by Sam Evans
Shortlisted in the PureTravel Writing Competition 2024
I chose Spain because I thought it would be easier—familiar, even. I’d been on holidays there as a kid. I knew how to ask for water. I knew the people were friendly. The only difference this time was that I was going alone.
On my first night in Granada, I was thankful that my dorm bed had a curtain around it. When people came in, I quickly pulled it shut. But not quickly enough.
“Hey,” said an American girl pulling her suitcase behind her. “You okay?”
Blushing, I opened the curtain again. “All good here.”
They asked my name and where I was from. I answered like an AI chatbot—short, practical responses. I didn’t want to reveal too much about myself.
“We’re going to check out the Alhambra,” the girl said. “Do you want to join?”
Yes, I thought.
“No,” I said.
I went there alone the next day. I hadn’t realized I needed to book tickets in advance, so I just wandered around the grounds. The air was filled with the scent of ripe oranges from the trees above, and my stomach growled. A group of friends by a park bench were helping themselves and laughing.
“Isn’t it great that they’re free?” one said.
“And so fresh!” another added.
I didn’t want to ruin their fun, so I returned to my hostel.
After a month of being on your own, something changes in your brain. The part that craves attention starts wrestling with the part that’s afraid of strangers. By then, I was in Morocco, reeling from culture shock. I’d called my girlfriend the night before and we talked for an hour. I wanted to call her again, but it felt like quitting.
I went to the hostel balcony for a cigarette. A woman, younger than me, was sitting in the African sun. She was plump, with a welcoming smile. There was a bottle of whiskey on the table in front of her.
“I’ve been waiting to drink with someone,” she said to me.
“I don’t really like whiskey.”
“I don’t really like cigarettes, but I’ll share one with you if you keep me company. Everyone here is so boring, don’t you think?”
I didn’t want to be boring. Ignoring the panic in my chest, I sat opposite her. She poured me a whiskey. I drowned it in Coke, hoping I wouldn’t taste it. I still could.
She took a cigarette from me, and while she smoked it, she kept complaining about how disgusting it was.
She asked me what plans I had in Marrakesh. I told her I wasn’t sure. She asked where I’d traveled and what I’d done so far. I told her I’d been in Spain and taken the ferry over to Africa. Mostly, I’d wandered aimlessly, trying to appreciate the architecture while suppressing panic attacks.
I never outright said I was struggling with being alone, but she guessed.
“Why are you traveling then?” she asked.
I knew the answer to that. “Because when I look back on my life, I don’t want to see a routine. I want to see a tapestry of color, smells, and experiences. I want to know I still went places, even when I was afraid. But it’s not going very well.”
“You’re still trying, though. That’s cool.”
“Is it?”
“Yeah.” She finished her glass of whiskey in one gulp. “Really cool.”
I beamed at her. It was the best review of my efforts I’d ever received. Suddenly, she was like Buddha to me—a source of confidence and wisdom. She’d traveled to pretty much every corner of the world and did it her own way. Most of the time, she sipped whiskey in the sun. Occasionally, she tried something new.
“Not often though,” she said. “I’m naturally pretty lazy.”
“You’re not worried you’re wasting your time out here?”
She shrugged. “I know what I like and what I’m comfortable with. If my week has six days of sunshine and one day of trying something new, that’s more than most people do.”
Near the end of my trip, I camped in the Sahara. I didn’t realize that a place so lifeless could be so loud. The sand groaned as the wind swept across it. The tour group I was with talked as if silence were illegal. I enjoyed their company, but eight hours of it was draining.
On the final night of the tour, there was a party. The local Berbers lit a fire and handed out fragrant tajines of chicken and vegetables. When the meal was over, they started playing wailing, energetic music.
“Come and dance,” the tour guide said. “This is what Berbers do.”
Everyone else was on their feet. They were all looking at me.
It was hard to say no, but I knew what I wanted. I went to bed, content to listen to others having fun. I was happy they were enjoying themselves.
I slept better in the sweltering heat of the desert than I had any other night of my trip. When I woke up refreshed the next morning, I knew it would be a social day. We had an eight-hour drive back to civilization, with several stops to watch craftsmen at work on perfumes and carpets.
But I felt ready to face it. I could always rest when it was over.
Photo by Linus Mimietz on Unsplash
