How I (Unexpectedly) Became a Solo Traveler

The trouble began with the airline tickets. It was 1967, the heyday of student travel; student charter flights, sponsored by many colleges, were very popular and amazingly cheap. I was eager to embark on my first trip to Europe, but I was not a particularly adventurous 20-year-old, and the thought of traveling by myself gave me goosebumps. I had just returned home to my parent’s apartment in New York, following my graduation from college in Boston. None of my friends were available to travel that summer, so my older brother and his wife suggested that I join their friend Bonnie, whom I had never met and who wanted also to spend the summer in Europe. Bonnie was a few years older than me, an elementary-school teacher, and lived in Boston. During several lengthy phone calls, we agreed on an itinerary, leaving just after July 4^th and returning at the end of August.  

I was responsible for purchasing the tickets, which, as it happened, were being handled through a small travel agency on the 14^th floor of a nondescript office building on West 42^nd Street in Manhattan. The day the travel agent called to say he had received the tickets I took the F train from Queens into the city to pick them up.  Arriving at the dusty, cluttered office, I introduced myself to the agent, a disheveled middle-aged man who seemed somewhat smarmy. After a few minutes of searching through the mess on his desk, he produced the two tickets—however, on close inspection, I realized they were for two different airlines on two different days. “But we want to travel together!” I wailed in dismay.  The truth was also that I hadn’t heard from Bonnie in several days, didn’t know where she was, and wasn’t sure she would be able to get to New York in time for our departure. “Ok, ok,” the man scowled, clearly annoyed; “Come back tomorrow, and I promise I will have tickets for both of you on the same flight.” I heaved a sigh of relief. But the next day, when I again made the trek from Queens, he proudly presented me with the very same tickets--two different airlines, two different days. This time, however, I was more prepared, and I declared as forcefully as I could, “No—you promised me two tickets together, on the same flight! You even shook my hand!” There was a long pause.  Then the agent aimed a baleful stare at me, and said solemnly, “And you believed me?” 

Perhaps my ensuing meltdown softened his heart, because the next day, on my third attempt, the agent finally handed me the correct tickets, together on the flights that Bonnie and I had originally booked. And it was just in the nick of time, since we were to leave in two days. That night, when Bonnie finally phoned, she casually informed me that she had been in New York for the past week, visiting friends, and that she didn’t care at all whether or not she and I were to travel on the same flight. Not a good omen.

Several days later, Bonnie and I arrived safely—together--in London, where some relatives of my parents had generously offered to host us in their home.  When the taxi deposited us at their neat rowhouse in Wembley Park, however, Bonnie immediately declared to me that she couldn’t possibly stay there, because it was much too far from everything. Although it was just a few Tube stops from Central London, Bonnie was adamant that she absolutely, positively needed to be closer to the action, whatever that was. I felt torn, but reluctantly agreed, and I stammered an embarrassed apology to my cousin and his family for our sudden rude departure. Bonnie and I thereupon decamped to a room in a shabby inexpensive pension, a guest house that was, admittedly, closer to the frenetic 1960s London social scene.

We spent the first day getting to know our surroundings. We visited a trendy hair salon nearby where the stylist convinced me to cut my long curly hair into a more ‘hip’ pixie hairdo—clearly more practical for a summer of traveling. This prompted me to divest myself of several dresses and a pair of elegant shoes I had packed, as well as the infamous ‘beer can’ rollers that I no longer needed for setting my hair each night. Then I ceremoniously lugged my heavy blue American Tourister tote bag (a graduation gift from my parents) to the nearest post office, and shipped it back to the U.S. via sea mail.

To celebrate our arrival abroad, Bonnie and I headed to an authentic London disco that evening. I had never been to a disco, and, although I loved to dance, I found the strobe lights and pulsating music quite overwhelming. Within minutes, Bonnie was totally absorbed in dancing with a shaggy-haired 16-year-old French boy who had approached us. Several hours later, when it was time to leave, Bonnie sauntered by and whispered in my ear that she would be staying somewhere with the boy. The two of them promptly disappeared together.

A bit unsettled by Bonnie’s departure, I rationalized that they were all grown-ups (sort of), and could do as we pleased. I made my own way back through the dark streets to the pension, grateful that it was not far away. When Bonnie failed to appear or contact me the next day, I tried very hard not to worry, reassuring myself repeatedly that Bonnie would surely return soon. In the meantime, I decided to meet another set of London cousins, who lived in West Acton. They turned out to be a rowdy, rambunctious family with several cats, a flatulent German Shepherd, a pet raven, two eccentric older daughters, and two charming sons close to my age.  Michel, the older of the boys, promptly claimed the role of my guide, and took me sightseeing that afternoon in his red MG roadster.  The family tried to persuade me to stay at their house, but I still felt responsible for Bonnie, so I insisted on returning to the pension in the evening, positive that she had returned.

I was wrong. Bonnie was not there, although she did call; the elderly owner of the pension knocked on the door of our room to summon me to the pension’s only telephone. After a long and tearful apology, Bonnie suggested meeting at a nearby Indian restaurant for dinner the next evening.  I was eager to forgive, and the next night I waited faithfully for Bonnie at the restaurant at the appointed time. The food was good, but Bonnie didn’t show up, and I again found my way back to the pension, alone. This same scene was repeated--after more phone calls and more weeping apologies--the next night, and the night after that.  I began to feel pretty dumb.

