When I signed up for We Roam in March, I thought about joining their itinerary that launches in July, Orion. I knew I wanted to be gone for at least a year, and the idea of starting from the beginning with a group really appealed to me. But, once I decided to leave, I wanted to get going ASAP, and I was lured in by the prospect of Barcelona in May (spoiler alert: it’s fabulous).
So I agreed to join Polaris, the inaugural We Roam tour, and hop into a group that’s been traveling together since January. There have been a few new additions and a few departures, and I’m one of five to join this month. But the other four new recruits are guys, so…
I’m the new girl.
The last time I was the new girl was in high school, when I transferred schools halfway through my junior year. It didn’t go well, to put it mildly. The other students had been together since preschool for the most part, and the cliques were well formed. Coming in as the new girl meant harassment and capital-D Drama.
I’m happy to say that this is going better. Whether it’s age or just a correlation between the type of person who signs up for this program and a certain level of chill, everyone’s been very welcoming. I’ve had drinks and dinner (and played quarters, but let’s not talk about that right now) with a bunch of different people; the clique factor seems uncommonly low.
Which is good, because that’s honestly the only thing I was worried about coming into this trip. Everyone else was concerned about exchanging money or how I’d stay in touch or whether I’ll get mugged at some point (I mean, possibly). I felt like, all of that will be fine, but as someone used to spending a lot of time alone–hence the blog name–is traveling around with a big group of people going to suck?
So far, it doesn’t. Yay! But even with a relatively smooth transition, they’re still learning about me–and vice versa.
You don’t get very many opportunities in life to make a wholly fresh start. Maybe college, grad school, a few moves–but the longer you’ve lived, the higher the chance that you know at least one person wherever you go who will be able to tell your old stories. So coming into this trip, knowing absolutely no one, I have a little bit of freedom, a chance to show my idealized self, if I choose.
But I think for the most part, I’m just being me. Maybe a more extroverted version of myself, but I’m sure that will balance out over the next few weeks. I’ll admit that part of the drama in high school was my fault–unsure of myself, I tried to be what I thought they wanted. At 33, I’m pretty settled in my personality: I like fancy food and hate spin class. I read. A lot. I hate futbol but love football. I’m an incorrigible flirt with bad follow through. I like to dress up but hate heels.
I’m still willing to try new things, but I’m no longer formless; my personality has parameters.
And everyone on this trip with me has the same opportunity to present the version of themselves they wish me to see. Given that a few of them are here because of pretty seismic life events, they might be taking advantage of that. I wouldn’t know. One guy spent half of my first night trying to convince me his name was Steve. It is not anywhere close to Steve, and that was a pretty rude thing to do to a girl meeting 30 new people on zero hours of sleep. He was properly chastised.
Beyond the individuals, though, I’m also meeting the group. Everyone else has been together for at least a month; some of them have been together for four months. They have shared history, experiences, inside jokes. Relationships of all sorts have come together and fallen apart. Over the past week and a half, I’ve been putting together a puzzle and discovering new pieces every day. I’ll probably never have all of them–and I’m adding pieces of my own as I go. But I’m happy with what the overall picture looks like.
One of my fellow Roamers pointed out that I’ll only be the new girl for a month. He was a new guy last month, and next month in Prague, we’ll get a few more. I told him that given that, I wanted a tiara. Instead of anxiety, I think a new girl celebration is in order.
If you find yourself in Barcelona on the first weekend of the month (except for August), I highly recommend making your way into the Poblenou neighborhood to visit the Palo Alto Market. This vibrant, elevated flea market was the perfect complement to my beach day Saturday. And it’s the perfect antidote to the widespread Sunday restaurant closures.
The market’s open Saturday and Sunday from 11 am-9 pm. I was there from about 12:30-2:30–it wasn’t too crowded when I first arrived, but by the time I left, it was packed. I started my visit with patatas bravas (natch, I could live on those) to fortify me for exploration.
A “design” market more so than a flea market, the stalls lean towards cute local goods: sunglasses, canvas bags, handmade jewelry, small-batch clothing–like Etsy brought to life, none of the used t-shirts and antique spoon collections you might find at a regular flea market (though I love a good treasure hunt at those). And the setting, a garden at an old factory, perfectly matches the content. Instead of an empty parking lot, the grounds are beautifully landscaped, and the market winds around the trails and through multiple buildings, the live music swelling and and fading as you turn the corners.
