The Solo Trip That Changed Everything (And It Almost Didn’t Happen)

The first time I traveled alone, it was a complete accident. It happened near the tail end of the pandemic, when I was a homes writer desperate to prove myself. I’d finally landed my first big commission—a stay at The Dylan, Amsterdam’s glamorous canal-side boutique hotel. I grabbed a friend, booked the flights, and started picturing lazy mornings with pastries, museum-hopping, and evenings spent drifting between candlelit bars. Then, with less than a week to go, my friend realized her passport was too close to expiry. Renewing it during the Covid backlog was impossible, and finding a last-minute replacement was out of the question.

I was devastated. I’d never traveled solo before, and after months of isolation, the thought of eating dinner alone felt humiliating. I imagined strangers pitying me, wondering if I’d been stood up. But canceling meant looking unreliable to editors I’d just convinced to trust me. So I packed.

And then I was sitting by the water’s edge at a café, watching houseboats bob, and I realized: I was completely fine. No one stared. No one cared. I had the entire afternoon to do exactly what I wanted.

That trip cracked something open. Since then, I’ve discovered that solo travel isn’t lonely—it’s peaceful. It’s waking when you wake, wandering where you want, and skipping anything that doesn’t interest you. No negotiating. No resentment. Just freedom.

I’ve made lasting friends on solo trips: a fellow rider at a Wyoming ranch, a journalist I met in a Miami museum who ended up sprinting through a rainstorm with me to an Art Deco cinema. I’ve never come home from a group vacation with a new friend, but alone, it happens all the time.

And it’s given me clarity. When a Japan assignment came up, my partner—the same one from that disastrous Edinburgh birthday—seemed the obvious companion. But I couldn’t shake the memory of feeling invisible on what should have been a special day. So I thought about that Amsterdam café, and about the time I burst into happy tears on a massage table in Saint-Tropez. I got on the plane by myself. This time, it was no accident.