Eleanor Vann

Tom Harris

Hello fellow passengers, welcome to the Compass podcast. If you've ever wondered what happens when you toss your calendar into a campfire, meet Eleanor Vann — travel writer, professional drifter, and the only person I know who turned a three-day rail pass into a three-year walkabout. Eleanor, thanks for parking your backpack beside the mic.

Eleanor Vann

It was either the studio or the bus station café, and the espresso here smelled friendlier. Happy to chat, Tom. My shoes needed a rest.

Tom Harris

We'll get to those shoes. But first, a story you once told me over lukewarm yak stew in Mongolia — how you set out for sunny Spain and wound up in overcast Belgium. Give us that story.

Eleanor Vann

Alright, picture this: a cardboard sign that said "South," one raised thumb, and a driver who interpreted "South" as "South of the Netherlands." By the time the highway signs turned bilingual, I figured it was simpler to embrace the surprise than negotiate a U-turn. I spent that week learning the finer points of Trappist beer and rain-proof ponchos. In hindsight, I got a better story than I would've chasing beach tapas.

Tom Harris

That detour kicked off what you call your "First Drift" — three years, thirty-odd countries, and a manuscript scribbled on napkins. Walk us through how a travel diary became The Path and the Passenger.

Eleanor Vann

The book started as loose observations — "why does every night train feel like a lullaby played on metal teeth?" — jotted on beer coasters and hotel notepads I may or may not have paid for. After a while, patterns emerged: strangers' kindness, moments of unplanned beauty, that hush right before sunrise in a city you don't know. When I finally sat down to stitch it together, I realized the through-line wasn't destinations at all — it was curiosity turning everyday detours into little epics.

Tom Harris

Your unofficial motto is "Plans give the universe something to laugh at." I love the poetry, but let's be practical: how do you actually decide where to go next?

Eleanor Vann

Honestly, most days I don't. If I'm at a crossroads — literal or metaphorical — I'll flip a coin. If I'm broke and have no coin, I'll follow the first song drifting out of a café or the scent of fresh bread. The trick isn't forcing randomness; it's noticing tiny invitations you'd normally rush past. Say yes often enough and suddenly you're dancing at a stranger's wedding in Ljubljana, trying to remember the steps while holding a plum brandy.

Tom Harris

Speaking of weddings — and protests, and that Portuguese folk concert where you somehow ended up onstage — what's the common ingredient in those accidental adventures?

Eleanor Vann

Showing up without an agenda creates a vacuum, and people can't resist rushing in to fill a vacuum — especially the fun-shaped kind. There's always an undersized folk band that needs an emergency tambourine player, a street artist who wants a volunteer statue, or a wedding photographer desperate for someone to hold the bouquet while they adjust the lens. Arrive curious, stay flexible, and you'll find yourself promoted from stranger to indispensable sidekick in record time. When you're that open, you become everyone's favorite plus-one: the person who doesn't just join the party but quietly makes it run smoother simply by saying "Sure, why not?"

Tom Harris

That's incredibly insightful. Let's move on to logistics. You don't book rooms in advance, you hate "travel hacks," and you're weirdly comfortable sleeping under bridges. Does that ever wear thin?

Eleanor Vann

Sure. There are nights when the concrete feels colder than adventure sounds romantic. But discomfort is a great editor — it strips away the noise and asks, "What do you really need?" Usually the answer is less than I thought. Also, there's something grounding about watching a city wake up from street level. It reminds me I'm a guest everywhere, and good guests don't complain about the seating.

Tom Harris

Okay, so help me understand this: if you never chart a course, how do you handle the truly grim curveballs — missed trains, lost passports, the occasional food poisoning?

Eleanor Vann

First, breathe. Panic writes terrible prose. Second, zoom out: a missed train often leads to a conversation you would've skipped; a lost passport introduces you to embassy clerks with surprisingly dry humor. As for food poisoning — always know the local word for "bathroom." Beyond that, every misstep is raw material. A writer with no hiccups has nothing to say.

Tom Harris

My students always tell me they crave spontaneity but cling to reminders, alarms, and five-year plans. What's your elevator pitch for letting go, at least a little?

Eleanor Vann

Imagine you're staring through a spotless window at a breathtaking view. Now tape your itinerary to the glass. Still pretty — but the details are obscured by bullet points. Peel it off, and the world's colors come flooding back. I'm not anti-plan; I'm pro-gaps. Leave blank spaces large enough for the unexpected to scribble something better.

Tom Harris

Before we wrap, give us a closing thought readers won't find on a motivational poster.

Eleanor Vann

If life hands you lemons, don't rush to make lemonade — just bring them with you. See who asks why you've got lemons. The conversations you spark might be sweeter than any drink you'd mix.

Tom Harris

That's profound. Folks, may your next detour be worth the wrong turn. And Eleanor, thanks for sharing the road stories — and for not making me sleep under a bridge tonight.

Eleanor Vann

You're welcome… though the acoustics under bridges are underrated.

Tom Harris

And that'll be our last words for today. Thanks for tuning in everybody!