There are a few things in life I feel like I’m pretty good at, among them, roasting a mean pork tenderloin, giving sad sacks hours and hours of life advice without pay, drinking a whole bottle of champagne without getting slurry, drawing meaningful dating wisdom from unlikely sources (like “Star Trek”), and traveling alone. Interestingly, I’ve gotten good at all these things, as different as they are, through being a thirtysomething woman with no dependents or serious love interests. The perks of being single abound!
But seriously. I love traveling alone. Initially, traveling alone was something I did out of necessity. Following the big breakup of 2008 (never forget), I suddenly found myself making enough money, finally, to afford a regular vacation, but without a built-in travel buddy/boyfriend. While I obviously had friends, the vast majority of them were either A) in serious relationships and used their precious vacation hours to travel together or B) too poor to go anywhere besides a stops on the Long Island Railroad. That meant that if I was going to get the hell out of New York City — and seriously, you have to leave NYC sometimes or you’ll end up going crazy and painting song lyrics in menstrual blood on your bedroom walls — I was going to have to embark on a solo adventure. Luckily, I have always been someone who savored me time so aside from a few vague fears (would I get bored? would it be safe?), I was stoked at the prospect of having seemingly limitless hours to explore a new place on my own terms, unencumbered by anyone else’s needs and desires. How luxurious.
And, oh, how it is. I have adored every single one of my solo vacations to the point where I genuinely prefer traveling the world alone. For one thing, untethering yourself, however temporarily, from the demands of your fellow man adds a whole new level of relaxation to a vacation. For example… Keep reading »
