Traveling Alone
I don’t think I ever imagined the kinds of challenges I would face when traveling alone, especially in a place where my language skills, while allowing me to get through the most basic interactions, are not strong enough to lead to the kinds of conversations that create intimacy and friendship.
One of the things that can get especially nerve wracking is interacting with new people and entering new places. It gets overwhelming, not being sure what to expect and all the while being concerned about whether you’re going to accidentally say the wrong thing, without even meaning to. At least if you’re speaking the same language, you’ll know when you insult someone. Suddenly, actions that are so inconsequential in normal life take on major significance. Going to the grocery store. Riding the bus. Ordering coffee. I can’t tell you how many times in the last several weeks that I’ve stood in front of an establishment, preparing myself for walking inside. Just yesterday, I practiced saying “do you sell white vinegar” about 100 times in my head, walking around two grocery stores before I was able to work up the courage to ask a salesclerk for help (long story, but it was a necessary item!). And despite all my practice and the mental preparation it took just to get me to ask, the interaction was a bust – she had absolutely no idea what I was talking about and I was left feeling like an idiot – not a feeling anyone relishes. It’s humbling, to say the least.
Truthfully, though, I think that I would feel this way even without the language barrier. There’s something about being a solo traveler that sets you apart from wherever you are. You can be in a place but it’s hard to actually be part of that place. When you’re traveling with someone else, it’s easy to forget that you don’t really belong; there’s someone else with you to share the experience, which is why you’re there to begin with. But when I decided to travel alone, it was because I wanted to become part of the places that I was visiting, not just see them.
It’s not easy though. I’ve learned that no matter where you are, when you walk into a restaurant and ask for a table for one, you get funny looks. Even here, in a town where everyone has been so kind and welcoming to me, it’s hard to walk into a bar and order a drink, knowing that no one is coming to meet you. And even if someone does decide to talk to you, there’s no guarantee the conversation will get beyond the formalities and that person won’t head off to talk to the friends they’ve brought.
One of the ways that I’ve tried to deal with what is, essentially, a self-imposed isolation, is through coming up with a routine. Instead of trying a new restaurant every day, I go to the same bar when I go out alone. I know the bartenders there now – they see me coming and say hello, comment on the weather, and ask how I’m doing. It’s not much, but it makes me feel like I’m part of the town. They remember my drink. They joke with me about the other regulars (like the crazy old guy who fights with Gladys about which tapas he’s going to eat). They make me glad that I’ve left the apartment. As with the bar, I go to the same coffee shop whenever I’m in the city, ordering my regular cappuccino or my small bowl of after-eight ice cream. The girls who work there know me now too; they ask me if I’m enjoying my vacation and comment when I’m not there for a few days. And there’s the young girl at the store near my apartment, which overcharges for the basics, but I go and buy a handful of things there every couple of days anyway. The young clerk helps me pronounce things in Spanish and doesn’t seem to mind when I ask her where to find things. It turns out that she does needlepoint; ever since I told her about my knitting, she’s been more willing to talk to me whenever I go in.
Sometimes I look at the other restaurants, the other coffee shops, the other small markets, and wonder if perhaps I should go in. After all, I’m here to experience everything that I can. But I fear that by adding too many places to my day, I’ll lose out on those small interactions with the people who have started to make me feel like I belong here. I think a lot about something I once read. The author, in her youth, worked as a waitress. She used to pity those older couples who came in on the same night every week and ordered the same dish. Years later, as an adult, she found that she had fallen into the same pattern; she and her husband went to the same Mexican restaurant for dinner every Saturday and ordered the same dishes. Reminded of her youthful fervor, she convinced her husband to change things up one Saturday night and they ended up at a new restaurant, where the service was mediocre, the food horrible, and the experience entirely unpleasant. Sure enough, they were back at the favored Mexican restaurant the following Saturday night. I’m starting to think that that Mexican restaurant doesn’t sound so bad after all.
But if I do want to enjoy everything that this experience has to offer, I will have to keep stepping outside of my comfort zone and I will not always be able to depend on the small routines that I’ve set up for myself. Tonight will be one of those nights. There is an international Jazz Festival on the other side of town, starting later tonight (Saturday night). It is an experience not to be missed, but if I am to go, I have to go alone. After all, most of my friends on this side of town will be in bed by 10:30. It’s not a situation that I relish – being alone in a crowd of people whose language I don’t speak and on a Saturday night no less, when everyone will be out in groups and with friends. But if I don’t go, I miss the possibility of making new friends, having an amazing experience, and hearing some fabulous music. And so once more, I will stand outside the establishment, take a deep breath, and walk inside, hoping for the best.
Wish me luck.
