Off and Away

  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.