The Art of Being Alone
I’ve tried to sit down and write this blog post like twenty times over the past few months. It’s the thing I’ve learned the most about, the thing I’m most excited to have discovered and the thing to which I’m most addicted.
Being alone.
But every time I sat down to write it, I felt blocked. If I was going to write it, I wanted it to be perfect.
And then last night it hit me - I’ve been completely missing the point.
Back home, I spent so much of my life planning, directing and stressing out when things didn’t go to plan. I considered myself of the utmost reliability, responsibility and hyper independence. I always thought that I could do anything, even by myself, because I was good at doing things alone. It wasn’t until I moved to Paris that I realized…I had a lot of work to do on being alone.
My first solo dinner at a restaurant, I shrunk into myself. I scooted low in my chair, hidden in a back corner, and desperately buried myself in my phone rather than feel the (imagined) stares from fellow restaurant goers.
My first solo visit to a bar, I spent an hour hyping myself up to open the door of my apartment and was absolutely shaking as I walked across the street.
My first solo trip to Strasbourg, I was too nervous to even attempt the public transportation.
And when I finally decided to try public transportation on my second solo trip, this time to Cinque Terre, I could not for the life of me figure out which train was the right one. I desperately asked around and when no one else seemed to know, an older American couple and I blindly boarded together and hoped for the best.
During my solo trip to Florence, I wandered aimlessly deep into the city only to realize later that my phone was completely out of power and I had no idea how to get back to my hostel.
Even on my most recent solo trip to Berlin, my flight arrived nearly two hours late (after a bizarre incident involving a little old lady in a tie dye pantsuit assaulting a flight attendant), finally landing around 9:30pm. I rushed through security and baggage claim, but then was stuck deciphering German while I figured out the best way to get from the airport to the city center. After finally choosing the shuttle, I made it about halfway there before the conductor announced a breakdown up ahead and the shuttle was forced to turn back. I grabbed a taxi and could only hope that I wouldn’t miss the check-in time for my hostel. Ten minutes later and I’d have been sleeping on the streets.
But I didn’t sleep on the streets of Berlin, or get stranded in Florence, or board the wrong train to Cinque Terre. And after every narrowly avoided disaster, I was rewarded with the most spectacular gifts:
At the restaurant in Paris, I quietly sipped delicious white wine while listening to two older couples reminiscing about their love stories.
At the bar across the street, I sat in a room of pink hues and lush flowers while chatting, in French, with the bartender who was making bespoke cocktails for me. He offered me free shots with all the rest of the bartenders and introduced me to my first French friend!
In Strasbourg, I walked around a city that could have been straight out of a fairytale and eventually stumbled across the most delicious crème brûlée I’ve ever tasted.
In Cinque Terre, I discovered a new love for hiking as I explored the mountainside. Each bend opened onto the most breathtaking view of bright flowers clinging to rocky cliffs above topaz blue waters. Walking through a tiny town of only 150 residents, I found the best Nutella gelato in the world, and met the sweetest Airbnb host.
In Florence, I was taken under the wing of a group of Canadians who took me out to dinner within 5 minutes of our meeting. We explored the city, played beer pong at the hostel and arranged for a huge group of hostel goers to take over the nearby Italian club.
In Berlin, I wandered around the city center, soaking in the art, architecture and history, before returning to the hostel where I met a rowdy group of Irish blokes and a fearless Australian girl. Together, we scootered through the city, incidentally joining up with a group of Norwegians, and hopped from club to beergarden to bar before watching a hazy sunrise along the Spree river.
Reflecting on my newfound love of solo travel, there are a lot of lessons. I’ve learned to ask questions, to be open, to be confident. I’ve learned to let go, to stay calm in the face of challenges, to trust that things will work out. I’ve learned to grant myself some grace when things go wrong, and to be positively giddy with pride when things go right. And there’s something so liberating about each of these discoveries.
But the one that rises above the rest is clear.
My solo adventures have taught me the art of being alone. Not just being in control, certainly not being lonely, but alone in a way that lets you bask in the peace of it, that lets you see all the good in the world - the best food, the most beautiful sights and the kindest people - that teaches you to embrace the unknown, the unexpected, the imperfect, in the world around me, and in myself.
I think that’s the real lesson of solo traveling: being alone is an art. It's an art in the way that no art and no artist is perfect. But it’s all the more beautiful because of its imperfections. Learning to be alone means learning to accept imperfection. And to revel in it.
It’s a lesson I’m still learning, but isn’t that kind of the point?