Years ago, the remote company I worked for held an in-person retreat in Barcelona. On one of our free days, I wandered the city with a small group of coworkers. No plans, no agenda — just exploring.
Naturally, the group’s direction was led by one person. She was endlessly charismatic, adventurous, and full of energy. The kind of person who walks confidently toward the unknown — and makes you want to follow.
To be honest, I don’t remember much of what we saw. Maybe it’s the memory issues I’ve dealt with since. But I do remember the ground.
Because that day, the ground was covered in unpleasant things.
The sidewalks and streets we passed through had, for me at least, an abnormally high volume of dog poop. I later confirmed it wasn’t just me (Spain might have a dog poop problem). So I kept my eyes locked downward, constantly scanning — trying not to step in anything unpleasant. Occasionally glancing up to make sure I hadn’t lost the group.
One time when I looked up, our fearless leader — who had spent the walk gazing skyward — had something unpleasant stuck to her shoe.
I pointed it out. She shrugged. Smiled. “Life happens,” she said. And just kept walking.
Mind the mess. Miss the view.
For the rest of the walk, I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
At first, I wondered — why didn’t she care? How was she so confident? So carefree, but in a good way? How could I be more like her?
But as I kept turning it over in my mind, a deeper question emerged: was what she saw worth stepping in something unpleasant?
Here I was, in a new country for the first time, wandering through a beautiful city with people I cared about. And while I kept my eyes on the ground, she kept hers on the world.
What did she see that I didn’t? What did I miss, staying so cautious — so focused on avoiding the mess — that I forgot to look up?
Zoom in. Zoom out.
I remembered this moment again in 2023. On February 2nd, I wrote this in my notes:
Those who’ve seen most of the world have the dirtiest shoes.
I thought about Barcelona. I don’t remember much of the architecture. But I remember the texture of the sidewalks. The details of the streets. All the different surfaces we walked on. All the places where unpleasant things might have been. I had played it safe. And I missed the view.
There’s value in looking down. In being cautious. In avoiding unpleasant things. But, as I've learned, you also have to look up.
You have to zoom in and zoom out. Watch your step — but also remember where you’re going. Don’t miss the view.
There’s no perfect ratio. No one can tell you how much to scan the ground or admire the sky. You have to feel it out. Adjust along the way.
And if you do happen to step on something unpleasant along the way — as annoying as that may be — just remember: life happens. Greet it with a smile, and keep on walking.