A 4 euro entry fee gets you access to a gorgeous garden and dozens of stalls selling delicious food and fun merch. Well worth a visit, if you have enough time in Barcelona to venture beyond the main tourist attractions; several of my friends went both Saturday and Sunday, and we all wish it were open more than one weekend a month!
This is the first day in my new co-working space in Barcelona, where I’ll be living for the month of May. Then I’ll move to Prague, then Berlin, Split, Belgrade…then on to various cities in Southeast Asia, Australia, and South America. This is the beginning of my journey with We Roam, a travel program for people who can work remotely.
I started this blog in January, before I knew that We Roam (or similar programs like Remote Year, The Remote Experience, etc.) existed. I wanted a side project, an outlet apart from work, and I envisioned Girl Flies Solo as essentially branding (gah, I know, that word is becoming terrible) what I already do: travel a lot, often alone, date, have random solo adventures.
Then in mid-February, I clicked on an article in AFAR: Working Remotely Is Now Easier Than Ever, and it felt like I’d opened a portal to a new world. I fell down the internet rabbit hole, reading blogs and Reddit threads, trying to learn more. By the end of the month, I’d decided I wanted to sign up for one of these programs, and by early March, I’d committed to join We Roam in May.
I knew after I visited Anguilla that I wanted to travel more this year. After four years in New York, I’ve grown a little weary–fighting with the crowds on the sidewalks, going back and forth with my friends’ Google calendars to schedule drinks, seeing the same guys pop up on all the dating apps. This program is more than I could have imagined or hoped for when I contemplated “traveling more.”
I don’t believe in fate or god or any forces that are guiding the universe; I think our experiences are random. But sometimes, if you’re lucky, the random bits of the universe collide to give you exactly what you need.
So I’m off on an adventure! I’m lucky enough to have a job that’s perfectly suited for this kind of controlled madness and a boss who recognized immediately what a fantastic opportunity it is. We Roam sets up housing and co-working spaces in each city and moves us from place to place, so all I have to do is get my work done and enjoy every new experience.
Before I left, friends and family tossed out their hypotheses: I’ll never come home. I’ll be traveled out and exhausted after six months. I’ll fall in love with a man. I’ll fall in love with a city.
I don’t know what the year will bring–what I’ll see, everywhere I’ll go, or whom I’ll be by the end. But I’m excited to find out.
At the very end of March, I met a friend who lives in D.C. in Charleston for a Friday-Monday weekend of fun. Charleston is the perfect city for a weekend getaway: Southern food, historic buildings, ocean breezes, unironic bowties, and strong drinks.
And late March is a great time to visit in terms of weather (low 70s for the win), though I’d check the city calendar if your dates are flexible. We were there the weekend of the Bridge Run, a 10k across Ravenel Bridge. It didn’t put much of a damper on our plans–we weren’t up and moving on Saturday until the race was over–but we did spend all weekend telling Uber drivers, “No, we didn’t do the Bridge Run…no, we didn’t know it was happening.” Or I guess you could go to Charleston FOR the Bridge Run, if you’re into that…you do you.
Do you really want to run across that? It’s more of a hill than it looks!
We landed late afternoon Friday and went to our hotel, the Mills House, to drop our bags. The airport is an easy half hour ride from downtown; they have shared taxis for $14 or an Uber is about $30. The Mills House is perfectly situated downtown; the rooms are a tiny bit dated, especially the bathrooms, but it’s very comfortable.
Friday night we had drinks at The Gin Joint, and they are not messing around with those cocktails. In addition to a solid menu, they have a list of words to choose from: pick any two, and the bartender will make you something. I got a drink that was “refreshing” and “spicy”–it was also delicious. But to be honest, the cocktails were a bit of a mistake because I was already slightly buzzed, when we got to the main event for the night: the tasting menu at McCrady’s, complete, of course, with wine pairings.
We had 15 delicious plates, seated at long, high tables with just a small handful of other diners and the chefs working nearby. There wasn’t an off note on the menu, but my personal favorite was the carrot tart. To paraphrase Willy Wonka, the carrots just tasted exactly like carrots. But the dish that won best presentation is pictured on the right–the Virginia Oyster, a single, gorgeous bite with a plateful of pomp.
