Sometimes you cross paths with someone briefly, but you know in those moments your life will forever be changed. I’ve experienced this since Saturday when I opened my home to a touring European cyclist from Germany. It’s strange to realize the impact someone is making on your heart when you are still sitting across from them. Usually, you don’t realize what’s happened until after they’ve gone, after they’ve continued on their way. But oddly enough, with each conversation we had on my front porch, I knew I would walk away from this experience different.

Sebastian is riding from the East Coast to the West Coast in the span of six months, and through the ever-growing and connected community of cyclists, he found me and stayed with me a few days along his journey.

The last few days have been a bit of a dream. I live in a pattern, a world of habit and routine. But not Sebastian. Sebastian decided he needed a break from his world as an architect in Zurich, Switzerland, and planned a six-month adventure. His time in Nashville, I hope, will be one of his favorite memories. On his first day here, we sat outside under the trees and talked about all the places we’d seen and visited, the reasons we live where we do and what makes them special. Then we rode around the city so I could show him my town, show him why Tennessee was home for me. I took him to Bicentennial Mall and showed him where I was born on the giant, stone map of Tennessee. I explained our three geographic regions and showed him where he’d be traveling next as he headed West toward Memphis.

Then I took him to the Parthenon at Centennial Park, and he laughed at what a marvelous replica it was to the original in Greece. We sat in the park and listened to music and ate ice cream, then we dined on burgers. He drank a Nashville beer, and I drank a German beer. We each liked the other’s better.

During his stay, we spent the evenings on my front porch drinking wine and talking about the world. We have very different views on many things, but our sense of adventure and hope for people is the same. We know the world is scary, and we know the risks. But even in that knowledge, we both manage to keep our faith in humanity believing people are still good. On the longest day of the year, we sat outside enjoying dinner and wine while cicadas tried to overpower the sound of music playing through the open windows.

We talked about world wars and politics. We talked about American culture, Switzerland culture and German culture. We discussed the historical pieces of our countries we are proud of, and we discussed the pieces we’re not so proud of. We talked about the strange things we’ve experienced on a bicycle, and we talked about our love for life on two wheels. We know it makes little sense to most others for strangers to open their home to other strangers, but cyclists are different. This cycling community is different. We laughed about how you can go from a place of deep pain and despair on a bicycle one moment to turning a corner and seeing a natural view so spectacular every pain and hurt disappears instantly. We smiled as we talked about the people we’ve met along the way, and how kind people can be. I found a quote in the most recent copy of a bike magazine on touring that sums it up pretty well.

“If you ride long enough, in enough places, you might just learn to trust humanity.”

We spent the days being tourists and the evenings in a sort of make-shift relationship routine. Wine and dinners and friends and live music. It was nice, very nice. It was something I’d forgotten how to do. I’ve been on my own for so long, I’ve started to forget some of the things I love, some of the things that make me happy.

Cooking dinner with friends. Sunsets on porches with music and wine. Talking for hours with friends about nothing in particular. But more than that, Sebastian woke up a part of me I’d allowed to fall asleep. I’m fearful to do things alone. As extroverted and outgoing as I am, I struggle to have big, grand adventures on my own. I make excuses—be it time or money or safety concerns—leaving my dreams to sit dormant on a shelf not being fulfilled, not happening.

But in a matter of four days, a man from Germany on a bicycle reminds you it doesn’t have to be that hard. Plan, save, research and go. If I stop allowing myself to have adventures, stop allowing myself the joy of fulfilling dreams because I’m alone, I might never make it to Paris. I might never hike the AT. I might never ride my bike across the country. I might never see the Grand Tetons.

This week has been somewhat like a dream, my own private dream. I ignored my routine and canceled plans to sit on my front porch with a stranger. I think I took photos to remind myself it was real. This interesting and intriguing man—who seemingly appeared out of nowhere—has refreshed my adventurous spirit.