GOING SOLO; WHY TRAVELLING ALONE IS THE NEW BLACK

As Globalisation makes our world smaller, and the economic downturn makes travel partners harder to find, solo travel is becoming more and more popular. Alexandra Hansen explores the ups and downs, and why in the end, solo travel is more worthwhile than any other kind.

“This is as far as I can take you,” he said, the tassles hanging from his crooked rear-view mirror swinging menacingly. “What do you mean?” I asked; first time setting foot in Africa, 11pm, no French or Arabic to speak of other than your average ‘merci’ and ‘habib’.

As I wandered the streets of Marrakech, 18 kilogram backpack in tow, I cursed whatever (now long-gone) courage led me to tackle this alien city alone, and prayed to a God I don’t believe in that providence would get me safely where I needed to go since apparently the taxi driver couldn’t. ‘Never trust anyone whose pants match their shoes which match their shirt which matches their fez,’ I thought, but in Marrakech, I soon found out, that would leave very few to trust.

I had spent four months backpacking Europe, making friends along the way, and thought all cities were equally combatable, but Marrakesh was something I hadn’t banked on. I’d travelled alone, I’d been to Islamic and impoverished countries, but there was something about the souks and bazaars of Morocco that made one feel, well, overwhelmed.

I was seriously questioning my desire to travel alone, when one day while overlooking Djemaa El-Fna (the main market square), I realised what I loved about it.

I’d had my hand in both, travelled in a group large and small, travelled in a threesome, travelled in a pair. Aside from the unlikelihood of finding people who want to go to the same countries, cities, hostels, monuments, cafes, paintings at the same time as you for the same amount of time and with a temperament not too disparate from your own, travelling accompanied is somewhat like being on anti-depressants. The lows aren’t as low (being lost is not so stressful, being followed home by drunk Athenians is funny, and needing to go to the toilet when you’ve just picked your luggage off of the carousel is no inconvenience) but the highs are also not quite so high.

Leaning over the railing, pint in hand, screaming ‘Don’t worry, be happy’ with a couple of Germans, making the charismatic Dublin guitarist laugh; gave a feeling that this is what life is about, that no high could ever be this high, especially not with people I’d known for years, conversations with whom had been exhausted, arguments from the day before still raw.

While travelling with pals is fun, it’s rarely an adventure, everything new is not so shiny-and, and it still sits snugly in your comfort zone, perhaps with a blanky and a pack of arrowroot biscuits. The triumphs of solo travel, while seemingly small, are things that will stay with you, and do you service, forever.

The route to the hostel that seemed so lengthy, treacherous, and unknown fills you with a confidence that if you can arrive in a city you’ve never seen, a culture you’ve never experienced, a language you’ve never heard; and find your way, then you can do anything. Your parents haven’t done it, and probably couldn’t, and your friends haven’t had the guts.

The making of a new friend in the hostel that sat eating his/her breakfast while you wondered if he/she 1) spoke English 2) wanted a friend, and 3) wasn’t mental, fills you with the belief that you can approach anyone and never again will you be nervous or awkward in social situations. You can’t wait to get home and show everyone how much you’ve changed, matured, come out of your shell.

The successful excursion into the wilderness that led to the best ice-cream you’ve ever tasted, the scariest bus ride you’ve ever been on, the closest you’ve come to crying during a play, and the only time you’ve actually cried while looking at a structure made of metal reminds you that you are capable of many things you wouldn’t have thought you could do while sitting at home watching Getaway.

All of the travels-with-friends experiences I’ve had have been, don’t get me wrong, fantastic, but also somehow safer and a bit more standardised. That knot in your stomach is nowhere to be seen and that ‘no-one else has ever had these experiences I’ve had’ cannot exist.

The solo journey is becoming more popular according to ebookers.com and solotravel.org; which they say may be due to the GFC and the inability to find a suitable travel partner. However globalisation and the convenience of feedback-driven sites such as Trip Advisor, and interactive accommodation booking sites such as HostelWorld and HostelBookers mean the world is no longer as big and scary as it once was.

