I am walking through a narrow crowded alley a block and a half off De Wallen, the red light district in the heart of Amsterdam. A few euros clang in my pockets. I pass coffee shop after coffee shop, their guests lighting twisted joints. The smell of pot hangs heavy in the November air. Shop signs hang hodgepodge over the road advertising their variety of magic mushrooms, endorsing their nude shows, exhibiting their collection of bizarre pipes. The wind is stiff and damp and grey. My pack is heavy. I fumble for my passport and train ticket. Am I going the right way? Turning a corner the ancient architecture of the station comes into view. I throw myself onto a bench and wait for the coming train. Cigarette smoke blows in with the breeze. I am alone with my thoughts, happy to be on the road, content to be in a new strange place. This was my first real experience traveling alone, the novelty of it I'll never forget.
A few weeks ago, waiting to board a connecting flight I sat on the floor in Phoenix Sky Harbor eating a handful of combos. Looking out on the runway I watched planes land and takeoff. The rhythm of it all placed me in hypnotic glaze. That familiar feeling of being alone on the road took me back in. The awareness is freeing and authentic. When traveling alone your constantly navigating a stream of fresh experience. The facade of familiar social interaction crumbles leaving you truly exposed to yourself. In days spent traveling alone I've learned much about myself, that I can handle thousands of miles of lonely transit. That a pack and an airport floor are a comfortable bed if your tired enough. That middle seats suck and a pocket full of Euros goes a short way. I'll always love traveling with friends and family but a part of me will long for those lessons learned on solitary journeys. Whether on a walk down Gran Via or on a plane to the Pacific Coast.
