The perks of traveling solo.
Forgotten and absorbed into the back of my
mind for the last nine years, which seem to have passed in the blink
of an eye. And they did, as complete contentment has this ominous
tendency to blur perception in more ways than imaginable.
The journey is the destination.
I zen out at airports the moment I get there.
Especially being on my own. No cellphone or some kind of portable
stereo needed. I observe. Blocking out the buzzing noises of those
who perceive boarding a plane as a mere way of getting from A to B, a
necessary obstacle lying between them and their well deserved one
week summer vacation in an all-inclusive beach resort on the Balearic
islands.
How pathetic.
For me it's my first personal oasis, which
seems to drive those in a hurry, whose seats have been overbooked,
flights canceled or passports misplaced, crazy, or at least
suspicious. You win if you're on your own, relaxed, and well
prepared. Venturing on a three-leg flight to save up some money?
Sure. A two-hour delay on the first leg? Great, less time to kill in
Heathrow, which despite the not so recently added Terminal 5 is still
a pain to be at. An overnight layover? You may not be a careless
youngster anymore but then you're not too old for that either, and
sleep is overrated anyway while crossing one time zone after the
other. Plus you can't possibly get used to the exaggerated use of A/C
early enough. So you simply stoicly deal with every obstacle bestowed
upon you, one by one – it all being part of this one ongoing
experience called travel.
Each journey starts with that single
insignificant step out of the door, the moment one breaks the cycle
of daily routine by abandoning worn-out paths and striving for the
unknown. Sounds too dramatic? Engraved in a marble plate placed at
the wall of a narrow brick building I discovered Calvino's wisdom:
'Arriving at each new city, the traveler finds again a past of his
that he did not know he had: the foreignness of what you no longer
are or no longer possess lies in wait for you in foreign unpossessed
places.'
Not exactly the way Campbell or Vogler
defined it, but still some kind of hero's journey blueprint.
Call me old
fashioned; I still believe in experiencing, yes, feeling a place by
walking its streets without looking every damn second on a phone or
map, but instead heading down into the madness of being comfortably
lost all on your own in an unknown environment. To be reset. It's
then you find not only the time, but most importantly the inner peace
and serenity to reflect on yourself. To get a break from the rush of
our daily lives.
Doing so I spent
more than two hours on a bright Saturday morning walking the winding
paths of the Allegheny Cemetery, stopping at a certain mausoleum or
sculpture now and then while startling an unsuspecting groundhog
looking for food between the countless gravestones neatly arranged
next to each other. The sunshine on my face, a soft breeze sweeping
up the sloping hills lined with oak trees, casting some welcome
cool-down shades in the blazing heat around noon. I kept on walking
lost in thoughts until the dust in my throat reminded me to turn my
back on the dead and return to the likes of me. I felt complete.
You don't do this
stuff unless you travel alone. There is no one there to interrupt
your thoughts, distract your perception – you just open up your
eyes and see. See what's there. Unfiltered. Your opinion. Your
impressions. Taking in the little things you might otherwise miss.
During a single
week abroad I walked endless hours and way more kilometers than I
would have in an entire month back home. Had more inspiring
conversations with complete strangers than I could have wished for.
The ones you thirst for. The ones you never fully engage into while
being with someone else. Being more approachable, more open to new
experiences. Being more... you.
And so it happened
that I met Sergey, a local photographer, who not only recommended a
couple of great, not too well known locations to shoot at to me, but
also retold me the story of his life within forty minutes on a packed
sidewalk in the middle of the Strip. I philosophized about the art of
beer brewing, acted as a professional photographer for a couple that
celebrated their engagement on Mt. Washington, and ended up talking
about arts, traveling and God and the world for more than an hour to
a local artist named Bob whose work has become a local landmark.
To name a few.
Like a wolf
smells its prey across a distance of two kilometers, single travelers
sense each other, got an eye for those on their own as well. Eager to
make connections, to communicate, connect, to escape the restrictions of your inner mind, something you eventually aimed for in the first place. I didn't
expect to solve some of societies recent problems by the second
round of beer in the middle of the night on a plane between America
and Europe while talking for five hours straight to a well known
ukrainian pianist who happened to be seated next to me.
That never
happens to you. Unless you're on your own.
The best part
about traveling solo though?
Coming back home
to your significant other, being hugged and kissed and told how much
you were missed. The inner certainty that every spatial separation
brings you closer together, even after nine years... at least for a while.
