Single Ticket

My parents travelled abroad for much of my childhood, so as an adult I should be a naturally intrepid traveller: No fear of flying, an easy knack of speed-packing and a well-honed sense of adventure. But when I first set my heart on going to Italy and couldn’t find anyone to join me, the idea of going alone somehow seemed more sad than adventurous. How could I have so many friends, yet not be able to find someone to go away with? And how could I, an independent (or so I thought) gay singleton, be so intimidated by the idea of travelling solo?

According to a survey that I read somewhere, there are a quite number of adults who are currently single. The highest growth of singles is among the affluent, travel-hungry 25-34 age group, so I’m certainly not one-off, even if it does feel like everyone else is constantly being whisked off on vacation or mini-breaks by their latest love interest, or jetting away with a gaggle of friends in search of discount shopping and sunshine.

But travelling alone is actually very liberating, as I was to discover. People seek hugely different things from holidays, depending on their income, personality and lifestyle. One person’s dream break in an opulent five-star hotel is another’s idea of hell – intimidated by the staff and scared to even look at the mini-bar peanuts that cost almost as much as a meal out. Some people have a live-now-pay-later approach, while their travel buddy is scrimping and saving at every turn – a combination bound to end in tears.

My personal phobia is the kind of trip where you leave town with a couple of good friends and end up in some tourist resort in a Pinoy Big Brother – style gang, with arguments over borrowed clothes and endless discussions over what to do when.

So it was with doing exactly as I please in mind (and my heart in my throat) that I made the monumental decision to book my trip to Italy when, heading to Florence for a solo holiday.

I had a project for my trip when I was spending three weeks in Florence, one of Europe’s capitals of romance. Conscious that I might need a bit of direction in a city with so much culture on offer, and wanting to make friends, I signed up for an art history course. Next step was where to stay: I wasn’t flush – but didn’t want to go home to some empty fleapit hotel room every night, so I rented a room with an Italian family. At first, I felt very shy and could barely speak a word of Italian, but the family couldn’t have been kinder. I loved the fact that I had a key to the front door, rather than being just another anonymous tourist, and that I had a ready-made social network.

The art history was less successful. I soon realised I was never going to find a soul mate among the finishing-school types of my rather boring course, and I abandoned it in favour of just enjoying the city. Armed with tips from the family, I walked the city for days on end, planning a different route every day.

The initial pangs of loneliness and self-consciousness soon gave way to a sense of empowerment and freedom. I made a few friends. I hit the shops. I drank espressos in smoky little bars. I practised Italian on cute waiters. And wandered round museums in manner (I like to think) of a self-assured cosmopolitan gay singleton. I had fun!

I returned home with passable Italian, a real sense of achievement – and a fabulous collection of vintage mod-feel shirts.

Francis