Such forums make the unknown seem a little less scary, and ensure others have too traveled the road less traveled, and you shan’t be entirely alone.

If you’re considering solo travel, or if you want to see the world and none of your friends can get time off work/family/commitments/their arse, I’ve compiled a list of dos and don’ts from a seasoned solo traveler.

Don’t:

..Forget to write down the address/directions/phone number to your accommodation. Being homeless isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

..Be too nervous to say ‘do you mind if I join you for a drink?’ what’s the worst that could happen? They say no? You’re NEVER going to see them again.

..Be afraid to spend your money on day trips, bus excursions and other touristy stuff to that effect, it’s often really worth it. Use the money you’ve saved not buying a souvenir from every place you go to.

..Take pictures of absolutely every building you see. With every picture think about what it will remind you of, and what story you will have to tell about it. If the story is ‘That’s in Vienna’, then delete it.

Do:

.. Cull photographs often.

..Leave your map behind and just wander around aimlessly, you tend to find way cooler stuff that way.

..Keep a diary. Even if your writing skills possess not the wit and eloquence of my own, simple points of where you’ve been, what you’ve done and how it was will suffice, and write down those little moments that thrilled you.

..The Sound of Music tour in Salzburg and sing ‘I am sixteen going on seventeen’ at the top of your lungs with the 66 year-old American lady beside you.

..Get into lengthy conversations with other solo travelers that you’ll never forget; i.e. ‘Dance if that’s what you want to do with your life!’, ‘I’m actually in love with my best friend’, ‘I once did a poo in my pants during aeroplane turbulence’*

..Be nervous, afraid, scared of what the next city holds in store, you’ll never forget that feeling!

*The orators of these quotes shall remain anonymous. 

LIVING, LOVING, LEARNING MOROCCO

The man sits on a mat in his tassled hat playing the Arabic flute and I laugh and think it sounds like snake-charmer music. I double-take and see three cobras, flared, ready to strike, at his feet.

Only in Marrakech.

The first thing I thought on arriving in this city was; “What on earth have I got myself in for?” and the last thing I thought upon leaving was; “I’m never going to see a place this unbelievable ever again.” It’s not for the feint at heart, that’s for sure. But if you’re looking for something unlike anything you’ve ever seen before, then it’s worth a look.

I had been travelling Europe alone for months, and I had a routine, and it worked, and I liked it. Get to city, find hostel, do a walking tour, see the sights, hang out, meet people, party. I arrived in Marrakech at 11pm and approached the information desk at the airport for some advice. I looked at the young girl expectantly as she chatted away in Arabic on her bunny-eared blackberry. She finished her conversation, unwrapped a piece of chewing gum, considered it, put it in her mouth and looked up at me ‘salaam’ (more a question than greeting in this case). ‘Salaam,’ I responded, ‘I just wanted to know if there was a particular type of taxi I should get, or whether any out there would be fine?’ ‘I call someone for you. 200 Dirham.’ ‘200? The guidebook says about 60.’ ‘Go out there and ask them if you don’t believe me.’ She works at the airport, she must be telling the truth.

Lesson Number One in Marrakech: the truth here is not so black and white; it’s a flexible kind of grey. Whether it’s real silver, real leather, really vegetarian, one can never be quite sure. An hour, 300 Dirhams, some silent prayers, and some very helpful strangers later, I happened across my hostel.

Lesson Number Two in Marrakech; there’s no such thing as a free anything. Everything, even directions, has a price.

Very quickly I learnt that everybody here has found a way to utilise tourists to some effect, (and unlike Europe, you can’t hide; they know every face in the city, whether you’ve been there before, whether you’ve just arrived) you turn left when a young boy tells you that the way to the square is left, and you get a slap if you don’t give him money. You take a photograph of the man walking around with monkeys in nappies, there’ll soon be a hand under your nose asking for your cash. And they’re smart, they know the exchange rates. You try to fob them off with 5 Dirham, “50  cents?” They respond, “I want more,” and they won’t leave you alone until they get it.

