Solo Travel in Europe: Nine Lessons, One Suitcase, and Absolutely Nobody Else to Blame
I love the version of solo travel that exists before anyone actually leaves the house. In that version, I am sitting outside a European café, wearing something effortlessly sophisticated, reading a book I genuinely understand. My coffee is excellent. My phone is forgotten. Somewhere nearby, a church bell announces that I have successfully escaped the exhausting machinery of modern life. There are no blisters in this fantasy. Apparently, personal transformation comes with orthopedic immunity. Then I think about the practical version. I am tired, my accommodation has sent instructions resembling a submarine launch sequence, and I cannot work out whether the train ticket in my hand requires validation, activation, or a small religious ceremony. My phone battery is approaching its final moments. The sophisticated outfit has become a portable weather mistake. I am still discovering myself, technically, but the person emerging appears to need a sandwich. That gap between the fantasy and the ...
