Even before I had a lot of experience traveling by myself, I was convinced that if you dropped me, completely alone, in the middle of a foreign country, I would figure my shit out. I used to imagine myself literally being plopped into a dusty field by a helicopter that flew away in a haze, with no memory of what I was supposed to be doing there. In the daydream, I would shrug and start walking. (Why did I even have that recurring daydream? I feel like it has something to do with a childhood surrounded by daily dispatches from the War in Iraq, but I’ll save that for when I can afford a therapist.)
I’ve always kept going in life, in work, in school, simply because I felt like I had to. If I fall into a difficult situation, I need to resign myself to getting out of it somehow, even if it’s a miserable journey. If I’m at rock bottom, I know I won’t be there forever, because I’ve gotten myself through rock bottom before. Please don’t read this as self-assured optimism—it’s not. It’s more like I’m resigned to my fate, and my fate is to have the timeless knowledge that sooner or later, something bad is going to happen, so I need to be ready for it.
I once got a tarot reading from a girl in Brooklyn who was supposed to teach me how to interpret my birth chart with 10 other people, but no one else showed up to the class. “Well, I can just give you a private reading, then,” she offered. During the reading, she told me I would move abroad, that I didn’t belong where I currently was. Then she looked me in the eyes and said, “I bet you feel like you’ve had really bad luck your whole life, don’t you?” It was something no one (aside from my former therapist) had ever asked or implied about me, but something I’d been thinking since I was conscious of what luck was. I nodded. She seemed sympathetic. “For a while, it’s going to seem like your luck is bad. You’re gonna feel bad for yourself and wonder why your circumstances couldn’t be different. But,” she said, “don’t let it fool you. Your ‘bad luck’ is actually just putting you through challenges that will make you into a better, more mature, more enlightened person. You should thank your ‘bad luck,’ because it’s going to make you the person you become. You won’t always feel unlucky.”
Being “unlucky” my whole life is what taught me how to be alone. When I didn’t like my circumstances, I tried to change them in whatever escapist ways I could—reading, writing, learning about art or culture or architecture, throwing myself into projects. I became good at being on my own because somewhere, deep down, I was afraid that I’d inevitably end up that way. I prepared for the worst. I told myself that even if all my loved ones left, I would be okay alone. And I still think it’s okay to prepare for the worst, but I also think it’s more important that I be okay on my own so I can then build healthy relationships and boundaries with others.
I’ve had people seriously gasp when I’ve told them that I went to dinner alone, or to the movies alone, or to a different country alone. There are lots of comments like “Wow, I could never do that” or “Alone?! How?” or “I can’t do anything alone.” To which I say: Yes, you can! Once you come to the realization that strangers are just random people whom you owe nothing to and shouldn’t desire the opinions of, it becomes a lot easier to not give a fuck. What are people going to do, anyway? Give you a pitying look? Give them one back.
This past summer, doing things alone became a trend on TikTok. Videos of women solo traveling for the first time filled my fyp. I’d see a woman in her twenties narrating to the camera, talking about how she had just eaten lunch alone at a restaurant for the first time and it was scary but in the end, it was rewarding and nice. There would be hundreds of thousands of likes and comments. Solo was going mainstream.
I think the pandemic gave lots of adults their first experiences of being fundamentally alone for a long stretch of time. We had to try to stay sane while still, in some cases, performing the tasks and routines we felt we were supposed to with the appropriate effort, like women going to work in factories during WWII to help their country. There was this pervasive aversion to complaining, because other people had it worse, because there’s a global pandemic, because we’re all in it together. This was maybe not the best introduction to spending time with yourself, but we took it.
I’ve always enjoyed the act of doing something alone. Long before Covid, I would go to museums by myself, wandering through them the way I liked to (stopping to read literally everything, which I also do when I play video games). I’d go on long walks around different neighborhoods of New York, listening to music and podcasts—sometimes I’d take a 45-minute walk home from the gym just to keep listening. I had even gone to a concert alone, once, when I was 20, which honestly depressed me, but I tried it.
This fall, I went on a solo trip to Berlin, my second time in the city. By now, I’ve perfected solo traveling, the thought of which used to drive me to nights of anxious, sweaty, paranoid sleeplessness. I used to ask myself if I’d make friends, if I’d be okay, if I’d be bored, what I would do. Now I know that all those things may or may not happen, but as long as you’re entertained by yourself, you’ll be okay.
When I go on a solo trip, I like to pretend that I’m moving to that city and that these are my first days or weeks living there. That way, I treat it with the seriousness of a new place and the carelessness of knowing I’ll have more time to do everything I want to. Just like if I was moving to a new city, I make sure to focus on seeing some of the sights and historical things, but not pressuring myself to see them all. I also focus on doing “local” things like partying at non-touristy places, wandering around the supermarket, or vintage shopping—things I would be doing if I knew I was going to live there and had time to explore.
I was in Berlin for 10 days, and by the end, I felt like I was going to stay permanently. I had checked out bars and clubs both local and trendy, eaten at tiny hole-in-the-wall restaurants and places that had been on my mind for months, and lived my little life there for a short while. I had made friends and met people who lived there. I didn’t panic about waking up or going to bed at rigid times, I spent hours at once in certain cafes or bookstores, and I savored the time I had in the city.
One of the things I like to do on these trips is bring a couple books with me and read when I can—at cafes, in bed before sleeping, on the plane. In Berlin, I had brought a book by the Roman philosopher Seneca, Life Is Long if You Know How to Use It. I had bought it in Naples (on another solo trip) after a rainy afternoon in the National Archaeological Museum, pocketing it because it felt like the type of thing I should try to care about at some point in my life. And in Berlin, without fail, I’d take this book out at cafes and in the grass on Museum Island and in the park near Oranienburger Strasse, and I’d get through ten or so pages before moving on.
I continued reading it when I got back to Madrid, now in the cafes and restaurants and benches that felt like home. I moved to Madrid completely alone, traveled around Europe completely alone, and somehow still felt like myself. There’s a point in the book when Seneca has been exiled (do NOT ask me the details) and writes about how it’s actually not so bad being away from everything you know. “Wherever we come, we have the same order of nature to deal with…the two finest things of all will accompany us wherever we go, universal nature and our individual virtue,” he says. “There can be no place of exile within the world since nothing within the world is alien to men.”
There it is. Drop me where you want, take me from what I know, but I have myself…and that bitch is fun as hell to hang out with.
Kim
P.S. Thanks to everyone who’s been reading this sporadic mess and giving me feedback! Writing this post made me want to write about how to plan a successful solo trip, so I think that’ll be my next topic here. Feel free to share, comment, subscribe, and support me in any way you can.