As much I love solo travel and could give an actual Ted Talk on how solo travel helped me learn so much about myself, build confidence and have experiences I never would have had otherwise – there are other parts to it that don’t always get talked about.
Maybe it’s just me but I often put pressure on a solo travel trip – that is needs to be this big Eat Pray Love adventure every time. That I need to make life long friends or have a spontaneous romance with who I’ll swear is my soul mate up until the flight home. That each person I meet will change me with deep conversations, stories shared and perspectives given and all forms of adventure will follow. That although it’s a “solo trip” – I shouldn’t exactly be alone the entire time, right?.. to which I’m realizing, in some ways, defeats the purpose.
Antibes and most of France was a trip I mostly did alone and I’ll be honest, there wasn’t anything big or adventurous that happened the entire time I was there. It was a lot of napping on beaches, journaling, reflecting, and then rinse and repeat til I went home. And it was lovely, it was honestly what I needed in a lot of ways and with all the time to reflect, it made me realize some things.
It’s okay to have a solo trip actually be a solo trip. Do we really believe that beautiful places can’t be embraced and enjoyed the same alone as with someone? That you can’t look at a sunset or a butterfly or ocean tide when you’re by yourself and see the same amount of beauty, wonder and magic?
I’d argue if anything, I experience and feel more when I’m by myself because there’s nothing to do but take it in. Moment by moment. No chatter in between. No “we have dinner plans at this time so we better get ready.” No playing music to fill the silence. It’s just silence. Sitting with your thoughts and what you’re feeling for as long as it takes and taking it all in.
I learned is you can find yourself in the silence and stillness the same way you can find yourself in the excitement and romance when you’re on a solo trip. Maybe even more so.
When you’re spending so much time alone, the connections you do make, ever small as they are, feel so much bigger and grander than every day. Suddenly small interactions with strangers that any other day I’d dismiss and forget about are romantic and large in their simplicity.
Like Francia, the woman who sold me a jade bracelet who told me she sensed I was a writer while her sleepy cat Tom, side eyed me as I tried to coax him out from under the table for pets. The interaction must’ve lasted five minutes. Majority of the conversation a one sided one between me and Tom who barely looked up from his cleaning paw to acknowledge my “pssst psst”. But the memory and the moment spans so much more.
Or Augustine, the writer expat I met for a tour of Antibes. We walked around Antibes, showing me the different sights of past poets and artists and she told me of stories of the tortured male artists they belonged to. The irony of us, two female writers, through a lens of feminism discussing their affairs and muses, not lost on either of us. About Fitzgerald’s infidelity and abuse and the thought of what Zelda might have published herself had she’d been someone else’s muse or her story gotten a chance to be written from her perspective. Accepting we’ll never really learn the truth with the lens of historic figures always being slightly bias toward men.
Augustine’s impact was also reminding me how saying “Yes” to things can change your life in a huge way – even in the incremental ways. She ended up living in France by simple saying yes to one small opportunity. A simple Yes can be a whole butterfly affect and I love that reminder. The universe is always working in the background if you let it and listen.
But most importantly, the thing I take from my interaction from her is the importance of the details. In savoring the details, of course but most importantly, in writing the details. Even when journaling.
We had this conversation at a cafe by the water, right next to a marina so packed with boats you could only see bits of blue peeking out from the water and the sky. We drank orange juice instead of water because it was the kind of heat where something was a little sweet was necessary.
As we waved our hands in front of our faces to stay cool, she reminded me that I will read what I write back one day. (Which is true either in this blog, in my little notes app on my phone or in a journal) Because I’ll read it back one day, I want to really make sure I do myself the gift of writing as much as possible so I can take myself these.
So in the spirit of her advice – when I wrote this, I sat under- under is a stretch, more next to? a tree with all sorts of past lovers names etched on them, some in hearts, some tiny, some large, all the etching text overlapping on itself, every inch of it covered – like one giant proclamation of how much love this tree can hold before it bursts. It’s the only shade spot I could find that still offers me a view by the sea, though the water is slightly blocked by some other tourists admiring the view so I mostly can only see sky.
Next to me (and maybe even the place I sit) is centuries old. It’s the Picasso museum, the museum itself inside a building Picasso purchased for himself decades ago. It makes me wonder if Picasso somehow knew this would be where this work would survive decades of changes technology and trends. I wonder if all artists think about their work standing the test of time. Or if to do that you have to be delusional or bold in a way that only great artists are. That decades ago the possibility that Picasso had even had the slightest thought that tourists with metal boxes in their hands would wonder those same halls, viewing and discussing his works, long after. And it’s then I wonder the same of my own work.
And I’m reminded once again, to make sure I remember to write the details.
