Solo a Go-Go

going places alone

I’ve spent a week in Naples on my own; exploring, eating, walking, shopping, researching, learning, experiencing. Feeling well pleased with myself at times, often very content, occasionally lonely. I don’t come across others on their own much, most travelers are with their partner, family, or friends. There was a lady from Atlanta in a small group of seven that I signed up for, we were driven and dropped off at three Amalfi Coast towns (a region that’s been high-placed on my wannago list.) She was a widow, and would spend the couple of hours we had in each place sitting in a cafe.

I wandered, keeping track of landmarks and time, returning to the meeting point right before the driver of our Benz van was ready to go. Atlanta lady is the only solo traveler I’ve encountered. I know they must be out there but paths aren’t crossing. Occasionally I’ll see an older man on his own at breakfast, but most of the time it’s not long until a well-dressed and much younger woman will float in and join him. Così è la vita.

Traveling or not, I’ve gotten used to my own company. Much of my life for the past few years has been that way. Once Audrey went off to Syracuse for college, followed by moving to New York to live, and after my mom died, I was dealt a hand of solitaire. Minus the pets, and after Tux was killed by a coyote, it left a total of me, Gingerman and Rocky to start writing a new chapter.

I think the best way I could transition shift from being a mother, wife, girlfriend—that whole actively and daily connected to another being deal—was to frame it as freedom. Freedom to live wherever and do whatever I like, without worry of neglecting someone important to me. Without having to convince or cajole anyone into coming along.

Maybe being an only child was a good training ground for being my own bff. I remember being a kid and having to draw on the same resources I rely upon as a lone traveler; that sense of isolation, not being like everyone else. Having to project a comfort and ease with myself that doesn’t really match how I’m feeling—until it does. I remember how it felt to integrate independence and self reliance into the way I moved through new situations, and how both are inextricably wound with loneliness. There’s a price for everything.

Traveling alone, I’m not lonely when I can take my time at museums, exhibits, ancient sites, revered cultural landmarks, becoming lost in wonder and imagination. Whatever sparks anyone’s interest and curiosity is highly individual, so for me, the amount of getting lost is going to be compromised trying to accommodate a companion’s preferences. I do miss conversations. Sometimes I like “talking” to social media followers, using my phone to record my thoughts and impressions, and boiling them down to soundbite reels. A win-win, I get to share what I’m experiencing, and use creative skills to turn that into content. That’s the way I see it anyway.

I’m not lonely at breakfast, when I just want some coffee and fruit and to check my emails before heading out, but eating dinner alone while traveling isn’t my favorite. Sometimes I avoid it altogether with room service, or by skipping dinner for a late lunch at a bustling place with outdoor tables, where I can watch that particular city’s world go by, again lost in my thoughts and observations, which are excellent company.

Here are pics from some favorite moments. There’s some stories behind the moments.

Pic 1, on the road from Amalfi to Positano. I can’t say how many times I’ve looked longingly at photos of the Amalfi Coast, the horizon of blues between the Mediterranean and the sky. I couldn’t believe I was finally there, taking my own photo.

Pic 2, one of the more famous casts of a Pompeii victim. It doesn’t pack the wallop of standing in front of it. I cried, for the person who crouched, covering their face from the horror or smoke or ash or whatever it was engulfing their lungs—after enduring hours of what must have been the most hideous and unexplainable nightmare. I gave myself some love in that moment, grateful I had the capacity for compassion. And that a person’s life could reach across nearly 2000 years and touch mine.

Pic 3, 4 & 5 are all from Herculaneum, the upscale neighbor community to the more working class Pompeii. They thought they’d escaped the worst of Versuvius’ rage, but instead got the dreaded pyroclastic flow which is like the crystal meth version of volcanic spewage, including instantly turning victim’s brains into glass. One of the many fascinating info nuggets I learned was how many of the wealthy citizens stayed behind because they didn’t want to escape and leave their wealth to be looted.

Pic 6 is hanging at the Napoli Archaeological Museum—it’s a spectacular collection and museum, one of the best in the world. I just thought this framed art was beautiful, but learned it’s from a fresco on a lararium wall in a Pompeii house and a very unique work. The God Bacchus, covered in grapes, represents protection for the family, likely because of the vineyards that grew all over Vesuvius. This art is also the only known visual representation of Vesuvius in antiquity, and of course predates the eruption, making for a tragic irony: to have the volcano that destroys your town on your good luck lararium wall. And finally, the foreground snake—snakes were considered very lucky in the ancient world.

Pic 7, from my first day in Florence. I took a big walk and ended up getting caught in a rainstorm right outside the Basilica Santa Maria Novella. I haggled with an umbrella vendor and got 2/3 knocked off the price, all while admiring the way the gray sky both accented and flattened the beauty of this renowned and stunning Renaissance church into a two dimensional illusion.

Pic 8 —I’m an obsessed nephophile and loved this cloud in a box by the Argentinian artist Leandro Erlich. It was on display in a setting of seamless blending of old and modern at Villa San Michele in Fiesole, above Firenze.

Right after this last selfie, Pic 9, was taken after a fantastic trattoria dinner with my friend Suzanne and her friend—we parted ways. Suzanne and I happened on a beautiful church, welcoming people into it’s open doors. The altar was illuminated and colorful, the vaulted arches; muted and grand, candles lit everywhere, and a single woman’s voice echoing through the church, singing—not church hymns, but meandering and haunting melodies. We sat on pew benches and it was all so peaceful and unexpected. The darkness was perfect; within seconds of sitting down, tears were streaming from my eyes. I knew, like the knowledge was suddenly implanted in me, that I was holding on to pain and that it was time to let it go. And I knew in an instant how much “me” I had constructed over an immense sadness that sometimes feels like it’s my entire core. Another part of me, a quiet and still part observed and watched the me that was realizing there was a constructed me. It was fucking weird and felt very profound. But I had no idea what to do with this experience or where to take it. More will be revealed, or maybe not.

Still not a convert, but I take the insights where I find them! Self (or selfs) discovery is also a solo journey. Hey, thanks for reading. I’m grateful you took the time.