How solo travel helped me discover that I am my best company

It all began with an ending. The break-up blindsided me, though, in hindsight, it should not have. I had rolled out of a 17-year marriage that was calm and predictable, into a relationship with someone who was anything but. We had love and friendship, but he just could not commit to me. In fact, he had not committed to me on two other occasions, so the third time should not have been a surprise, yet it still stunned me.

A happier moment in the relationship had yielded a gift; a birthday present of 65,000 miles to go anywhere my heart desired! I was a single mom on a restricted budget, so travel was a luxury that I could not and would not do unless I had outside support. After the breakup, I set my courage and pride aside to ask, “What about Italy?” He replied, “Book it!” So before he could change his mind, I did. I had never left the US, and I had never traveled alone… now I was about to do both! I planned carefully to spend the first week with two dear friends, and then forge out on my own the following week.

Italy took my breath away. Delirious and jet-lagged, the little town of Vernazza was a sensory riot as I ate my first “real” pizza, drank my first “real” Italian table wine and inhaled my first “real” gelato. A cacophony of sounds at daybreak morphed into the realization that I was really in Italy.

The first week with my friends passed quickly: we hiked Cinqueterre, haunted the streets of Lucca, and got lost in the labyrinth of Rome. Soon enough, it was our last night together. Nervous about my morning departure, I rehearsed my journey with my friends. We walked to the train station. Practiced using the ticket machine. Walked to the platform where the train would whisk me to Naples. I felt excited and ready…that is, until the morning.

It’s difficult to describe the panic I felt as I waved goodbye to my friends. They were my security — the familiarity and comfort of companionship in a foreign country. I managed to get on the train, hyperventilating in my seat as I blasted New Age music into my headphones and tried to slow my breathing. My first stop: Naples. I arrived and frantically hailed a cab to the ferry station. The cab driver was curt as he took my bag and gestured me into the back seat. I tried to display confidence and that I was indeed a very travel-savvy woman.

“Comment t’allez vous?” I said, trying out my Italian.
His eyebrow raised. “Français?” He said. “Je vais bien, merci. Et vous?”.
Merde. Who knew my high school French was so entrenched that I defaulted to it as soon as another language presented itself?
“Come Va?” I tried again.
His eyes met mine in the rearview mirror. “American?” he asked. “Where are you from?”

I don’t remember precisely what that cab ride cost, only that it was exorbitant! The cab driver clearly saw that I was a rookie and an unspoken assumption allowed him to commit highway robbery, but at least I arrived at the ferry safely. I lugged my bag onto the boat, plugged in my music, and continued to suck oxygen.

The ferry ride was a blur. I remember approaching Sorrento and being awed by the dramatic cliffs. I must have changed ferries, but I didn’t even realize it until we rounded a corner and Positano came into view. I saw colors and sunlight, a mirage that blurred and cleared and came into focus with a heart-stopping suddenness. Oh yeah, I’m going to be just fine. I was immediately entranced. I giggled to myself as a dragged my suitcase up, up, UP the stairs until I reached the top of town, breathless with excitement — and from the stairs.

I had connected online with a guide of a small, local hiking company who recommended a tiny family-owned pensione for my stay. From the top of the city, I caught a cab the remaining short distance. I wheeled my bag down the steep driveway and was greeted by a sun wizened man with a warm smile, who spoke as much English as I did Italian. He gestured me into a small apartment. There was a tiny kitchen, a pink and white tiled bathroom that looked much older than me, and a double bed next to a small table and chair. It was spotless, simple, and just enough. I was charmed.

The man walked over to a shuttered area and threw open a floor to ceiling door that led to the balcony. The air left my lungs, and my eyes struggled to focus on the blue blue blue Tyrrhenian Sea. I stepped out onto a terrace overhanging the blue to see the bright splash of Positano, so close I could almost touch the palate. It was stunning, overwhelming, glorious, and mine for a week. I almost wept, feeling overwhelmed by gratitude.

A little later, I ventured into town to have my first solo dinner. Before the era of smartphones and the defense mechanism of social media, I had to sit quietly all by myself at a restaurant. There was no barrier between me and my aloneness. I ordered ravioli and a glass of wine. A couple behind me heard me speaking English and asked where I was from.

“San Francisco,” I said.
They laughed, “So are we!”

They were on their honeymoon and apparently had been traveling long enough that they were happy to share their company with a solo woman at the table next to them. We chatted across our tables and ended up sharing a dessert and walking out together. They were staying at one of the 5-star hotels a few blocks away, and a shuttle arrived to take them back to their suite. I turned to begin the 20 min walk back to my room.

“Wait, wait! You can’t walk alone,” they said.

I observed a hurried conversation with the shuttle driver, maybe there was a quick tip slipped into his hand. The next thing I knew, I was being shuttled back to my door. I only saw these friends one more time; waving to me from their shuttle as I stood at the bus stop a few days later. I waved back, with a large cone stuffed full of chocolate gelato in my hand. We laughed at my ludicrous gesture, and then they were gone.

This lovely couple (did I even ask their names?) helped me more than they probably even knew. After that night, I wasn’t afraid to eat alone. I became more confident in my ability to connect to the people next to me. Usually, it was effortless, the bond of being English speakers formed an instant connection. I connected with a group of Australian women on the Path of the Gods, a British family in Pompeii and a pair of Irish honeymooners in Ravello.

I made friends with non-English speakers too. We would chat cheerfully on trails and in churches, over wine and gelato. We often only understood one out of three words, but it’s incredible how like-minded people can communicate using gestures, feelings, and good intentions.

And I slept, the terrace open, the sea lapping below me, the moon filling my room. It’s not that I didn’t have moments of sadness that I didn’t have anyone with me to share this experience. Part of the experience was sitting with that alone-ness and choosing not to be lonely. Mostly, I reveled in being able to make choices each day for myself and not feel like something was missing. I felt complete.