We got a late start on Saturday, after tipsily going to another bar after dinner, but it was a perfect, sunshiney day. We stopped in at the very adorable City Lights for coffee to fortify us for a long walk up King Street, the main shopping drag (mostly chains, but a few independent boutiques mixed in). Determined to eat my weight in carbs, we stopped in for biscuit brunch at Callie’s Hot Little Biscuit. For less than ten dollars, I got FOUR biscuits–two cheddar and chive with ham, two buttermilk with cinnamon butter. Heaven, basically.
Then we walked and walked and walked–through the Market, (which is mostly junk, but I did find a lovely vintage jewelry stand of course), out to Waterfront Park, where I took that lovely photo of Ravenel Bridge above, down along the Battery, with a nice recovery sit in White Point Garden, where we watched people get engagement and wedding photos taken and a true hero assemble a DIY hammock.
In the early evening, we took a house tour with the Charleston Historic Foundation, as part of their annual Festival of Houses and Gardens. We went into about half a dozen homes on the Church Street Tour, and it was fascinating to see how people restored and renovated these centuries-old homes, preserving the old while allowing for modern conveniences. Our tour wrapped just after 8, and we finished the evening with a tasty–though not a standout–meal at The Grocery.
Sunday was my favorite day. It started with gospel brunch at Halls Chophouse, and I can’t imagine a better Sunday morning. The music was gorgeous, and the baby back ribs and sweet tea I had took me back to my Southern childhood (I could kill a rack before age 10, and I have the sticky face photos to prove it). We had caramel cake for dessert because obviously, dessert with breakfast is a must on vacation.
We hopped in an Uber after brunch for a 30-minute trip over the bridge and through Mt. Pleasant to Sullivan’s Island, where we took a walk on the beach that was the highlight of my weekend. The wind was serious; most people laying out were hiding back in the dunes. But the sun was out, and the wind was perfect for kite surfers, who we watched fly through the air. Even better than the acrobatics, though, were the sandpipers scurrying around the shore and dodging the waves. It was a fun camera challenge for me–they move fast.
There are a few cute bars and restaurants with big patios on the strip of road just up from the beach, but on a sunny Sunday, they were packed, so we opted to head back to the hotel, drink some wine in the courtyard, then lounge on the pool deck for a bit. Later on, we went for pre-dinner cocktails at the Vendue Hotel rooftop bar. It was too windy, but we were determined. The view is pretty, and the drinks are tropical.
Dinner that night was the showstopper: Husk, which is famous for a reason. We had pig’s ear lettuce wraps to start (I know some of you are grimacing, but the flavor and texture were fantastic), and then I had a perfectly cooked (too rare!) and seasoned pork chop. Dessert was the pinnacle, though, which it never is for me. I’d usually prefer a second appetizer, but the blueberry “cobbler”–in quotes because they were actually bite-sized pieces of herbaceous pie crust instead of the traditional format–with goat cheese ice cream was one of the best desserts I’ve ever had.
We went to bed early that night and made the most of our final morning, starting with breakfast at Hominy Grill. I’ve heard it gets crazy on the weekends (it’s become a bit of a tourist attraction), but on a Monday, we were able to get a seat right away for our Charleston Nasty Biscuits, with fried chicken breast, cheddar cheese, and sausage gravy. After dessert (of course), we Ubered to the Angel Oak on Johns Island. It’s a bit of a haul for a tree, but it really is beautiful.
As full as the weekend was, we didn’t quite get to everything. Charleston has gorgeous museums, and there’s a slice of coconut cake with my name on it at the Peninsula Grill. But we hit a lot of the highlights, and we definitely ATE a lot of the highlights.
Have you been to Charleston? What were your favorite spots? Let me know if you have any questions about the city, too. And for more photos, make sure to follow my Instagram.
On my recent trip to Anguilla, multiple well-meaning staff members, upon learning that I was traveling solo, asked incredulously, “Aren’t you bored?”
I stared at them, baffled. Yes, yes I’m terribly bored, lounging here on this pristine beach with a wave-side view of the turquoise water.
