I was 17 when I took off and started to travel solo. When you're young, you're never really alone because it's so simple to meet people and make immediate and deep friendships—fast. You'd connect with someone in a hostel, at a bar, maybe a club, café, or bookstore, and in short order you'd become tight. You'd hang out, drink, do drugs, meet girls, hook up, and that would be a Tuesday. It was awesome—full of joy, wonder, and discovery—and exactly what you're supposed to be doing when you're 18.
But what happens at 65 when you travel alone and you're married to boot? Is it similar to the springtime of my youth or, as my son would say, rumspringa for geriatrics? Are you hooking up and hanging out only with older versions of the people you met when you were young? I can say with some certainty that it's not. But—and this is a big "but"—that doesn't mean the 20-year-old version of me would be shaking his head wondering what happened. Even though the casualness of youth is replaced by the anxiety of aging, traveling solo can be awesome, even when you've been happily married for almost 40 years. That said, there are some things I've come to realize that are different now than the frolicking days of my youth, including:
All your stories are new again
When you've been married a long time, something curious happens. Your stories slowly stop feeling like they're entirely yours. They've been told so many times over dinner tables, holidays, and long car rides that they become part of the shared history of your marriage. But when you travel alone and meet someone new, it's as if you've regained temporary custody of those experiences. You're telling them to someone who's hearing them for the very first time, and in the process, you remember why they mattered in the first place. You don't just revisit the stories— but rediscover the person who lived them. I suppose the material can feel a little worn, tired, and played out, and then you realize the storytelling was actually pretty good—it only needed a different venue.
Figuring out dinner
Dining alone, especially dinner, can be painful. For me, great meals are inextricably linked to the people I'm eating with. Location in a restaurant also matters, and as a solo diner you typically get seated in Siberia regardless of how busy the restaurant is -- it's like the worst table is always reserved for the person eating alone. I suppose it makes sense, as my tip won't add too much since I'm not ordering multiple drinks or a bottle of wine. It's me, phone in hand, pretending I'm enjoying myself while wondering "where the fuck is my food," while sitting somewhere between the bathroom and the kitchen.
The best way to deal with it -- eat at the bar. You're more likely to meet someone, and if nothing else, you've always got the bartender to interact with. One of my most memorable evenings on a recent trip was eating at a killer restaurant in Lima and striking up a conversation with a young guy who flew private jets for rich people. He was hilarious and oddly wise beyond his years, having kind of seen it all. It ended up being one of the best meals I'd had in ages. I walked in with little expectation, and we ended up closing down the restaurant together.
Museums alone are actually better
I've spent most of my adult life around art. I majored in art history and one of my first jobs after college was overseeing fundraising for a small political art museum in Chicago. I was influenced by many discussions with my brother, who is a very well respected and successful sculptor with works in public institutions and private collections worldwide in addition to being a critic and professor of fine art. Although I left the art world after my gig at a museum to work in the media and entertainment industry, I pivoted back to the art world towards the end of my career when I joined Sotheby's and oversaw global marketing, editorial content as well as being responsible for the digital transformation of the world's oldest auction house. You would think I'd be an awesome person to hang with if you wanted to check out a museum or gallery...
The funny thing is, I'm a terrible art companion.
Even though I'm knowledgeable, interested and have pretty informed opinions, I've learned over the years that I typically prefer to go to exhibitions on my own. I've recognized that I can be pretty impatient. I'm not someone who stands in front of a single painting for twenty minutes searching for hidden symbolism or debating where it belongs in the grand narrative of Western civilization. I'm more of a quick study. I know within moments whether a piece grabs me. If it does, wonderful. If it doesn't, I'm already halfway to the next gallery. I'm a browser, not a shopper.
When I'm with someone else, I inevitably find myself waiting while they linger—or, nearly as often, making them feel rushed while I've mentally and physically moved on. Neither of us is wrong; we just move at different tempos. But when I'm alone, I have "artistic freedom." I don't have to negotiate space or manufacture opinions. Sometimes it's 30 minutes in one room and 30 seconds in another. I become a lot less annoying, stop debating arcane things (in order to appear knowledgeable) or arguing about the artist's intent. And if I don't like something that the rest of the world has told me to love, I don't have to feel like a cultural philistine or, worse yet, a contrarian for the sake of being a contrarian. That's when I like looking at art most—when it becomes a quiet conversation between you and the work instead of a committee meeting. It's then that I discover my own pace instead of trying to keep up with everyone else's.
