I retired at 53 and have been slowly traveling the world with my husband for almost 2 years.

Last month, while we were renting a villa in Bali, everything next to it usually went quiet at dusk. That’s when there was a knock on the door.

“Tomorrow night there will be a party,” Kadek told us with his usual calm smile. “I may be a little late.”

Kadek, our Balinese neighbor, wanted to make sure we knew that his family’s celebration could continue after 10 pm. “Don’t worry about us,” said my husband, Nigel.

In the days before, we had watched the preparations unfold on the wall: women bringing offerings, family arriving, and a miniature boat built for the ceremony. Kadek couldn’t stop smiling every time he talked about his son’s coming-of-age milestone. His enthusiasm was contagious.

The next afternoon he returned with a plate of roast pork.

“We’re celebrating,” he said. “Please come.”

I thanked him, accepted the meal, and thought we had fulfilled our obligations of good neighborliness. Nigel had other ideas.

“We should at least stop by,” he said. “Just to show our faces.”

Find community

We’d only lived next door for a few weeks, and walking into someone else’s family ceremony was like showing up uninvited to Thanksgiving. I didn’t want anyone to feel obligated to host two retired foreigners who lived next door.

Still, I followed Nigel through the door.

Only then did I realize that we had been living next to an ornate Balinese temple. We were staying in the coastal town of Sanur, about 20 minutes southeast of the airport.

The smell of roast pork lingered in the yard as children ran among chatting relatives. Koko, the neighborhood rescue dog, stood hopefully near the food.

Behind us there was enthusiastic singing. It wasn’t a band; It was karaoke. In retrospect, an occasional stray note should have revealed it.

With glasses of freshly made homemade tuak and a lightly fermented palm wine that had been served to us at the party, we approached. When the men noticed us, they switched from Indonesian songs to familiar songs like “Sweet Caroline” and “Wonderwall.” We insisted that they continue singing in Indonesian. They politely ignored us.

Before long, I was sharing the microphone with one of Kadek’s brothers as we sang “Zombie” by The Cranberries. Nigel, being British, inevitably chose “Let It Be.”

That same night, returning to the villa, Nigel smiled.

“I can’t believe you finally did karaoke.”

“It wasn’t karaoke,” I said. “It was community.”

He had gone next door expecting to be a guest. Somewhere between Oasis and roast pork, I forgot I was one.

A new vision of slow travel

Until then, I had assumed that slow travel simply meant staying somewhere long enough for the connection to occur naturally. I had been waiting until I felt comfortable instead of finding ways to participate.

That night finally helped me make sense of the six months we had spent traveling through Australia, New Zealand, and Bali. We had visited impressive destinations, but we approached them all in the same way.

When Nigel and I retired early, we embraced slow travel: we rented apartments, stayed for weeks rather than days, and lived more like residents than tourists. I figured time would naturally create a connection.

Instead, we often remain spectators.

In Sydney, we spent a day among the crowds around Circular Quay, taking the ferry across the harbor and sharing a bottle of wine while listening to music coming from the amphitheater.

It was exactly the kind of day I had planned before we retired. Beautiful, efficient and memorable. We took the ferry back to Double Bay with frame-worthy photographs, but not a single meaningful interaction beyond ordering coffee and paying for lunch.

Christchurch, New Zealand, offered the first hint that something different was possible. Our host suggested we volunteer for an afternoon, helping to remove protective covers from native saplings so they could continue growing.

We barely exchanged more than a few words with the strangers, yet I left feeling more connected to that city than after days of sightseeing.

We became regular customers at the neighborhood coffee shop until when we walked through the door they were already making our oatmeal whites with milk. We walk the trails of Cashmere often enough to recognize the dogs.

One morning, a man walking his dog called out, “Hello, neighbor.”

I looked at Nigel.

“Did he mean us?”

I was absurdly pleased that he did.

It’s time to take charge

Looking back, I realized that I had been asking places to do something only I could do. I thought that staying longer would eventually create that feeling. What really made the difference was coming together.

After that night in Bali, everything became easier. Our housekeeper smiled every morning when I greeted her with another local phrase. The neighborhood children invited us to chat. Even the rescue dog that used to bark every time I passed by finally trotted next to me.

The ceremony had not changed Bali; It changed the way I approached it.

While Nigel and I plan a five-month trip to South America later this year, our spreadsheet still includes rent, walkability, air conditioning, and laundry. But we’re also looking for local cafes where we can become regular customers, volunteer opportunities, communities where it’s easy to get involved, and neighborhoods where life extends outdoors rather than hiding behind the walls of a resort.

The morning after my karaoke debut, we sat by the pool drinking tea as the conversation floated over the temple wall. Scooters were still whizzing down the alley, kids were still riding bikes, and nothing in Bali was different.

Except this time the language sounded familiar. I still couldn’t understand most of the words, but I recognized the voices. For the first time since we arrived, they sounded like home.