But okay, I’ll entertain the question. In fairness, a week in Anguilla is an aggressive choice for a solo vacation. When I first traveled alone, I started small: a weekend in a city. Plenty to do and a limited amount of time. On a quiet island for a week, though, you have to be able to self-entertain. Here are the three biggest reasons why that’s not a problem for me:
1. I think.
This isn’t as facetious as it sounds, I promise. Solo trips give me the time and space I need to reflect on my life and re-center. On this trip, I thought about how busy January had been and confronted the reality that I needed to scale back my activities. I evaluated my priorities and set new goals for the coming months.
It’s hard to take a time out to think about the big picture when you’re in the midst of the day-to-day. And when you travel with a group, or even just one other person, there’s far more activity–which is fun and has its own value, but it can be distracting if what you need is to consider your life and your choices.
2. I observe.
Sometimes my observation looks like a photo in a brochure for something: a young woman sits in the sand, contemplating the ocean… And truthfully, I did spend nearly forty-five minutes one day watching a crab industriously dig a tunnel. (I live in New York; animals that aren’t pigeons, squirrels, or rats are fascinating.) I also feel like I get a better sense for the place I’m visiting when I’m alone–I pay more attention to the scenery and the locals when I’m not having a conversation with a companion.
But also, let’s be honest, I people watch. And eavesdrop. It’s hilarious. On this trip, in beach chairs nearby, a young couple was talking to an older woman. The woman asked if they were on their honeymoon. *cue awkward laughter* “Uh, no, we’re just on vacation,” the young man said. “But…um…someday…maybe.” Things were uncomfortable between the couple for the rest of the morning, and I enjoyed every minute of it, because schadenfreude, amirite?
3. I read.
This is the game changer. I’m not such a mindfulness master that I can sit silently for a week in full awareness of my surroundings. I love to read, and since I work in publishing, I don’t get nearly enough time for non-work books. My Goodreads goal could not be as ambitious as it is without my solo travel time; I blazed through ten books on the island.
And truly, when I read, I don’t feel like I’m alone. As I read a sociological nonfiction work, I felt like I was in conversation with a large swathe of critical discourse. As I read women’s fiction, I felt like I was hanging out with new friends.
Rory Gilmore put it best: “I live in two worlds. One is a world of books. I’ve been a resident of Faulkner’s Yoknapatawpha County, hunted the white whale aboard the Pequod, fought alongside Napoleon, sailed a raft with Huck and Jim, committed absurdities with Ignatius J. Reilly, rode a sad train with Anna Karenina and strolled down Swann’s Way.” While my reading list for the week was less literary than Rory’s, the characters felt no less real.
So no, I’m not bored. Just mildly irritated that you interrupted me mid-paragraph to ask.
I miss last week already. The grey harshness of New York in February feels especially brutal after a week of hot sun and soft sand. My skin is tan but freezing. I’m stuck at a desk instead of sending the occasional email from the beach.
Saying goodbye to St. Maarten…
On February 5, I took off for the tiny island of Anguilla, a British overseas territory in the Caribbean that’s just 16 miles long by 3 miles wide. There are no direct flights–while Anguilla does have an airport, it’s serviced by tiny planes from San Juan–so I opted instead for a nonstop flight to St. Maarten, followed by a very pleasant 30-minute boat ride. Having been to St. Maarten before and knowing how bad the traffic can get, I opted to pay more for Funtime Charters, which leaves from a dock just a few minutes from the airport, rather than traversing the island to the French side to take the public ferry. The boat ride was actually delightful; with a rum punch and the ocean breeze, it was a lovely way to start the vacation.
Spurred on by a 25% off Expedia discount, which made the hotel a couple hundred bucks a night cheaper than other options on the island (Anguilla is many things, but inexpensive isn’t one of them), I stayed at Zemi Beach House, on Shoal Bay East Beach, in a premium ocean view king room. The view (on left) was gorgeous, and you could lie in the cozy bed and see the ocean. I was very impressed with the hotel overall; the staff was friendly and accommodating–I stayed an extra day, thanks to the NYC snowstorm, and they extended my stay at the same rate. And with only 69 rooms, the two pools (one, an out of the way, adults only tranquility pool; the other overlooking the ocean) and private beach were never crowded. After having been to large, family-oriented resorts in the Bahamas and Bermuda, I can’t tell you what a joy it is not to have to wake up at dawn and fight for beach chairs. Instead, I slept in and strolled out at 10 to take my pick of oceanfront loungers.
