We’ve come a long way from the Beatnik generation of vagabonds who traveled with no money, hitchhiked and lived day-to-day based on the obscure question, “Why not?” And yet, more young people are reinventing this movement of change and random experiences than ever before.

The generation that is sometimes called the “Duty-free-ers,” is defined as people less than 35 years old who will move often and readily for work, school or adventure. The Duty-free-ers are seen as an unfocused and detached bunch with little concern for stability or jobs. But maybe they are on to something.

Why does it seem that so many of us are looking for something outside of our community, neighborhood and country? In a world that is becoming increasingly global, spending a semester abroad makes sense.

Young people all over the world have this “grass is greener” type of mentality. Australians typically take a year to travel after college, and most Europeans change countries frequently. We often think we can solve problems, change policies or jump start careers by becoming immersed in day-to-day activities, but sometimes the best option is to let things be.

Traveling can give you a different perspective and also teach you things about yourself that you could never tap into while in a comfort zone.

If you do travel, I advise you to cut the bowlines and truly immerse yourself, having as little contact with other Americans as possible.

Nothing against Americans, but by hanging around with just your own kind, you will surely miss a huge aspect of the culture you are in, not to mention probably slip into conversations that begin with, “In the States…”

Take for example, the Pink Palace, a hostel in Corfu, Greece, where my friend and I had the privilege of staying. We were under the impression that it was the only relatively cheap place to stay, so we bought tickets in Italy before boarding the ferry.

After a 33-hour journey across the waters of the Ionian Sea, we had become best buds with a group of kids from Quebec, sustained ourselves on mustard and crackers and shared the deck with a slew of Italian truck drivers.

Humorous, yes, until a peppy Greek man packed us into a minivan and drove us up the mountains listening to party hits at 7 a.m. After paying, we were handed a shot of ouzo, the classic Greek drink that tastes a little like apricots, and ushered off to our rooms.

By the second night, the Pink Palace started to resemble an American frat party, when some SoCal-looking boys initiated hostel-goers by smashing porcelain plates over our heads and gyrating to John Mellencamp’s “Life Goes On.”

Not fun.

Yet, no one else saw the irony in hanging out in a hostel to the sounds of “Chug, chug, chug!” when there were (gasp) real-live-Greeks only a few blocks away. We ditched, but not before being hassled on our way out.

“How long are you staying at the Pink Palace?”

“One day,” we responded.

“No one stays at the Pink Palace for just one day,” the doorman, an American, who worked for no more than $12 a day, said cryptically.

We spent the rest of our time dancing at a real Greek pub, where we made friends with a seven-year-old girl who was better company than the drunken American students. We skipped out on the “authentic” toga party where guests wore pink bed sheets, but we ended up finding a taste of real local flavor.

I guess traveling is what you make of it. From there on out, our trip was duty-free.