Okay real talk – who else has secretly screenshot those “wanderlust” posts while doomscrolling in bed? 🙋♀️ Last year I finally said ENOUGH, booked a Rome ticket, and accidentally became that girl who gives unsolicited solo travel advice at parties. Let me tell you why eating carbonara alone changed my entire nervous system.
First revelation: Solo ≠ lonely. That shaky first dinner at Trattoria da Chaos (name changed to protect the delicious)? The waiter thought I’d been stood up. Joke’s on him – I discovered the magical art of slow AF dining. No splitting bills, no rushed tiramisu. Just me, three glasses of house red, and scribbling nonsense poetry in my Notes app. Pro tip: Always sit at the bar. You’ll collect stray grandmas complimenting your earrings and chefs sliding free limoncello shots.
Now let’s address the elephant in the hostel dorm: safety. Did I become a paranoid spreadsheet queen? Absolutely. My Google Maps looked like a CIA ops board with custom emoji pins: 💃 (safe daytime areas), 🔐 (24/hr bakeries with good lighting), and 🚫 (that one piazza where three separate locals warned me about “clever pickpockets”). The golden rule? Always have a “decoy drink” in bars – club soda with lime looks vodka-ish and keeps randos from offering “refills”.
Packing hacks they don’t tell you:
– Rolled-up bath towel as impromptu room divider in shared Airbnbs
– Safety pins > luggage locks (quick-secure zippers during train naps)
– Fake wedding band from Amazon = €2.50 peace of mind
But here’s the juicy part nobody discusses – the secret kinship. Solo women travelers have this unspoken radar. In Budapest, I joined a Canadian nurse for ruin bar hopping after she complimented my bug spray application technique. In Lisbon, a Swedish girl and I invented “hostel speed-friending” over contraband Nutella. We’re all temporarily lost together, which is oddly comforting.
The transformation sneaks up on you. That first panic when Google Maps glitches? Soon you’re casually haggling at Marrakech markets using Duolingo French and interpretive dance. That initial fear of eating alone? You’ll graduate to reading novels in Parisian cafes like some paperback-toting badass.
Last week, a friend asked if I get bored. Bored? Honey, I’m too busy being the main character. Yesterday I taught myself to say “where’s the wine” in Greek while strapping a portable espresso maker to my backpack. This isn’t travel – it’s self-reinvention with better Instagram filters.