However, over the past few days, I had begun touring London on my own and found to my surprise that I was enjoying this independence. In the evenings, Michel and his friends took me around to some of their favorite hangouts, including a charming centuries-old pub in the countryside outside of London. When I returned to the pension on the fourth evening, I discovered that Bonnie had apparently stopped by to pick up some of her belongings. She had also left a note to say that she was still staying with the French teenager, but she didn’t say where.  

The next night—by now I was used to having the room to myself—I returned to the pension and found a telegram under the door, addressed to Bonnie. Frightened, I felt my heart pounding as I picked it up, positive it conveyed bad news—maybe illness or death of a parent, or something equally awful--after all, why else would anyone send a telegram?  I sat on the edge of the bed for many long minutes, holding the envelope in my shaking fingers as I tried to work up the courage to open it. How could I tell Bonnie’s parents that I had not seen her in days, and that I didn’t know where to find her?  I felt totally responsible but also totally helpless, with no idea what to do. 

The owner of the pension, hearing my sobs, knocked on the door to ask kindly if everything was ok. That prompted me to decide that I needed to open the telegram, no matter the consequences. I tore open the envelope--and discovered with mingled relief and anger that it was from Roger, Bonnie’s auxiliary backup boyfriend in New York--a wealthy and sophisticated older man whom Bonnie had once briefly mentioned to me. The telegram confirmed that he would be arriving in London to join Bonnie in a couple of days, as they had apparently planned long ago—a plan that she had somehow neglected to mention to me. 

When I finally stopped crying and collected myself, I spent several hours anxiously considering my options. Of course, I could change my airline ticket and return home immediately, forfeiting the rest of the trip--but that seemed like admitting defeat. On the other hand, the prospect of waiting around in various locations, not knowing when or if Bonnie might reappear and deign to rejoin me, also seemed out of the question.  I was still very hesitant to travel alone, but the past few days of navigating London by myself had boosted my confidence. Here I was in Europe, with a chance to visit some of the world’s most exciting cities, including a much-anticipated two-week detour to Israel (via another cheap student flight, although it would take me 18 hours to get from Rome to Tel Aviv, via Athens and Nicosia—but that is another story).  Finally, I was forced to acknowledge that the only sensible solution was to—gulp—carry on and spend the rest of the summer traveling by myself. 

Actually, it was probably the best decision of my life. The next day, per our original itinerary, I was scheduled to take an overnight train from London via Dover to Amsterdam. Just as my West Acton cousins were about to take me to the train station, Bonnie phoned their house, begging me tearfully to delay my departure for another few days.  With my newfound steely determination, I told Bonnie that I would be waiting on the assigned platform at Victoria Station that evening, and that she was welcome to join me there and continue our trip together--or not.  Either way, I said, I was leaving London that night. I had decided that I wasn’t going to change my plans based on her dubious entreaties.

To no one’s surprise, Bonnie did not show up at Victoria Station.  I hardly even noticed, however, as I stared in awe the station’s soaring glass roof and the huge white clouds of steam billowing from beneath the engines, then climbed aboard with great excitement and found my compartment. As the train began to move, I leaned precariously out the window, shouting heartfelt goodbyes to my cousins as Michel ran alongside on the platform, waving madly.  I felt just like Katharine Hepburn in a glamorous 1940s movie--a perfect beginning to the first solo trip of my life.

I managed to find my way successfully through the unfamiliar city for the next few days. In the process, I discovered that many Europeans, including handsome young men, were happy to help a skinny American girl with very short hair, dragging an ungainly suitcase, traveling on her own. Everyone I encountered was polite, friendly, and inquisitive, eager to assist with my luggage, learn about my life in the U.S., and practice their English.

A few days later, I took an overnight train from Amsterdam to Basel, Switzerland, where my rather optimistic plan was to appear unannounced on the doorstep of a distant relative whose address I had somehow acquired. I intended to spend a few days in Basel before continuing on to Rome to catch my student flight to Israel. On the overnight train, I shared a compartment with an art history student from the University of Amsterdam named Jan and two of his friends, who were traveling to Jan’s parents’ house on Lake Geneva, near Lausanne, Switzerland. Several hours into the journey, as the sun rose and train was making its way through gorgeous countryside, Jan and his friends formed a football-style huddle, after which they announced that they were “kidnapping” me—that is, inviting me to be a guest at his parents’ home.  It didn’t take much convincing to make me accept. 

Despite knowing nothing about this plan, Jan’s family greeted me as if I were a long-lost relative.  I had expected to join them just for lunch and then continue on my journey, but instead they convinced me to stay for three lovely, memorable days, during which we explored Lake Geneva in one of the family’s two motorboats.  When it was time for me leave, Jan’s mother carefully packed me basket of sandwiches--“broodjes”--for the train ride to Rome.  Jan had instructed me to stand at the window outside my compartment as soon as the train left the nearby station at Vevey, since it would pass very close to their house within a couple of minutes. I looked up at just the right moment, and there was Jan’s mother, frantically waving goodbye from the terrace on the roof of their house, another joyful prelude to the rest of my adventures that summer.

I didn’t see Bonnie again until weeks later, on the flight home from Paris at the end of August. We were seated next to one another on the plane, and I listened with as much patience as I could muster while Bonnie complained nonstop for seven hours about how she followed the French boy back to France and stayed with him and his family all summer, although he treated her badly and she was totally miserable for the entire time. When she finally got around to asking me how my summer was, I simply smiled and said softly, “Oh, it was fine.” And silently thanked her for giving me the courage to embark on this wonderful adventure on my own.