So You Go To Sweden

By the time the booking.com confirmation email came through, I was already drafting my Instagram caption. By the time I landed, I felt more alone than ever.

After my relationship of six years ended two years ago, I made a list of things I wanted to do - return to education, pass my driving test (which remains my elusive white whale), and travel.

I’d already visited Iceland and Paris in Spring, but I wanted to venture out of the UK alone; no itinerary, no agenda, just me and the open road (or, in my case, a plane ticket and hostel reservation). It was something I’d been dying to tick off my list for a while.

Solo travel among women is on the rise; a 2023 survey by Booking.com, saw around 60% of women reported wanting to travel solo in the next year. Leading agencies like Intrepid reported solo female travellers make up 40-50% of their clients. Reasons for this vary, but if they’re anything like me, they probably saw something on Instagram and thought ‘god that looks fun!’

I stayed in London at a friend’s place the night before I flew, proudly declaring over dinner that this would be my “Eat, Pray, Love” moment. Cliche, I know, but I didn’t care. I couldn’t shake the vision of becoming and feeling like me again - I didn’t want to.

My early 20s were spent tied to a partner who hated flying, now, at 27, I was starting again; I craved adventure and needed a holiday. Sweden seemed perfect - low crime rate, welcoming people and cinnamon buns to die for and thanks to a travel app recommended by a friend, it was shockingly cheap - ideal.

At the airport, I embraced my loneliness as if it were a victory, declaring to my nearest and dearest via WhatsApp the basic things I was aware of when travelling alone.

“I will not go drinking with strangers”, “I will not go walking through dark streets alone” - “I will not bring anyone back to mine” (not that I could in a six-bed dorm) and “I will take no unnecessary risks whilst away”.

The reality of what I was doing hit me as we taxied out onto the runway. I was about to leave the country alone.

I was shaking with anxiety - my own personal turbulence delivered to my aisle seat.

What am I doing?

Out of nowhere, the woman next to me took off her headphones and grabbed my hand.

“First flight on your own?”

I nod.

A half-truth. I’d flown back alone from Spain early for an audition a few years before but was so miserable after the experience of attempting a holiday with the abovementioned ex that I don’t think I would have minded if I had crashed into the sea.

“You’ll be fine,” she said. “What’s your name?”

We spent the whole flight chatting. I can’t tell you how grateful I was for the reassurance and vow to do the same if I ever got the chance in the future.

Before we parted ways, we swapped insta handles and she warned me Gothenburg was the "worst place" for my first solo adventure.

“It’s just so dull”.

“Harsh”, laughing as I replied.

She has a point, it’s a small city, but I’d still recommend it if you were easing yourself into this new world of exploration.

I got lost in the Haga district, certain I knew where I was going, only to circle the block twice before reluctantly asking the person I'd just turned down for directions… for directions. I pounded the cobbled city streets and marble-tiled floors of museums - accidentally joined the congregation of a Catholic mass (don’t ask). I couldn’t have asked for more. I should have felt free, but instead, I just felt lonely.

The lack of real conversation was exhausting.

I tried to mimic the charm of a noir film, propping myself up on bar stools with that air of quiet confidence, hoping I or someone, anyone, would strike up a conversation. They didn’t. I didn’t. I spent most of my time in galleries and fleamarkets wandering.

My friend Courtney rang to see how I was doing around 4 PM, and I talked her ear off for an hour in between bouts of sobs.

“I just feel so alone”

“Stop crying and get out there,” she said.

I hate to admit it, but as ever, she was right. I put on my newly thrifted trousers and headed out into the city at 6 PM.

Around 8 PM, still sat alone at a bar, I’d given up on ever speaking to another human face to face again and was about to walk back to the hostel, when to my surprise an aspiring painter (former investor and a little lost himself) tapped me on the shoulder and asked my name.

I won’t tell you his.

“Great trousers” he observed (correctly).

“Thanks, they’re new”

We hit it off and knocked back Old Fashioneds in a dim lit jazz bar and talked about his recent divorce, my previous acting career - and, like two strangers must in a foreign city, discussed how we both found ourselves here.

The bar kicked us out at 2 AM.

“Can I walk you back?” - “Sure.”

The sound of my hostel door clicking shut behind me the painter’s Uber pulling away, brought me back to reality abruptly. I had just done everything I promised my friends and family I wouldn’t in less than 100 hours out of the country.

I allowed myself to get drawn in by a charming conversationalist and dropped all my defensive training. I left my drink unattended more than once when I got up from the table, I had wandered through dark, narrow streets and parks with a stranger and to top it off, I had just led him right to my front door.

Fuck.

A surprise heatwave arrived the next day sandwiched in between showers. I sat in the botanic gardens, and wandered through the greenhouses, trying to steam the shame out of me but I couldn’t. I replayed the night before over and over and over again, horrified at how easily things could have gone wrong. I still do.

A few weeks later, when the news from Laos broke (six tourists dying from methanol poisoning at a hostel) I felt sick to my stomach. The risk they took seems so small, just a free shot on arrival at the place you’re staying, something you wouldn’t think twice about when caught up in the thrill of adventure.

Yet in that split second, a simple decision had tragic consequences.

Although I was nowhere near the limestone caves of Vang Vieng, even in the cobbled streets of Gothenburg, anything could have happened.

How could I have been so reckless?

I remember as I boarded my flight home, I felt different; despite my folly and naivety, I faced the discomfort and came back.

Not enlightened, not stronger, but altered, and arguably, better? I’m no expert in this, but I think that a reason to travel solo is to see how you handle being lost.

Even though you’re the one who chose this, being alone - really alone - pushes you in ways you never expected.

And somehow, you survive. And in the end, that’s enough.

So you book another flight, another train to somewhere - anywhere and you try, try again to be better.