Sex, Drugs, and Rock and Roll
I loved to read all those crazy stories about traveling when I was young, especially the ones about "sex, drugs and rock and roll," when you're on the road. Since I wasn't getting much of that where I grew up in northern Indiana, I decided the quickest route to achieve that state of bliss was to leave home and hit the highway. Good news—I wasn't wrong. I've had some memorable days, evenings, weeks, and mornings that will fuel my memories forever.
However, that was a lot of years ago, before I was married, had kids, and had to show up to an actual job. That said, the feeling never really quite goes away, so how do you navigate temptation when you're on your own in some foreign country with no one putting constraints on your behavior? How do you still seek adventure when your definition of adventure has changed? At 25, I wanted to be Henry Miller. At 65, I'm not exactly ready to throw in the towel, but my passport photo looks very different from the one I had forty years ago.
Recently, I was on a trip and did one of those walking tours of a city. The guide and I hit it off immediately (it was only the two of us), and we found out we had a ton in common—we liked the same music, books, food, and more. The only difference between us was about 30 years. As the walk was ending, he said that he also does a late-night tour of the city's underground clubs that starts around 12:30 a.m. I looked at him and said it sounded awesome, but shared that I'm typically asleep at that hour -- I'm now at the age where I go to bed at the same time I used to go out. He looked at me and said, "No worries, I've got you covered" (Jay McInerney's Bright Lights, Big City and the associated "Bolivian marching powder" immediately came to mind).
I'm alone, in a foreign city...
It took me around a nanosecond to know the answer -- No. Maturity had reared its ugly head! The danger lights began to flash, and I felt as though my brain had become the robot from Lost in Space telling Will Robinson to leave immediately. Although the 25-year-old version of me would have been all over this adventure, the 65-year-old version was screaming, "Run, don't walk away from this."
One of the benefits of age is when you realize adventure isn't lost—but sometimes it happens to change address. Having a great time isn't about repeating the behavior of your youth, but finding new ways to celebrate that don't include soldiers marching in your head. I'm cool with that. And honestly, I don't really miss Hunter Thompson; I think that sometimes I just miss being 20. I still love seeking adventure, and I'm totally comfortable with my new definition of how to achieve it, but that doesn't mean I've entirely traded in Henry Miller for Henry James. All those old friends are still around—they just live on the bookshelf in my head. Every once in a while I'll take one down, spend an evening remembering who I was, smile, and then put him back where he belongs.
Coming home
I'm fortunate, because one of the best parts of coming home after a solo trip is having someone to come home to. I've been married for almost four decades—in anybody's book that's a long time. Combine that with a bunch of years of dating and living together, and I'm sure I can honestly say a little time apart isn't a bad thing.
But traveling alone can be hard, especially when you're spending a ton of time with yourself, which I recognize is not for everyone. When you travel alone there are moments when you're just... bored. Maybe you make a shitty decision and realize you have no one else to blame, or you're simply killing time until tomorrow, hoping you'll meet someone interesting to talk to. Then there are those moments when you catch yourself wishing she was there, how much she would have loved that view, that meal, or that glass of mezcal while a singer plays in the corner of some impossibly cool bar in Mexico City.
What happens when something wonderful happens and there's no one there to share it with? Does the experience become smaller because no one else witnessed it, or does it become more precious because it's yours alone? I'm still not sure I know the answer.
That's why coming home matters -- because there's someone who wants to hear my stories. Someone who knows you well enough to be curious about the guy you met at the restaurant, the painting that moved you, and the thoughtful decision you made not to roll with some dude you just met to take you on a tour of underground rock clubs at one in the morning (even though she still knows it's slightly killing you that you didn't go).
Traveling alone reminds me who I am when no one is around, that I'm still capable of navigating the world on a "one way ticket" while being able to embrace the unpredictability of a journey without a clear itinerary. That said, after it's all over, there is no better feeling than coming home, opening the door and hearing those magic words when she asks:
"Hey, how was your trip? I've missed you..."
