Is solo travelling a radical act? 💌

Notes on a post-lockdown three day stint in Naples.

1st October 2020. Naples. Or more specifically, Naples Capodichino Airport tarmac. I had landed on flight BA2610 for my very first fully solo adventure having taken myself off, alone, for just three days as we saw the world opening up again. Six months after it had been suspended messily, devastatingly, and without much warning. 

I was giddy, and nervous, but mostly giddy; the wide grin that appeared upon landing concealed behind my mandatory face mask.

I had never travelled alone for ‘no reason’. I’d taken plenty of work trips which had landed me pretty much as far across the world as one can get, I’d joined a bunch of adventures with friends, boarded solo flights to meet other people at the other end, and flown alone a number of times for everything from diabetes advocacy work to TV gigs. I’d spent plenty of time alone in other countries, but until we touched down in Italy on that clear autumn evening, I’d never travelled solo just… because. 

As I’ve bounced through life between cities, jobs, friendship groups and relationships, keeping myself company has never been an issue. Like many, I’d recently flexed those muscles to an unwitting extent during that first 2020 lockdown, spending weeks alone in the confines of a one-bedroom flat without so much as the touch or whisper of another human. And, like many, as restrictions were gradually lifted and we were filled with renewed possibility just before rumblings of a ‘new wave’ would befall us, I was yearning to soak up something that wasn’t the repetitive loop of my local park. Routine helps my productivity but change inspires the work, so I was keen to be stimulated by a new environment outside of the current realities of home.

My housemate and best friend, who had shielded at her parents’ house during that initial lockdown, had returned to our London flat that July. To say we were ecstatic to slip back into our ridiculous, easy rhythm together was an understatement. We had created a beautiful, unusual space somewhere between those walls and the omnipresent threat that cancer poses. But less than a month after our blissful reunion, she had been given a devastating new diagnosis, suddenly finding herself working against a more urgent clock. With her enthusiastic encouragement, I had booked this little trip over a glass of wine on a Tuesday evening, to fall when I knew she would be in the care of others as she tackled what was fast becoming an unthinkable trajectory, and I arrived at Heathrow Terminal 5 a mere 48 hours later with just a phrase book, some insulin and quiet determination in my pocket. 

I was in disbelief at being on a plane, let alone heading to another country entirely. But aside from its post-lockdown novelty, this 72 hour solo jaunt hadn’t felt like a particularly big decision when I’d made nothing more than a flight and a hotel booking. However, I was soon stunned by how many messages I received when I dutifully posted to Instagram upon arrival because, well, millennials gonna millennial and Naples is gonna Naples. 

‘You’re so brave!’ ‘This is amazing!’ They cheered, warmly and sincerely. And it suddenly felt like a radical act; this small window of opportunity to put my international roaming to use for the first and only time in 2020. I pondered how truly radical it was - a single woman zoning in on a small window of time, a travel corridor and some cheap flights. Not running from anything, or in search of anything other than ingesting - nay, devouring - as much of this sensually stimulating city as was possible in three days.

I indulged, observed, daydreamed. Soaking up while syncing to the rhythm of another entirely vibrant and unapologetically passionate city, I strolled and climbed and ate my way through the weekend. I made friends with strangers for the first time in months, my non-existent Italian aided by wide eyes, enthusiastic hand gestures and kind recipients. I paid a high premium to occupy a room alone in a world built for two, and I drifted through the city both widely alert and utterly hypnotised in a trance of pasta, opera and chatter.

You see, contrary to some belief, you don’t have to travel as a couple to be able to fall in love. And fall I did, hard.

Maybe I had been locked in the confines of the same four walls for too long, but I found every ingredient added to an Italian dish to be an intentional and deliberate act, creating something that was as simple as it was seductive - purposeful and assured. The language felt much the same: every vowel was dizzying, and eavesdropping left me heady. I’m making it sound like a cliched romantic movie because that’s exactly what it felt like as the worries of home temporarily slipped into soft focus.

So was it radical? I don’t think so. Was it indulgent? I mean literally of course it was, but I would have done my destination a disservice if it was any other way. Figuratively, I’m not so sure - no-one would have questioned my jaunt if I was part of a couple, or with a friend. Being able to once more glimpse just a minuscule part of what existed beyond our walls, our walking routes, our government-approved exercise routines was what felt revolutionary, not the fact that I had chosen to do so alone. Every minute of that deliciously slow, deliciously delicious weekend was eye-widening, jaw-dropping, smile-inducing and life-affirming. Seeing any of the what we’d been so completely cut off from was a reminder of how much was out there, and of how crucial a connection to something bigger than us really is. 

I was proud for taking myself there, and for determining that I was complete enough as a solo woman to do so. Little did I know it was a foreshadowing of what would become an 18 month global adventure less than a year later. But in October 2020, released from the clutches of my local neighbourhood, those three days in Naples felt pretty far-flung.

And as I stirred myself out of my whimsical 72 hour daydream and onto the flight back to London, where the stark reality of radiotherapy was about to literally hit home, I realised I had indeed woken myself up from a year that had been so brutal, and had numbed so much of our spirits and our senses. I knew life was shifting. How could it not after such a collective yet isolated experience? And I knew for sure, as we descended into the city I’d called home for almost a decade, that I was shifting too - with a clarity that had been accelerated by witnessing someone fight with such a roaring, fearless, gracious determination to keep herself here, experiencing what she could of it too. Sitting there in seat 15D after my first bite of solo travel and allowing myself to acknowledge that - letting it store itself somewhere in the back of my brain, where would slowly percolate, dripping into my reality in the weeks and months to come? 

That did indeed feel just a little bit radical.