Alone and Afraid: On Travelling Solo

Anthony Bourdain once said, “My one piece of advice is: travel as far as you can, as often as you can.” Ever since hearing this many years ago, I’ve been restless. It’s a nice sentiment, but easier said than done. Still, thanks to a bit of encouragement, a lack of internship prospects, and just enough capital, I decided to finally heed Mr Bourdain’s sage advice and booked a solo trip to Vietnam.

The truth is, before I left, I wasn’t excited. I was dreading it. I didn’t want to leave my bed, my books, my friends, the familiar streets of my city, the comfort of knowing exactly what time the kettle clicks off. I didn’t want to leave the people I loved to throw myself into the anxiety‑inducing task of speaking to strangers and navigating a completely foreign place — alone. The thought of leaving for two months made me physically nauseous.

There’s a specific kind of existential nausea that comes when you know you’re about to rupture some routine, some version of yourself. I was terrified I’d leave and regret it, but more terrified I’d stay and rot. So I left.

It was the best decision of my life. And in the next few paragraphs, I’ll try and convince you, if ever the opportunity arises, to do the same.

You will overpack. You will regret every heavy item within two hours of arrival. You will land somewhere unfamiliar and, in mid‑airport panic, fear you’ll be alone for the next month. But then, slowly, the noise of that panic quiets — you’ll sit alone in a restaurant, watching a new world unfold, and the panic is replaced by something else: curiosity.

Solo travel isn’t glamorous. It’s not all ‘finding yourself’ and hostel romances. A large part of it is awkward small talk, strange sleeping arrangements, and sweating through all your clothes in the matter of a week. But in between all that, you meet people. Unexpected, strange, kind people. People who become friends for a night or a lifetime, generous locals who invite you into their homes and offer you a glimpse of their lives. Though these connections are fleeting, the kindness and generosity of strangers will stay with you and reignite your hope in a more communal world.

But how do I make these connections, you may ask? I wouldn’t consider myself the most naturally extroverted person. However, travelling alone is a kind of exposure therapy — when you have no other choice but to speak to strangers, you will. One thing makes this easier: Communal drinking. The unspoken entry fee to friendships is your willingness to join in on the social drinking — and fair warning, there’s a lot of it. Like smoking, it’s a weirdly efficient way to make friends. There’s something disarming about cheap beer and something bonding about the collective haze of a drunken night. My advice: drink with the people you meet. Accept the slightly suspect moonshine from locals (within reason). Sit on plastic chairs, listen without judgment, and talk about what your heart desires. Another tip is to take advantage of hostelworld. You’ll be using it to book your stays — please don’t stay in hotels, hostels are cheaper and much more fun. Don’t be afraid to use the groupchats — you’ll go out for dinner or drinks with someone and end up finding your travel buddy for the next week. 

If the idea of solo travel still makes your stomach turn or you think there’s more ‘productive’ ways to spend your time off uni, that is totally understandable. But know that solo traveling isn't just a scenic getaway — you will find that the skills you acquire along the way are genuinely useful and transferable to the professional world.

You learn how to make decisions — constantly and confidently. You decide where to sleep, what route to take, how to respond when plans fall apart. There’s no one to default to but yourself. You learn to trust your own judgment and also how to recover when it’s wrong. You become adaptable. Everything from language barriers to illness and marred travel plans, you’ll learn to adjust quickly. Adaptability is one of those buzzwords that gets thrown around in job interviews, but when you’ve navigated a border crossing with a dead phone, it becomes a real skill that never leaves you. You learn independence. In fact, you prove it to yourself. You also, perhaps most importantly, learn how to speak to people, people from wildly different backgrounds who’ll teach you to stop fearing how you’re perceived. You learn how to ask questions, how to listen, how to connect quickly and sincerely. 

I met an accountant on sabbatical, an engineer, a dominatrix, a teacher, and a photographer in the span of a day. You’ll meet people who are lost, people who are professionals, all of whom will reassure you they, too, still haven’t figured it out. You’ll gain perspective on your life back home and come back less stressed and more open to unexpected possibilities.

Like Odysseus, Santiago, Ishmael, the solo traveller is rarely running toward something. Usually, they’re just trying to outrun the stillness, the inertia, the nagging feeling that life might pass by unannounced while you refresh your outlook, waiting to hear back from another internship application.

So, go out there alone, speak to strangers, and learn to be with yourself. Whether it's a day trip to Cupar, a weekend in a quiet Tuscan town, or months in Patagonia, a solo trip may just be the thing that brings you back to life.

I draw the conclusion that you will, without a doubt, be very afraid. That part is unavoidable. But you will also, without a doubt, be very much not alone.

Photo by Anna-Marie Regner