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What it is really like to travel alone
My wanderlust started with a Billy Joel song. Yes, some might say it is unwise to visit a city just because of a catchy tune. But that was how I made my way to Austria with only good old Billy as my travel buddy.
In college, I took part in a spring work/study program in London. And while I loved the U.K. and my job working for a health website, what excited me most was the opportunity to travel. I spent my weekends visiting cafés in Barcelona with my roommates, and admiring Edinburgh accompanied by friends. But no one wanted to stay and explore Europe more extensively after our sixteen weeks were up. So, I decided to do it alone.
I did not set out wanting to travel by myself. It is something that young women are discouraged from doing. My own mother was desperate to talk me out of the idea. “It’s dangerous for girls to travel by themselves,” she would warn me every time we spoke. I insisted that I knew women my age who had done it, and that I would be fine. My friends back home were skeptical, too. “Wait, no one’s going with you?” they would ask. No doubt they wondered who would be taking photos of me for my posts on the Internet.
But after convincing them that just because I am a Millennial woman does not mean I have to be constantly surrounded by a team, I had to convince myself to believe it. The night before my departure I was terrified. While everyone else was flying back to the States, I would be on the Chunnel to Paris to start my two-week trip alone. The thought was disabling. I have always been a person who recharges with alone time, but this suddenly seemed like too much to take on, especially in unfamiliar places.
The journey was liberating. While I was nervous that my first meal alone would be awkward, I was not tempted by the idea of eating takeout in my hostel room, either. So, I faced the fear. I slipped on my formal (albeit a bit wrinkled) jacket, channeled my inner Cool French Girl, and stepped out into the cool spring air of the Montmartre quarter. I was going to dinner.
It ended up being one of the most memorable dining experiences of my life. I savored the otherworldly steak frites for which the restaurant is famous, observed the elegant Parisian women adorned in their Saturday evening pearls, and even ordered in the language of love. I enjoyed my glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, and devoured a plate of the most delicious eclairs in the entire City of Light. I had no fear of judgment by others, since no one knew me, nor did I know anyone.
This freedom ended up being one of the most enjoyable aspects of my trip, and for once, that did not mean feeling guilty. I spent hours riding on a water bus in Venice. I decided not to climb the Duomo in Florence because it just seemed like too many stairs. I read for hours in the lush gardens of the Schönbrunn Palace in Vienna. Though the trip was not without its uncomfortable moments, of course, my solo trip was not a mistake – for sure.
I spent the final hours of my trip wandering around the gorgeous, pastel façade-lined streets of Vienna. About fifteen minutes prior to leaving, I pulled out my iPod and listened to “Vienna.” After the familiar piano trills, Billy’s familiar voice flooded in: “Slow down you crazy child,” he sang. “You’re so ambitious for a juvenile.” I began to cry – partially from exhaustion, perhaps, but mostly because the moment felt intensely profound. Here I was, in a city I had always escaped to in my mind through Billy’s song, closing out the most incredible experience of my life. A little crazy, a little ambitious. All me.