As the plane angled away from the runway and my head pressed back into the seat, I peered at the ground as it fell farther beneath me and thought, “I won’t be me anymore.”
Sitting next to me was my boyfriend of almost three years, Sam.* After what had been several confusing, painful months of separation, we were on a non-stop flight to Paris, France, for vacation. Before we had taken a break from the relationship, I had wanted more commitment, and he had consistently balked. But here we were on a romantic flight to Paris, relationship adhesive applied, with only hope, and possibly desperation, fueling us. The flight attendant mistook us for honeymooners, and for the rest of the flight, I blissfully napped on Sam’s shoulder. Somewhat. I still had questions. Did he really want to marry me? Was I about to lose myself?
While we were sightseeing at Notre Dame Cathedral, a soft rain began falling, and Sam asked me to hold his shoulder bag while he scooped out his raincoat. There at the bottom of his bag was a ring box. Had he seen me notice? I was flummoxed. Betrayed. Before we left for our Paris and London trip, we had agreed, in therapy that we would wait until after our trip to decide about marriage. The trip was to be anxiety-free, all major life propositions and decisions on hold. Now here I was, ambushed, the clock ticking toward an apparently imminent marriage proposal. My stomach contracted like an origami frog, and I began to silently sweat. Where and when would it happen? The Eiffel Tower? Sam liked over-the-top everything, so that seemed a likely location. However, it could happen at any time. Anywhere. And what would I say? I resented my position. The trip was a bust.
A year later, single and settled into my plane seat, I was on a flight to Florence, Italy, for a two-and-a-half week solo trip through Italy. Before I left, almost everyone I knew told me that I shouldn’t go. A woman traveling alone? To Europe? It’s unsafe, they said. Do you even know Italian? they asked. When first confronted with these questions, I sat still. I had already bought my plane ticket and booked several accommodations.
I didn’t know Italian, and I couldn’t be certain how safe it actually was. On the other hand, coordinating trips with friends because of schedules, families, and jobs were almost impossible, and now I didn’t have a significant other with whom to travel. It didn’t seem right that I miss out on exploring the world merely because I was not seeing someone. I was determined to take myself on adventures instead of being a passenger on someone else’s.
I knew that I wanted a connection, a relationship, again someday, but my abrupt, traumatic break up also reminded me of the truth that everyone is, in the end, an individual. A separate entity that is responsible for their happiness. I knew I wanted to embrace it and find baseline contentment through self-reliance. After a while, I developed more mettle and self-assurance
when responding to people’s concerns.
I won’t say it was always easy to ferret out public transportation, foreign languages, hostels, and even a convent with a 30-pound pack on my back in 98-degree heat, but it was thrilling, challenging, and a real confidence booster that I could.
Aside from these practical navigational discomforts, I was able to successfully use maps and websites to sightsee, dine, and return safely to my residence each night. Moreover, I swam in grottos off the Island of Capri, savored a didactic wine tour in Tuscany, beached in Palermo, and took myself out to heavenly al dente pasta dinners with crisp, sweet wine. I felt happier and more alive than on any trip I had ever been on.
I also met other single travelers, sang karaoke with them at 1 am, and elected to travel to Sicily with three of them. At the helm of my own adventure, I was able to be spontaneous, brave, and even indulgent, which is not something women tend to allow themselves. It was empowering.