Acrobats applaud each other as they flip and somersault through the air, while you watch on from a restaurant. A man jovially swings his head around making the tassle on top swing around and around. A man has a donkey. A man has a baby camel. Apparently all of this warrants a price.

All of this contributes to make Marrakech the unforgettable, fascinating, can’t-peel-my-eyes-away city that it is, one simply has to learn the rules; Lesson Number Three: Pack small change because this atmosphere isn’t free.

I was in shock for the first day, at least, wondering why I had chosen to come to Marrakech. I wracked my brains trying to think of what so-and-so had told me about it, I’m sure I’d heard what’s-his-face say it was good, why else would I have come here? Maybe I had it confused with somewhere else?

On my second day exploring, getting tricked by the locals, being told I had ‘a nice arse’ by every second man on the street, I started to get it. These men weren’t crazed perverts; they just thought it was funny. These salesmen weren’t trying to attack me; they were trying to make a living for their families in the fastest-growing industry in the country. Once I knew how to say ‘thank you’, ‘it is lovely, but I already have one,’ and ignore the arse comments and constant proposals of marriage, everything started to fall into place and I was better able to enjoy the place for what it was, and get over the sheer shock of it all.

So Lesson Number Four (and the most important of all) is just to enjoy yourself. Smile and relax, they don’t want to hurt you after all; they just want your money.

Salzburg is alive with The Sound of Music (Tour)….

One of the cheesiest, yet most unforgettable things I did while in Europe was to take The Sound of Music Tour in Salzburg.

This is probably something that only big fans of the film will enjoy, so perhaps leave your boyfriend at the pub for the day, while you hop on any number of big tacky tour buses with other SOM fans to enjoy the sights of Salzburg as seen in the film, while singing along to the classic soundtrack.

There are various travel companies that run the programme; I chose the Panorama tours, lured by their inclusion of tobogganing through the Austrian mountains. I had read many online forums which said these tours were a tourist trap, and had planned to see the sights on my own, but managing it in one day would have been a struggle, and I’d rather pay for someone who knows Salzburg to take me there on a coach than stress myself out trying to get around to all the sites by map and local bus. We were also told some of the sites are not accessible to the general public, whether this is true, I’m unable to say.

The first site is the stunning Mirabell Gardens, where the children are seen running around in the “doe, a deer” scenes. The gardens are an amazing display of colour, and you can take a picture with the famous fountain the children run around.

Leopoldskron Palace is the beautiful mansion which is the façade of the Von Trapp family home, and the stunning lake the children fall into. The house is surrounded by some of the most amazing scenery in Salzburg. Hellbrun Palace’s Gardens contain the famous glass pavilion Liesl and Rolf danced around singing “I am 16, going on 17,” however you unfortunately cannot go inside.

One of the real highlights was Mondsee, the small town containing the stunning church where Maria and Captain Von Trapp married in the film. It is evident this town largely exists nowadays for SOM fans, and there is ample opportunity to purchase memorabilia and other paraphernalia such as edelweiss jewelry and SOM postcards.

En route to these sights are other landmarks such as Nonnberg Abbey where Maria was a nunn, the street where the children were hanging from the trees in their curtain clothes, and the train station where the real Captain and Maria von Trapp escaped Austria.

It was a surprise to me that the story is based on a true one, and if you have a good guide, he/she will show you the sights from the film, and from the Von Trapp family’s real life.

While I hate to admit it, I had a brilliant time with the other (mostly) women and children singing along to “These are a few of my favourite things…” and gushing at the fact that I was standing alongside the fountain Maria had danced around, case in hand, declaring she had confidence in sunshine.

You’ll love Paris; but not for the reasons you’re thinking…

The sights and the history in Paris are unrivalled anywhere in Europe, but the city itself probably won’t live up to your expectations.

