In the summer before starting university, with my place at Oxford secured, and the reality of the impending plunge into the unknown beginning to dawn on me, I embarked on a three-week long solo trip around Italy. Equipped with only a small carry-on, I hopped from one hostel to another, staying in eight different cities. My extremely tight budget did not hold me back; I kept myself busy with museums, art galleries, trips to ruins, and ate some of the best food of my life. I did, unfortunately, turn into somewhat of a pizza snob. Alternately unnerving and exhilarating (Naples is not the safest destination for a solo female traveller), the trip was the best preparation for starting university that I could have asked for, much more so than all that pre-reading that I was never asked about.
I am well aware that the opportunity to travel smacks of privilege. But this is not an exculpation of the gap yah; I’m not advocating a trip to a resort in Bali to find yourself, safely cushioned by daddy’s bank account and padded out with a dabble in voluntourism. This is a defence of the low-budget, high-reward solo trip abroad. It is now easier than ever to find affordable options for travel, accommodation, and food. By saving up from summer work, and developing indispensable budgeting skills, I was able to sustain myself abroad for a far cheaper rate than it costs to live day to day in Oxford, for example.
As travel abroad becomes easier to organise, solo trips are on the rise, particularly among women. Despite the daunting prospect, and the evident risks (strong enough to dissuade many), when done right it can be a vital act of self-assertion, and a prioritisation of autonomous pleasure in a culture which inculcates self-subordination. Chosen solitude shouldn’t be seen as a sign of loneliness, or as an inherent deficiency, but as an active cultivation of the self. The constructive and restorative power of solitude, particularly in the context of what can cheesily be termed an ‘adventure’, cannot be understated.
For me, after my relatively sheltered countryside upbringing, solo travel was a chance to construct a sense of true independence, so that the abrupt isolation of university life did not come as quite the jolting shock it would have otherwise.
A year and a half later, still reeling from my just-completed exams, I took myself off on a three-day solo trip to Athens, and was reminded afresh of the joys of independent travel. As much as I relish travelling with friends, going solo facilitates new realms of possibilities. With none of the compromise, none of the scheduling, none of the inevitable anxiety of making arrangements on someone else’s behalf, there is much greater scope for real relaxation. Besides – somewhat paradoxically, choosing to go alone makes it easier to form connections with others. I became much more confident in social – and even romantic – interactions with people I met along the way in the absence of the ever-debilitating risk that you might run into them on Broad Street.
Of course, the first time I walked into a restaurant by myself and requested a table for one, it was a game of endurance, persevering through the oppressive sense of strangers’ judgement. But comfort is cultivated; whether by talking to waiters or neighbouring diners, choosing more low-key venues or bringing a book, I adapted to deal with situations that previously seemed too intimidating. With confidence progressively earned, my security in my own independence grew, so that now, a solo tute doesn’t seem so scary after all.
