Why Traveling Alone Is the Least Lonely Way to Go

Traveling alone through Europe, I acquired new friends like passport stamps and saw things I never would have seen without my ad hoc companions.

Illustration by Olivia Waller

I often look back to the time when I was, uncharacteristically, adventurous and independent — when I backpacked solo around Europe. “I traveled by myself for two months,” I’ll say breezily, as if I were actually a daring person who does this sort of thing without thinking twice. (I’m not.)

I was 20 years old, and it was my own personal Grand Tour, the bookish type’s great adventure. That summer I wandered cities I’d read about in classic literature — ­London, Paris, Florence.

It’s only when I reread my journals that I remember a key detail about those renegade months. To begin with, I never meant to travel alone. The trip had been planned with a friend who bailed last minute, and in an act of brazenness (or maybe I’m just too uptight to change my plans), I decided to go anyway.

These journals also reveal someone putting on a brave face while quaking with nerves (which, honestly, sounds more like me). Stranded in a Spanish bus station, I wrote: “How did I get here, why didn’t I make more reservations, why am I alone?” I was afraid I was embarking on a nightmare trip.

Then something happened: I glanced up from my journal to see a fellow solo traveler. She had all the signs I’d soon learn to look for: a torso-sized backpack, an English-­language guidebook, and an expression that was a mix of excitement and terror. Okay, I told myself, what’s the worst that could happen? I approached her and asked her about a bus. Within moments we were chatting about our mutual interest in the Moorish city of Granada. Before long, Karen felt like a dear old pal as we bonded while exploring Granada’s palaces and tea shops. We discussed our love lives and what we wanted to do after college, sharing details in that way you sometimes only can with a stranger. But my bus station friend was headed to Portugal next while I was obsessed with Barcelona, so we swapped info and parted ways.

Once again, I worried that I’d be lonely the rest of the trip. But it was like a dam had broken, and when I got off the train in Barcelona, I spotted another lone woman and introduced myself. After that, my days in Barcelona were linked to this new friend, an athletic, hard-partying Canadian — the opposite of cautious, rule-following me. I’m not sure we would’ve hit it off in any other context, which perhaps made getting to know her more delightful. Without Priyanka, I would’ve never found myself dancing at a disco and hanging at the beach with locals, a fun respite from my usual museum-­heavy itinerary.

Each stop was flavored by the people I met there, so that now when I look back on the trip, it’s like a wildly colorful quilt.

Soon I had my system down, like a socially awkward detective. Upon arriving in a new place, I’d scope out train stations for fellow solo travelers or small groups that looked welcoming. I’d take a deep breath (did I mention my social anxiety?), then sidle up and ask for advice, even if I didn’t need it. As it turns out, everyone loves offering travel advice.

And thus I made more friends traveling alone than I ever would have had I been with a companion. Each stop was flavored by the people I met there, so that now when I look back on the trip, it’s like a wildly colorful quilt. The relationships developed fast and hard, like platonic one-night stands. It was the best of meeting someone new (excitement! novelty! loads to talk about!) without any inconveniences (needs! disagreements! compromise!). I met a chef in the South of France, and we clicked immediately. Jen was older and seemed incredibly worldly as she told me about her journeys throughout India. She nudged me out of my comfort zone, encouraging me to try great food and urging me to bike ride through orchards. I can recall the perfection of the warm peach she plucked from a tree and told me to eat, its juice trickling down my arm. She was a lot of fun for a few days, but then she fell into a funk, and I decided to go in another direction. After all, we weren’t tied together in any serious way. I’d loved seeing France through her eyes, but the advantage of our casual, sudden connection was that I could move on.

There were also things that I realized were more fun alone — times when I preferred a solitary hike, or when I wanted to make my own decisions about where to eat or how to get there. I had the freedom to say good-bye to my temporary BFFs, no hard feelings, especially since I would likely never see them again.

Of course, sometimes it didn’t work out. There were people I’d join for a beer only to realize we had nothing to say, or men who were interested in more than camaraderie. There were lonesome moments, too. In Amsterdam I wrote in my journal about how desperately I wanted someone to visit the coffee shops with, feeling pathetic by myself in my hostel’s lobby.

But by the end of my trip, I trusted my instincts. I knew how to find people when I wanted, and I was comfortable on my own when it suited. I’ve never been great at spontaneity, but having a new companion every day or two made switching gears quickly necessary. Everything wasn’t perfect. I didn’t hit every spot on my list, and I ended up in a lot of places I hadn’t meant to go and maybe wouldn’t choose again. But that trip was life-changing, impossible to replicate, and turned me into a more relaxed, confident traveler. I should probably thank my friend for bailing.

About the author: Amy Shearn is the author of the novels The Mermaid of Brooklyn, How Far Is the Ocean From Here, and the forthcoming Unseen City, which will be published by Red Hen Press in the fall of 2020. She is New York fiction editor at Joyland Magazine and lives in Brooklyn.