I stayed close to the hotel during the days. The one downside to Zemi Beach is that many of the restaurants (and other hotels) are clustered on the opposite side of the island, a $20-35 cab ride away. You can rent a car–many who wish to explore the various beaches do–but given the rural roads (roosters and goats roaming free!) and left-side driving, I decided nighttime taxi excursions were the way to go. And the beach at Zemi suited my lounging and reading needs just fine, although with slightly rough waters, it’s not the best location for swimming and snorkeling. If you do decide to explore, it’s easy–most beachside grills have lounge chairs you can rent for a nominal (about $5) fee. But I was more than content with my wide-open expanse of sand:
I did drag myself off the beach to indulge in the on-site Thai House Spa twice–well worth it, as it won World’s Best New Resort Spa 2016 in the World Spa Awards. On my first full day on the island, before I got too much sun to make massage impossible, I got the deep tissue grapefruit and rosemary muscle melt. Girl was not messing around with that deep tissue; it fully lived up to its name. On my last day, I got a much-needed cucumber and aloe wrap to soothe my sunburned skin. And the spa itself is beautiful, though it feels a bit strange (yet awesome???) to be walking around the open air setting in your robe. Spa treatments come with a complimentary bathing ritual, consisting of time in the hammam, the only one of these Turkish steam rooms on the island, a scrub or mud mask rinsed off in the outdoor rain showers, and a dip in a bathwater-temp pool. An overly friendly male employee made the ritual my only real negative moment of the trip–but it’s a bit of a story; stay tuned next week for more on that.
At night, I ventured out. The day I arrived was Super Bowl Sunday, and I watched the game on a giant screen set up in the sand at Elvis’ Beach Bar, comfortably crowded with tourists and locals alike. Aside from the tranquil beaches, the other big Anguilla draw is the food. Several chefs have decided to expat on island, and there is some seriously haute cuisine happening in tropical, open spaces. My favorite meal of the trip was at the French with Asian influences Hibernia, where I ate smoked fish and ginger cream cheese on toasted bread (like the Caribbean version of a New York bagel) and the most amazing aromatic duck with some cinnamon tea and homemade rum raisin ice cream for dessert, while overlooking this lovely art-surrounded pool.
But I also highly recommend my two other nice dinners. At Blanchards, situated right on the beach, I ate fresh corn chowder and amazingly tender braised lamb shank, followed by their signature cracked coconut, a chocolate “shell” filled with coconut ice cream. And at Veya, a palm-treehouse style restaurant with live music, I had delightfully decadent conch fritters and grilled shrimp with curry sauce–and their amuse bouche, a lobster and lemongrass soup, was the most delicious thing I ate all week.
The hotel food was similarly excellent–one of the highlights for me was the packet of macarons they left every night at turndown, which I saved to have as breakfast in the morning with the complimentary in-room illy coffee. Zemi Beach’s casual restaurant 20 Knots had a tasty lunch menu that was varied enough to keep me happy all week–I recommend the simply skewered option or the mango and zucchini salad–though you can also walk down the beach to a couple of casual grills. Breakfast in the sand was the perfect farewell to the island.
Though I have a hard time returning to places when there’s so much of the world still to explore, I could easily see Anguilla becoming a favorite winter retreat. On one of my cab rides, the driver and I started talking about the radio show he was listening to, on which a local politician was arguing for expanding the airport. While I certainly understand wanting to expand tourism–their main economic resource–the lack of a cruise port and slight inaccessibility keep many travelers away. And that’s what makes this traveler want to keep going back.
After the election, I took a month off from dating.
Like many others in the country, particularly here in my delightfully liberal NYC enclave, I woke up miserable on November 9. I spent most of the day–the better part of a week, really–in tears. The thought of trying to converse, let alone flirt, with an unknown human was inconceivable.
Before the election, I was dating like it was my job. Really. I started working with a matchmaker in late September, and “dating” is an actual line item on my bullet journal’s habit tracker.