One of the things that can get especially nerve wracking is interacting with new people and entering new places. It gets overwhelming, not being sure what to expect and all the while being concerned about whether you’re going to accidentally say the wrong thing, without even meaning to. At least if you’re speaking the same language, you’ll know when you insult someone. Suddenly, actions that are so inconsequential in normal life take on major significance. Going to the grocery store. Riding the bus. Ordering coffee. I can’t tell you how many times in the last several weeks that I’ve stood in front of an establishment, preparing myself for walking inside. Just yesterday, I practiced saying “do you sell white vinegar” about 100 times in my head, walking around two grocery stores before I was able to work up the courage to ask a salesclerk for help (long story, but it was a necessary item!). And despite all my practice and the mental preparation it took just to get me to ask, the interaction was a bust – she had absolutely no idea what I was talking about and I was left feeling like an idiot – not a feeling anyone relishes. It’s humbling, to say the least.
Truthfully, though, I think that I would feel this way even without the language barrier. There’s something about being a solo traveler that sets you apart from wherever you are. You can be in a place but it’s hard to actually be part of that place. When you’re traveling with someone else, it’s easy to forget that you don’t really belong; there’s someone else with you to share the experience, which is why you’re there to begin with. But when I decided to travel alone, it was because I wanted to become part of the places that I was visiting, not just see them.
It’s not easy though. I’ve learned that no matter where you are, when you walk into a restaurant and ask for a table for one, you get funny looks. Even here, in a town where everyone has been so kind and welcoming to me, it’s hard to walk into a bar and order a drink, knowing that no one is coming to meet you. And even if someone does decide to talk to you, there’s no guarantee the conversation will get beyond the formalities and that person won’t head off to talk to the friends they’ve brought.
One of the ways that I’ve tried to deal with what is, essentially, a self-imposed isolation, is through coming up with a routine. Instead of trying a new restaurant every day, I go to the same bar when I go out alone. I know the bartenders there now – they see me coming and say hello, comment on the weather, and ask how I’m doing. It’s not much, but it makes me feel like I’m part of the town. They remember my drink. They joke with me about the other regulars (like the crazy old guy who fights with Gladys about which tapas he’s going to eat). They make me glad that I’ve left the apartment. As with the bar, I go to the same coffee shop whenever I’m in the city, ordering my regular cappuccino or my small bowl of after-eight ice cream. The girls who work there know me now too; they ask me if I’m enjoying my vacation and comment when I’m not there for a few days. And there’s the young girl at the store near my apartment, which overcharges for the basics, but I go and buy a handful of things there every couple of days anyway. The young clerk helps me pronounce things in Spanish and doesn’t seem to mind when I ask her where to find things. It turns out that she does needlepoint; ever since I told her about my knitting, she’s been more willing to talk to me whenever I go in.
Sometimes I look at the other restaurants, the other coffee shops, the other small markets, and wonder if perhaps I should go in. After all, I’m here to experience everything that I can. But I fear that by adding too many places to my day, I’ll lose out on those small interactions with the people who have started to make me feel like I belong here. I think a lot about something I once read. The author, in her youth, worked as a waitress. She used to pity those older couples who came in on the same night every week and ordered the same dish. Years later, as an adult, she found that she had fallen into the same pattern; she and her husband went to the same Mexican restaurant for dinner every Saturday and ordered the same dishes. Reminded of her youthful fervor, she convinced her husband to change things up one Saturday night and they ended up at a new restaurant, where the service was mediocre, the food horrible, and the experience entirely unpleasant. Sure enough, they were back at the favored Mexican restaurant the following Saturday night. I’m starting to think that that Mexican restaurant doesn’t sound so bad after all.
But if I do want to enjoy everything that this experience has to offer, I will have to keep stepping outside of my comfort zone and I will not always be able to depend on the small routines that I’ve set up for myself. Tonight will be one of those nights. There is an international Jazz Festival on the other side of town, starting later tonight (Saturday night). It is an experience not to be missed, but if I am to go, I have to go alone. After all, most of my friends on this side of town will be in bed by 10:30. It’s not a situation that I relish – being alone in a crowd of people whose language I don’t speak and on a Saturday night no less, when everyone will be out in groups and with friends. But if I don’t go, I miss the possibility of making new friends, having an amazing experience, and hearing some fabulous music. And so once more, I will stand outside the establishment, take a deep breath, and walk inside, hoping for the best.
Wish me luck.
I'm just getting an opportunity to look at your travel posts! It's so great that you went on an adventure this summer! I bet most people feel the same way when they travel alone (or maybe it's just me). When I have to travel alone for work, I also create routines of going to the same coffee shop and restaurants. It does provide comfort in a strange place. I also just have to say that you were so courageous for traveling alone! It is really hard, but so worth the experience of seeing new and different places!
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