I, along with the rest of Western civilisation, had a very distinct idea in my head about  Paris would be like. Largely due to modern cinema and romance novels, I expected to arrive in “gay Paree” where everything was in sepia, there was a constant piano accordion soundtrack, and men in cafes wore berets and drank red wine at noon.

I also thought the sheer romanticism of the place would sweep me off my feet; I’d fall in love with the city, and never leave. Well, I did leave. And since thieving gypsies were more prevalent than berets, I was quite glad to.

I arrived in Paris one sunny afternoon at Gare du Nord train station, expectations high, backpack in tow. I looked for the exit of the bustling station and mentally prepared myself to be serenaded by the sights and sounds of the city.

I stepped on to the street only to be accosted by a group of young gypsies who tore at my hair and clothes all the while saying “treasure, treasure”. Welcome to the city of love. And loss. Of possessions.

I finally managed to bat them away (don’t be afraid to use expletives; it’s all they really respond to) and found my hostel which was not too far from Sacre Couer, the famous cathedral.

I met some lovely people there who were also quite keen to find some friends with whom they could roam the streets after similar stories of muggings, attempted muggings, and gypsy encounters.

It was with them that I discovered all of the wonder and amazement Paris has to offer; and as one of them so succinctly pointed out; the French just never seem to get it wrong.

From the Arc de Triomphe, to the Louvre and its famous works inside and out, the Moulin Rouge to Sacre Couer, the Hotel des Invalides to the Pantheon; whatever the French do, however controversial or despised it was at the time, is just breathtaking.

One of my most cathartic and poignant moments in all of my travels, and a truly “wow I can’t believe I’m really here” moment, was one night spent with friends, some cheap wine, camembert, and La Tour Eiffel. Another creation the French are said to have hated when it was first erected, there is nothing quite as spectacular, or quite as French, as lazing on the grass, basking in the thousands of lights on display on the tower every evening.  

Another gem of which you may not have heard is the Parisian Catacombs; 2km of nothing but bones, winding under the streets of Paris. Human bones from nearly 6 million people line the tunnels decoratively in a display which must have taken years to arrange. The mass underground grave was opened to relieve Paris’ cemeteries which were crowded to overflowing. The Man in the Iron Mask (whom I mentioned in my South of France piece) is buried here – somewhere.  It’s quite eerie and cold, being nearly 20 metres underground, so take a friend, and it’s not for the claustrophobic, elderly, young children or unfit, but it’s definitely worth the two-hour-plus wait in the queue!

The sights of Paris are some of the most remarkable in Europe, and the history, especially of the Napoleonic period is astounding. It is for this that I loved Paris, and why I would return. However the city itself has been somewhat tainted and jaded by tourists. Poverty-stricken folk from Romania and Eastern Europe make Paris their home to take from those who they deem can clearly afford it since they’re travelling in Paris, and locals take advantage of those naïve enough to keep their wallets, iPhones, cigarettes in their back pockets.

Keep your wits about you and there’s no reason why you shouldn’t have a ball in the awe-inspiring French capital; just don’t expect to fall in love.

Think instead of your relationship with Paris as of a fling with a rock star; he has some amazing things going for him, and well, he’s famous, so you’re glad you went there, but at the end of the day he’s pretty dirty and creepy and you’re quite content to tell the stories past-tense.

English Rose Jam and Jam Tarts!

If you want to feel as though you're in Moreton-in-Marsh or another gem of the English country-side, whip up some English Rose jam!

 

For about a nice big batch of posh English Rose Jam, cut the tops off about 1.5 kilos of strawberries, and combine with a kilo of sugar. I like to mash the strawberries for a smoother set. Bring to the boil for three minutes, and then add a packet of commercial jam setting mix (or a tablespoon of pure pectin) and six table spoons of rose water.

 

Boil until a drop of jam forms a skin when left to cool on a plate.

 

Sterilise bottles by washing in hot soapy water and warming in the oven at 140 degrees for 15 minutes. bottle jam when jam is cold and the glass is warm.

