding it harder to make the connections that used to come so easily.

I’m as much to blame – my phone’s always there, filling the space where serendipity used to live.

So I’m going to put my phone down for a bit.
Look up.
Say hello to someone.
And see what happens.

Thanks for reading.

Jay.

If you enjoyed this post and want more travel, mystery, and reflection, you might like my novel Chasing Ghosts.

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