Now, though, when I’ve pulled myself together a bit and am trying to get back out there, it’s tough even to find someone to go out with. January is usually peak dating season, not yet in that awkward Valentine’s Day avoidance lull and right after people make resolutions to be better, to do more. This year…crickets. The matchmaker confirms that it’s not me–in the city, at least, no one is swiping, no one is matching, no one wants to be set up.
When I have managed to land a first date, it feels more akin to a therapy session at worst or a political rally at best. There is no line of conversation that doesn’t lead to a discussion about how scared and angry we are. And once that starts, it doesn’t end; there are too many dark alleys to explore: the failings of the Electoral College, the future of the Democratic Party, the complicity of the media, a thorough analysis of every single Cabinet appointee.
That is not sexy. I have yet to transition from that conversational quagmire into a hot makeout session.
And yes, since I can feel you rolling your eyes, I’m aware that we have bigger problems right now. But when the world has turned into a much darker, more ominous place than it was three months ago, I’m even more envious of my friends who have a safe harbor at home.
So who knows. Maybe we’ll eventually embrace an eat, drink, and be merry philosophy, and all the single people will get some end-of-the-world sex. Maybe I’ll meet a cute, liberal, feminist guy at one of the many organizing meetings I’m now attending. (My free time is yet another unexpected casualty of the Trump administration.) For now, though, my love life is just another reminder that things are not normal, and we are not okay.
I love Broadway. The first time I visited New York, on a thirteenth birthday trip with my mom, we saw a show every night. Now that I live here, I don’t have that kind of time or money, but I do try to get to the theater every month or so. And most of the time, I go alone.
There are a few reasons. Many of my friends don’t have the time, money, or inclination to go even once a month. Some would like to go but would need to get the cheapest possible seat, while I prefer (and am lucky enough to be able) to spring for a spot from which I can see the actors’ faces. And then there’s the coordination–doing anything with anyone in New York City requires a superhuman effort to compare calendars, and then odds are high that the plans will be rescheduled. Being busy is a key New York attribute (I’m guilty).
But honestly, the theater is the perfect place to fly solo. You’re literally forbidden to speak. You’re sitting in the dark. Many of the people there don’t even live in New York; they can’t judge you. And here’s the real bonus factor for Broadway: you can get better seats for less money. I saw Hamilton fourth row center all by myself. It was glorious.
The one sad solo moment is when the lights come up, and you want to turn to the person next to you and talk about what you just saw…but when you go see a play alone, the person next to you is talking to the person next to him. Luckily, you’re never alone on the Internet. It’s not quite the same, but it’s far better than staying at home.
And The Humans was an ideal play to watch alone because there was no one to contemplate the tears rolling down my face for the last twenty minutes or so. Truly, it’s beautiful. 95 minutes with no intermission, a single tw0-story set, a cast of six. It’s a glimpse into the life of a middle-class family on a recent Thanksgiving, coping with illness, financial difficulty, love and the loss of it, aging, work instability, religion, and the usual familial sniping that happens when everyone gathers in one room for the first time in months. It’s funny and tragic, life at its highest and lowest in just an hour and a half. The show is in the final week, but if you can, go–even if you have to go by yourself.
packed. I started my visit with patatas bravas (natch, I could live on those) to fortify me for exploration.
This is the first day in my new co-working space in Barcelona, where I’ll be living for the month of May. Then I’ll move to Prague, then Berlin, Split, Belgrade…then on to various cities in Southeast Asia, Australia, and South America. This is the beginning of my journey with 
oint Garden, where we watched people get engagement and wedding photos taken and a true hero assemble a DIY hammock.
ighlight of my weekend. The wind was serious; most people laying out were hiding back in the dunes. But the sun was out, and the wind was perfect for kite surfers, who we watched fly through the air. Even better than the acrobatics, though, were the sandpipers scurrying around the shore and dodging the waves. It was a fun camera challenge for me–they move fast.
off Expedia discount, which made the hotel a couple hundred bucks a night cheaper than other options on the island (Anguilla is many things, but inexpensive isn’t one of them), I stayed at 
At night, I ventured out. The day I arrived was Super Bowl Sunday, and I watched the game on a giant screen set up in the sand at 
macarons they left every night at turndown, which I saved to have as breakfast in the morning with the complimentary in-room illy coffee. Zemi Beach’s casual restaurant 20 Knots had a tasty 
