“Traveling – it leaves you speechless, then turns you into a storyteller.” – Ibn Battuta
I’d been daydreaming about solo travel since college those picture-perfect Instagram posts of people finding themselves on mountaintops, you know? Meanwhile, my version of adventure was eating ice cream alone at the mall, which somehow still felt embarrassing. But last March, after my third friend cancelled our trip, I finally snapped. I booked a one-way ticket to Varkala before my anxiety could talk me out of it.
The Lost Hostel hit me with a wall of coconut oil and damp flip-flop smell when I walked in. The guy at the desk took one look at my massive backpack and said, “First time, huh?” in that voice adults use when kids try to use scissors.
And then there was Donut. This golden tornado of a dog came barreling toward me like I was made of treats, his tail whacking my legs with alarming enthusiasm. “Uh… hi?” I whispered, suddenly worried he could sense my rookie traveller energy. He answered by sneezing right on my shoes which, weirdly, made me feel more at home than any human welcome ever could.
The next morning, I decided to “be adventurous,” which really meant I spent forty minutes changing outfits before picking the worst possible shoes for walking.
“Going out?” the hostel guy asked as I loitered near the exit, sweating through my sunscreen.
“Yep! Totally! Just… going to do normal solo traveller things!” I announced, my voice cracking like a teenager’s.
But here’s the thing about wandering alone it’s terrifying until you realize nobody cares. The chai vendor didn’t care that I was by myself. The old man selling coconuts didn’t care. The street dogs napping in the sun definitely didn’t care. I bought a lime soda that was 90% sugar from a granny who called me “baby” and overcharged me, and it was the best-overpriced drink I’ve ever had.
Café Sarwa became my haven, mostly because their wifi password was “DONTWORKJUSTRELAX.” I ordered blue tea because it sounded like something a sophisticated traveller would drink, but when it arrived, this electric blue liquid in a mug chipped in the shape of Florida I had a full identity crisis. Since when do I drink colourful beverages? Who am I turning into?
The waffles took forever to arrive I’m pretty sure they forgot my order but when they finally did, they were golden and crisp, with honey pooling in the little squares like edible swimming pools. I sat there for two hours, scribbling terrible haikus about seagulls in my notes app and eavesdropping on a German couple arguing about sunscreen application.
On my last night, I decided to become a serious travel photographer. The results? Forty-seven blurry shots of the same wave, one decent photo ruined by my thumb in the corner, and a seagull stealing my samosa right out of my hand.
But then the sky turned this ridiculous shade of mango-orange, and it hit me: I’d done this. There was no plan, no safety net, just me and my questionable decisions against the sea.
And then I tripped over a rock and ate sand. Because of course, I did.
Let’s be honest solo travel isn’t all sunsets and self-discovery. Sometimes it’s realizing you packed only “Instagram-worthy” outfits and nothing practical. Sometimes it’s eating peanut butter straight from the jar at 3 a.m. because you’re too tired to find real food. Sometimes it’s Donut following you to the bus stop, making you ugly-cry because you don’t want to leave him.
But here’s the secret: the messy parts are the ones you’ll remember. When I hugged Donut goodbye (he licked my face, which was disgusting but also kind of perfect), I wasn’t the same girl who’d shown up clutching her backpack like a lifeline.
If you’re waiting for a sign, here it is. Go get lost. Go drink weird blue tea. Let a dog sneeze on your last clean shirt.
(P.S. If you see Donut, tell him I still find sand in my shoes sometimes. It’s my favourite accidental souvenir.)