Waitangi, New Zealand. A name that sounds as far from Copenhagen as it feels—19,000 kilometers, to be exact. The antipode of Copenhagen, a spot on the Earth that is geographically as far away as you can get without leaving the planet. Yet, as I sat in a camping chair on a grassy field, sipping a caramel-laced hot chocolate, I realized something surprising: this didn’t feel far at all.
Not in the way I expected.
When we think of distance, it’s easy to measure it in numbers—kilometers, hours, or how many marathons it would take to bridge the gap. But true distance isn’t just physical. It’s an experience, a feeling. It’s the language you don’t speak, the customs you don’t understand, the sense of standing in a place that challenges every part of who you are.
Sitting there in Waitangi, surrounded by familiar comforts—a common language, a warm companion, and a sense of ease—I didn’t feel the kind of “far” I’d felt in other places. The kind of far that whispers, “You don’t belong here.”
It made me wonder: when have I really felt far away? And what does it truly mean to travel far?
Beyond Maps and Measurements
The concept of antipodes fascinated me when I first learned about it. According to science, antipodes are two points on the Earth’s surface that are diametrically opposite—so far apart that if you drew a line connecting them, it would pass through the Earth’s core. For Copenhagen, that point is Waitangi, New Zealand. There’s something poetic about it—this idea that every place on Earth has its opposite, its furthest-away counterpart.
But standing on this distant patch of land, with the Tasman Sea sparkling in the sun and the grass soft beneath my feet, I realized that the greatest distances in life aren’t measured by geography. They’re measured by how far you feel from yourself.
The Farthest I’ve Ever Been
If Waitangi isn’t the farthest I’ve ever been from home, where is?
A highway in Mexico comes to mind. It was 2019, and I was hitchhiking through Quintana Roo. A middle-aged German couple picked me up, and before I knew it, I was tagging along on their carefully planned itinerary. It was a strange and wonderful detour, but one night, they dropped me off at a roadside shack that I can only describe as rustic in the way that makes you look twice.
The room was sparse: stone floor, a bed with angry springs poking out, and an actual toilet inside the room that required manual flushing with a bucket of water. That night, as I lay on the creaky bed, listening to unfamiliar jungle sounds, I felt very far away—not just from home but from everything familiar.
And yet, it was there, in that strange, small room, that I discovered something: I liked it. I liked the simplicity, the rawness of life stripped down to its essentials. It was uncomfortable, yes, but it also felt real and honest.
The People Who Make Us Feel at Home
Distance takes on a different meaning when you’re with people who feel like home. On the North Island of New Zealand, I wasn’t alone. I was visiting someone I cared about, someone whose presence made the world feel smaller. Even in Waitangi, as far as I was from Copenhagen, I felt close to something important.
Contrast that with another memory: couchsurfing in Gold Coast, Australia. I stayed at a Slovenian man’s apartment—a place I quickly nicknamed “The Homeless Shelter.” It wasn’t just me staying there; by the time dusk fell, five travelers were crammed into his tiny, dusty living room.
I woke up one morning, half-smothered by a damp blanket, toes tangled with a British girl sleeping on the other end of the couch. Below me, a Canadian guy lay sprawled on a yoga mat, while two Chinese travelers occupied a smaller couch and a makeshift bed of wooden chairs.
It should have felt chaotic and uncomfortable—and in many ways, it was. But it also felt like belonging. We were all far from home, but in that cluttered, peculiar apartment, we found something that tethered us to each other: a shared sense of adventure, the camaraderie of travelers trying to make sense of the world.
The Paradox of Travel
The farther I’ve gone, the more I’ve realized that travel isn’t about distance—it’s about perspective. It’s about the ways a new place can make you question who you are and what you value.
Growing up, I often felt lost. My childhood wasn’t easy—living with a mentally ill mother who seemed constantly on the brink of despair left me searching for stability, for meaning. Travel became my escape, my way of piecing myself together.
But here’s the paradox: the more I traveled, the more I realized I wasn’t escaping anything. I was journeying inward, peeling back the layers to find the person I was all along. There’s a quote I love by T.S. Eliot—one that’s stayed with me on countless roads and in countless places: “One travels far to arrive at what’s near.”
Finding the Antipodes Within
Waitangi might be the farthest I’ll ever be from Copenhagen on a map. But the farthest I’ve ever felt from home—truly, deeply—was the moment I felt disconnected from myself.
Travel has taught me that “far” isn’t a matter of miles. It’s a state of mind. And sometimes, the journey that takes you the furthest is the one that brings you closest to who you really are.
So, as I sat there in Waitangi, sipping my caramel-chocolate and soaking in the New Zealand sun, I realized something: the farthest place from home isn’t on the other side of the Earth. It’s the place where you lose yourself. And the closest? That’s where you find yourself again.
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