As I ran after the bus that was carrying my passport, my wallet, my phone with the dead battery, and pretty much the whole of my existence on the opposite side of the world, I wondered how people get to be in these places, exactly. What is the inevitable fate of traveling by oneself, and is there any chance I would be feeling this terror had I decided against coming to this foreign land … alone?
To be totally honest, I did not set out to be brave. It started as a mistake. I was planning a trip to Italy with my girlfriend for two weeks, when my family mentioned that they would be in Portugal around the same time, so I decided to meet them after Italy. However, a last minute change in their itinerary suddenly created a blank spot in my travel calendar between when I would leave Italy and when my parents would arrive in Portugal. Unable to coerce my friend to extend her trip—who did not have the perk of a student’s summer vacation like me—I realized that I had fourteen days to brave alone. Where to go? And what to do?
I decided on Norway. Both of my full-blooded Norwegian grandparents (whom I was incredibly close to) had passed away that year, and embarking on a trip to their motherland felt special at a time when I was still grieving their losses. And so, from the south of Italy to the northern ranks of the world, I flew to the west coast of Norway alone, with a backpack and piece of binder paper that my dad had sent me of specific cities where our ancestors used to live.
Once there, the first thing I realized was how little time I actually spent alone at home. Being scared without anyone close for comfort was a new and uncomfortable feeling. While riding to Bergen from the airport my first day, I was shocked when the entire bus parked inside a ship to carry us across the water. Seeing everyone exit the bus and go to the ferry’s top level, I followed suit, leaving my belongings parked on the bottom floor of the ship. It was pleasant at first, watching the water and seeing Norway my first day, until nature called and I headed for the ship’s public restroom. No more than three minutes later, I came out to find the entire floor empty. Where was everyone? I looked out the window and saw land … the bus was leaving … without me! How did everyone know it was time to get back on and how did I miss the memo that forty others received?
As I ran down the spiraling staircase, all I could hear was the revving of engines and smell of fuel. There was an entire lower level of buses and I had no idea which one was carrying the contents of my purse. (Never mind my backpack at this point.) The first bus in line started to pull out, so I decided to run after that one, which luckily ended up being mine. As I banged on the door while the bus came to stop, I couldn’t help but wonder what was in store for me if this was only the first day. The driver begrudgingly let me in, and I did the walk of shame back to my seat, vowing never to travel alone again.
In fact, I made that vow a couple of times in the first week. Sleeping alone in hostels was scary the first few nights, and I kept my passport strapped to my body in my sleep. I suddenly felt very aware and vulnerable of all the people around me, in the co-ed hostel rooms or next to me on the night trains. Sit-down meals felt longer, and having an afternoon beer by myself kept me constantly watching my neighbors, in fear of disapproving looks or staged interventions. And when I saw something beautiful for the first time, it felt empty to have no one to share it with. It was almost as if I needed to retrain my brain to eat and watch and act and enjoy alone, as if I had been programmed to only know how to do these things in the company of others.
