Overcoming the Fear of Solo Travel

“Aren’t you scared?”

The number one question I get as a solo female traveler.

First of all, yes. So scared.

But I know I can do it because I’ve done it before. And like many people, it wasn’t my first choice. 

In 2019, after months and years of waiting for someone to have enough PTO, save up enough money, or commit to a vacation, I finally made plans to visit a friend who was attending grad school in London. My first international trip!

I’ll spare you the details of how badly it went and suffice it to say that during a long weekend in Paris, it got to a breaking point with only one set of keys for the Airbnb. Unable to afford anything nice, but concerned for the safety of me and my belongings, I decided to research hostels. 

I had heard of hostels before— even stayed in one in Pennsylvania with my high school sweetheart’s family many years ago. That had taken some of the fear of the unknown out of it.

Most of the worries I could drum up were about dangerous strangers or getting your things stolen, but as I was concerned about both of those things in the Airbnb, what did I have to lose?

For various reasons, I was down to my last $200 before my direct deposit hit in another two days (this trip kicked my ass!) so I was completely sold when I saw it was only 15 euros per night for a bunk in an 8 bed female-only room. 

I typed in my card number and got the confirmation at about 5 in the morning. I laid back in bed and finally got some shut eye, knowing that I had solved my problem and safety and security from which to explore the city lay in my future. 

My friend came home at some point after that and passed out next to me. I was not brave enough to tell her my decision, and I didn’t think she’d be conscious enough to hear me anyway.

I had a long walk to the hostel the next day. My phone only worked on wifi but I had discovered that Apple Maps would keep my route even after I had left internet access. I had never ridden the metro or any subway without someone paying for me and showing me where to get off, but that day I braved it alone. I followed the directions and found myself at St. Christopher’s Gare du Nord location a little before check-in time. I was ecstatic. I was hoping they’d let me leave my bag there and I could go out and explore until my bed was ready. 

Unfortunately, it wouldn’t be that easy. I wasn’t just early for check-in, I was at the wrong location. The other one was still a few miles away. I had successfully taken the metro here, but I wasn’t confident enough to do it again, and I didn’t want to pay the money anyway. I decided to walk. 

I have walked those same streets since then, and I would not be that worried about it today, but when I tell you I was terrified, I am not exaggerating. I had broken out on my own, was obviously off the tourist path, and on my way to my first European hostel solo. In hindsight, it was kind of badass. 

I was scared, but I chose to focus on things of beauty. Flowers, buildings, passing children. I remembered that I was in Paris. For the first time ever. A place I had always dreamed of visiting but never thought would be possible for me!

By the time I got to the river, I knew I was in safer territory. I took a deep breath and slowed my gait.

I found the hostel and the bar that is practically part of reception and I nearly wept with relief. 

Everyone was friendly from the get-go. They took copies of my passport and gave me a card to access the elevator and enter my room, which made me feel very secure. 

They also handed me a brochure for the hostel which included ridiculously low-priced bottles of wine, beer, shots, and bar food. Even someone on my current budget could splurge on anything! How could I be afraid of this place? I had found my people.

That night I sat in the bar alone and read a book on my phone, hoping for a friend. It didn’t take more than 10 minutes before one of the employees from that morning asked if he could sit next to me. 

We chatted and I quickly learned that he was from Argentina, but had been working at the hostel for a few months as a way to stay in France and learn the language. In exchange for a few hours’ work per day, he was able to live at the hostel for free.

This blew my ever-loving mind. That sounded like a fairytale dream life. I had already fallen in love with the hostel for the sanctuary and freedom it had provided me. Now here was a trilingual ex-pat living in Paris just for volunteering his time a few hours a week as a bartender or a front desk worker?

He introduced me to a large group of his friends, old and new, and we stayed up late drinking and sharing stories. I had no fear because at any point I could skip to the elevator and be taken to my female-only floor. 

I had a great night and woke up terribly hungover, but checked my bank account first thing in the morning. My direct deposit had hit. Now this was freedom. 

Rather than pay for a locker, I spent another 15 euros to keep my bed so that I could sleep in and leave my bag there for the day. I had to meet up with my “friend” at the train station later to head back to London together, but for now, I had money, safety, and I was free in Paris.

It was beautiful. 

A solo traveler was born.