Eight days.
Somehow, we managed to squeeze four countries into eight days.
When people ask me about the trip, they usually want to know about the places. The canals of Amsterdam. The fjords of Norway. The cafés of Paris. The grand squares of Brussels.
The scenery was beautiful, of course. Amsterdam’s waterways wound through the city like arteries. Norway’s mountains rose dramatically from deep blue fjords. Paris carried the weight of centuries in its architecture. Brussels stood proud despite the construction scattered across the city.
Yet days later, those are not the things I find myself thinking about.
What stayed with me were the people.
In Amsterdam, cyclists flew through narrow streets with a sense of urgency that bordered on aggression. They rang bells, shouted at pedestrians, and weaved around tourists with remarkable precision. Beneath the postcard beauty of the city was an undercurrent of impatience, as though everyone was trying to get somewhere faster.
In Paris, I sensed something different. The beauty was still there, but so was a quiet exhaustion. Commuters packed into trains shoulder to shoulder. Graffiti stretched across walls and railway corridors. The city felt caught between two identities: a living, working metropolis and a global destination visited by millions each year. Paris did not feel soulless. It felt burdened.
Brussels felt more relaxed. Tourists still crowded the city center, and rows of chocolate shops competed for attention, but the pace seemed gentler. The city appeared more comfortable with itself.
And then there was Norway.
The mountains were breathtaking, but what captured my attention was not the landscape. It was the atmosphere.
In Bergen, people gathered together despite the cold weather and long dark seasons. Friends lingered over coffee. Families spent time outdoors. Conversations seemed unhurried. Rarely did I see someone completely isolated.
Of course, I could be projecting my own interpretations onto a place I only visited briefly. Yet I could not shake the feeling that there was something different beneath the surface.
It made me think about a question that has followed humanity for centuries:
What makes life worth living?
I have spent much of my life assuming that the answer had something to do with achievement. Accomplish meaningful work. Reach your potential. Build something valuable. Leave a mark on the world.
There is truth in that.
But traveling through Europe made me wonder whether achievement is only one piece of the puzzle.
What if a meaningful life depends just as much on security, belonging, and connection?
Norway is known for its strong social safety net and public services. No society is perfect, and every country has its own challenges. Yet there appeared to be an underlying confidence that people would be taken care of if life became difficult. The fear of falling through the cracks seemed less present.
That observation stayed with me.
How much of our energy is consumed by worrying about survival? How much of our anxiety comes from the fear of losing our job, our healthcare, our home, or our place in society?
And what becomes possible when those fears are reduced?
Perhaps people become more available to one another.
Perhaps they invest more deeply in friendships, family, and community.
Perhaps they have more space to enjoy the ordinary moments that quietly make up a life.
Scandinavian countries consistently rank among the happiest in the world. Yet I am not sure happiness is the right word for what I observed.
Happiness sounds fleeting, like an emotion that arrives and leaves.
What I sensed was something closer to contentment.
A feeling that life is manageable.
A feeling that you belong.
A feeling that you do not have to carry the weight of the world entirely on your own.
Traveling across four countries in eight days did not answer the question of what makes life worth living.
If anything, it deepened the question.
But I returned home with a growing suspicion that meaning is not found solely in achievement, wealth, or status.
Perhaps a life worth living begins with something more fundamental: knowing that you are safe, knowing that you belong, and knowing that there are people who will stand beside you when life becomes difficult.
The mountains, museums, and historic streets were unforgettable.
But what stayed with me most was a quieter realization that beneath our different languages, cultures, and borders, most of us are searching for the same thing: a life that feels connected, secure, and a sense of wellbeing.
Jia Zhenia 