ME, MYSELF AND I
Many recent travel surveys have shown a growing degree of confidence among women when it comes to travelling on their own, buffeted by the general trends of a boom in experiential travel and easier online access to reviews and guides. Last year, Klook Travel’s first solo travel survey showed that 34 per cent of women are completely fine with the concept of travelling alone. Over the last decade, solo sojourns have become a conscious choice for many women around the world.
Despite never attending sleep-away camp during childhood summers nor studying abroad for a term in college, travelling alone is something I’ve been comfortable with for 20 years now. Once I ripped off the Bandaid, I couldn’t imagine what took me so long. And it all stemmed from that first trip post-university where I got suckered into a multi-handed spa treatment on a beach in Bali. While I was young and inexperienced at being on my own, I was still a New Yorker, so if anything, I was more embarrassed than scared by having fallen victim to a common scam. The fact that the perpetrators were women may have mitigated the sting, though. They did try to swindle me out of more money than we’d agreed upon, and I relented a little just to end the situation as quickly as possible. But thankfully all I walked away with was a bruised ego.
Did I know then that such a foolish and naive experience would stick with me? That it would push me to become the brave but cautious, confident yet deliberate woman I am today? No. And therein lies one of the many benefits of going at it alone: the surprises; the what ifs; the you-never-knows. They are small moments that became big moments (and great stories), etching themselves into your consciousness to be recalled the next time you’re faced with uncertainty, which inevitably turns to wonderment, usually because you figured it out on your own.
I’ll never forget arriving in the tiny town of Vernazza in Italy’s Cinque Terre in July 2012. I’d been told it was the most charming of Italy’s five villages built into the coastal cliffs along the Ligurian Sea and was expecting The Talented Mr Ripley meets Roman Holiday. But much to my surprise the town was a mess. Cobblestone alleyways were busted open, electrical wires hung precariously from doorways and I awoke to the sound of drilling every morning.
I spent two days trying to appreciate the rest of my surroundings—the sparkling turquoise sea as I hiked along the trail between the towns, the sleepy cats I saw slumbering on the aluminium rooftops, and the sweet, ripe scent of plums that squished beneath my shoes as I trekked— but then I’d get back to Vernazza and face the imperfections like the noisy construction and the closed-forbusiness signs. Shamefully, it wasn’t until my last night in Cinque Terre that I learned what had happened: just nine months earlier, Vernazza had been devastated by a deadly mudslide. It washed away much of the city’s livelihood, let alone any “charming” hospitality that might impress unsuspecting tourists.
I felt so foolish for my ignorance—for not having known or asked questions sooner and for craving something better than what remained. What could be better than a culture and a community rebuilding itself? Suddenly, I saw the miscellaneous nails and cinder blocks in a new, hopeful light. All the other constants that had endured were doubly delightful: the church bells that rang on the half-hour, the bobbing boats in the harbour, the anchovies soaked and served in lemon, the ricotta pastries dusted with powdered sugar and the painted pottery for tourists to buy as a reminder of their stay. As for me, I didn’t need a memento to keep this trip front of mind. I had my humility to account for that.