Cover Step into a city where no one knows your name. Discover the ultimate solo travel freedom—the power to wander without a map, reinvent yourself and experience the world on your own terms (Photo: Getty Images)
Step into a city where no one knows your name. Discover the ultimate solo travel freedom—the power to wander without a map, reinvent yourself and experience the world on your own terms (Photo: Getty Images)
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From the grit of Kreuzberg to the historic rooms of Rome, an unscripted journey reveals why the true art of solo travel lies in the liberating luxury of being entirely unknown
An invitation to reinvent oneself is the greatest allure of a foreign city. There is a specific kind of freedom found only when you step off a train or a plane into a metropolis where no one knows your name, your history or your baseline. For me, that city is Berlin. It is not pretty like Paris, hip like London or picturesque like Prague. It is a city of intimidating architecture, heavy with bitter memories. Yet between 2015 and the twilight of the pre-pandemic era, a period I devoted to travelling solo, I found myself drawn back to the German capital five times, three of them on my own.
As I walked through the grit and graffiti of Kreuzberg, the solitude became a canvas. Without the anchoring presence of a companion to remind me of who I was supposed to be, I felt the intoxicating urge to imagine alternative lives. I wondered how the streets would feel if I traversed them in drag, balanced on high-heeled boots and cloaked in spider-web stockings. I imagined moving with the spring and cadence of a black hip-hop artist with an afro, or navigating the shadows as a resident Jew in 1936. Were I to walk those same pavements now, my mind would inevitably drift to the complexities of modern history, wondering what it would be like to navigate the city as an IDF soldier on leave or a Palestinian refugee while the world fractures once again. Berlin does that to a traveller. It does not coddle you with postcards. It demands that you engage with the ghosts of the past and the possibilities of the alter ego.
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Above The Berlin Cathedral overlooking the Spree River (Photo: Getty Images)
The Berlin Cathedral overlooking the Spree River (Photo: Getty Images)
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I am not a planner. Travelling was never a life plan. My earliest journeys were cerebral, spent between the covers of Lands and Peoples in my childhood home. I memorised capitals and country groupings like the Iberian Peninsula, Benelux, the Baltic Republics and Scandinavia. By the fifth grade, I was delivering a report on the Balkan Peninsula. That was my first real taste of Europe, an intellectual romance that predated any actual physical arrival. To this day, Sofia and Bucharest remain unticked on my list.
The world didn’t open up to me without a test of resolve. In my youth, a meticulously discussed holiday to Hong Kong with college friends evaporated at the 11th hour when everyone flaked just as tickets were to be purchased. Concurrently, my grandmother, with whom I shared a profound bond, was rushed to the hospital. There was a palpable risk she might pass away while I was airborne. I boarded the plane anyway. I viewed that inaugural solo flight as a high-stakes basketball game. I told myself that I only needed to make one basket to survive that first lonely boundary, and the rest of the world would follow. It did.
People pursue solo travel for various reasons, but the ultimate prize is absolute autonomy. It is the liberty to move without consensus, to chase a whim or, conversely, to indulge in the luxury of doing nothing at all. I recall a day in Paris when, instead of scaling monuments or browsing galleries, I chose to remain inside my room, eyes glued to the television set, waiting for MTV to broadcast the world premiere of Madonna’s American Pie music video. Had I been accompanied by a fellow traveller, such a choice would have been deemed an unforgivable waste of Parisian daylight.
Above The Eiffel Tower in Paris offers timeless views across the Seine River (Photo: Getty Images)
The Eiffel Tower in Paris offers timeless views across the Seine River (Photo: Getty Images)
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True solitude allows you to absorb the poetry of a place without the filter of another person’s dialogue. When you are alone, the world hits you differently. I once found myself thoroughly lost in an orchard in Prague. Had someone been with me, the detour would have dissolved into mutual frustration. Alone, it became an atmospheric interlude, a meditative navigation of greenery and silence.
There is joy in leaning into the unpredictable, even when it involves a bit of foolishness. On another Parisian afternoon, I sat along the Seine before an Algerian artiste. There was no companion present to tell me to wisen up. He ripped me off a handful of francs, but the brief transaction yielded an illuminating conversation about the realities of living as an Algerian immigrant in the French capital. The slightly flawed sketch remains with me, a charming memento of my own willing gullibility.
Spontaneity is the real luxury when your hours belong entirely to you. One morning in Milan, I walked into the central train station, bypassed the biglietteria and stood before the departures board. I wavered between Venice and Florence, ultimately selecting the latter purely because I fancied a long afternoon walk. By early afternoon, I stepped onto the platform at Firenze Santa Maria Novella and wandered into the nearest trattoria for lunch. The dining room was completely empty, save for the chef, who sang O sole mio throughout my entire meal.
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Above The Naviglio Grande in Milan glows at sunset (Photo: Getty Images)
The Naviglio Grande in Milan glows at sunset (Photo: Getty Images)
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Stepping back onto the cobblestones, I let the winding alleys and looming palazzos dictate my direction. Without a map or an itinerary, I simply walked. By the time I circled back to the station at sunset, I had encountered the Basilica of Santa Maria Novella, paused for a ristretto at the Mercato Centrale, stood beneath the dome of the Duomo, crossed the Ponte Vecchio and admired Michelangelo’s David at the Galleria dell’Accademia. A group would have spent weeks coordinating such a day. I achieved it by turning corners on a whim. To travel without a schedule, a quota, or a deadline is to allow yourself to stumble into history.
These accidental literary pilgrimages are the finest rewards of the solitary wanderer. Years ago, while walking near Notre Dame in Paris, I spotted the green facade of Shakespeare and Company across the street. I entered, got myself a copy of Guy Endore’s King of Paris and approached the counter. It was only when an Asian bookstore assistant whispered to me that I realised the elderly gentleman ringing up my purchase was George Whitman, the establishment’s proprietor himself. We became fast friends. A few days later, he invited me upstairs to his private quarters for tea, walked me through his personal shelves and handed me a copy of Secrets of the Flesh, a biography of Colette. When I asked why he was gifting it to me, he simply said it was because I liked it.
Above The historic Charles Bridge in Prague (Photo: Getty Images)
The historic Charles Bridge in Prague (Photo: Getty Images)
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There are moments, too, when solo travel thrusts you into the centre of living history, moments a protective companion would undoubtedly steer you away from. I arrived in Budapest in 2015, precisely as the European migrant crisis reached its dramatic peak. My train from Vienna rolled into Keleti Station, which had been transformed into a sea of humanity. Thousands of Syrian, Afghan and Iraqi refugees were stranded, their lives packed into bundles, hoping for passage to Germany. To reach the city trains, I had to physically squeeze my way through the dense, desperate crowds. It was overwhelming, maybe even dangerous. Yet the very next morning, driven by a journalist instinct that refused to be quieted, I returned to the station. I knew there was a monumental story unfolding on those platforms, a human drama that demanded to be observed cleanly, without distraction. Had I been travelling with a friend, they would have insisted on the safety of Andrássy Avenue or Margaret Island, where my hotel was on the Danube. Alone, I was able to look the world directly in the eye.
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