So… I’m currently stranded in Barcelona. My flight was canceled, and the next available one isn’t for another two days. To make matters worse (or maybe better?), the friend I came here with somehow snagged a seat home, so now it’s just me, my backpack, and a city full of tapas bars that suddenly feel like couples only territory.
But hey, being unexpectedly solo gives me the perfect excuse to reflect on traveling alone; its joys, its pitfalls, and its occasional selfie-related tragedies.
Truth be told, the first time I traveled solo, I was terrified.
I’d just become newly single and was faced with a choice: either learn to travel alone or become that person who angrily “likes” everyone else’s holiday photos while binge watching Netflix in the dark. And honestly…. why should everyone else have all the fun?
So, I did what any panicked but determined human would do: opened Google Flights, found somewhere sunny, and booked it. For about ten glorious minutes, spontaneity felt thrilling.
Then…. the panic arrived: Brilliant move, genius. You just spent money to export your misery internationally.
At the time, I could barely mix with people at home. I was already isolated—why did I think plopping myself into a foreign country would magically solve anything? Surely doing everything alone would just be a loud daily reminder that, yep, I was very, very well ALONE.
But to my amasement, it wasn’t like that at all.
Something about being in a new place, drenched in actual sunlight (a rare cosmic event in England), flipped a switch. I felt… different. Lighter. Bolder.
Like every other solo traveler, I was just another stranger in an unfamiliar land, with no one to impress and zero need to compromise. It was liberating not having to negotiate over dinner choices or pretend to be not interested in the museum that to any sane person would be considered tedious and boring.
For the first time in ages, I started having fun again—real fun. I discovered what I liked, not what would look good on Instagram or what someone else thought I should like.
Some days, that meant power-walking through every tourist attraction like a man on a mission. Other days, it meant claiming a park bench, building an invisible “fortress of solitude” around myself, and people-watching like it was a competitive sport. And best of all? It was all on my schedule.
Wake up when I wanted. Eat gelato for breakfast if I wanted. Nap like a cat in the afternoon sun if I wanted.
Solo travel taught me something important: I’m actually okay being alone. Being alone doesn’t restrict what I can do—or how much joy I can squeeze out of life.
Now, let’s be real—it’s not all sunshine and sangria. There are moments you’d kill to share the view with someone or have a partner in crime for bad tourist decisions. And selfies? Don’t get me started.
There are only so many unflattering chin angles you can tolerate before you start dreaming about hiring a personal photographer. (Like, seriously, how else am I going to get decent Hinge profile pics or impress my future travel buddy who’ll patiently listen to me ramble about the architect behind some obscure building?)
Anyway, I’ve clearly gone off on a tangent again. So, here’s the point:
Solo travel can be scary. It can be lonely. But it’s also ridiculously freeing. It’s a chance to meet new people, stumble into adventures, rediscover what you love, and maybe… Even stranded in Barcelona—find yourself laughing at the absurdity of it all.
And if all else fails? There’s always tapas for one.
Want more ? Check out my 5 days in Barcelona itinerary
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