 

Complete with a material cover and rubber band, and a wool bow as shown!

 

English Rose Jam Tarts:

 

You can use ready-made pastry, but why would you when you can make your own?!

 

Sieve together 250g of plain flour, a heaped tablespoon of icing sugar, and a pinch of salt. Add 110g of butter or marg and rub it in with your fingertips until it becomes crumbly. Slowly add a tablespoon of water at a time and rub through until it forms a dough. It shouldn't be sticky, but it should cling together a little bit! 

Put this in the fridge wrapped in cling film for about an hour. Leave it to warm to room temp, then roll out with a rolling pin on a flat surface covered in flour. Cut circles with a fluted cookie cutter and place in an oiled cupcake tray. You should be able to make about 15. 

Put a teaspoon of jam in each tart (not too much - the jam boils in the oven and can spill over the tart) and put a cookie-cut out shape on top (I've used stars here with miniature stars in the middle, you could try any shape you like!).

Bake for about 20 minutes or until the pastry looks slightly browned. Leave to cool before serving, and sprinkle with icing sugar. Pret a manger! Bon Apetite!

"In Bruges" - August 2011

After seeing the film 'In Bruges' with the delectable Colin Farrell, I felt compelled to go to the place his character said might impress him if he grew up on a farm and was retarded.

When I arrived in Bruges' town centre I felt as though I'd walked into a fairy tale. Skinny gabled buildings are squashed shoulder-to-shoulder into little squares and cobbled streets.

Lace makers sit on the side of the road and you can watch them perform their craft for a coin donation, and little markets selling antiques and other wares litter the streets.

I saw most of the sights - (The bell tower, the Kerk van de hoelig bloed, Michael Angelo's pieta, the nunnery etc) but the best you can do in Bruges is just to wander the streets and take in the atmosphere of the Belgian gem.

Tips: Try the frites in the green caravans in front of the bell tower, hire bikes and ride around the town centre, laze by the river with a book (in summer), go ice skating (in winter). 

Mykonoooooooos July 2011

Mykonos. Why am I having writers' block about one of the most travelled-to Greek Islands known for its summers of booze and partying? Well I guess it's because I didn't enjoy it all that much. It was July, it was hot, it was uni-break for much of Europe. It was worth a look, but I won't go again.

 

We stayed at a campsite-cum-party ranch which was impressive on entry; complete with restaurant, pool, shop, bar, but the rooms were less than desirable. I'd never had more mosquito bites in my life and you couldn't sleep past 7am (even though you were home at five) as the sun beat down on the canvas and tin structure making you sweat out of your eyeballs.

 

All of Europe was here - school camp groups, and university students on holiday. Unfortunately for us they were mostly Italians. Italians who found blonde hair exotic and who were definitely in 'holiday mode' (aka; I'm going to get very drunk and grope every girl that walks past). While I did spend a large part of the week avoiding drunk and horny Italians, I still attempted to enjoy myself and get into the party spirit.

 

Spending all day on the beach lazing in the sun sounds fun, but when it's 45 degrees it gets old pretty quickly. Going into town was quite nice, the blue and white windmills are the most famous view of Mykonos, and the winding blue and white streets and little shops are quite lovely for the day.

 

At night is when Mykonos comes into its own. For those who haven't been on Tropicana (the all-day beach party) all day, its time to head over for a beach party. It lives up to the crazy things you've heard about it as people pour champagne down your throat, grab you from every angle, and seeing people getting intimate on the beach ceases to shock you after the first few hours. Look out for Elephant Man; distinguishable by his elephant G-string, he wanders around Tropicana with a microphone making such witty remarks as "Mykonooooossssssss", "We love Italiaaaaaaaaanssssssss", and "Who is from Australiaaaaaaaaaaaa?"

 

Then it's time for one of Mykonos' myriad of clubs. Cavo Paradiso is one of the most famous; you will have seen it in the Wog Boy sequel (apparently - I'm hoping you haven't watched it) and is complete with a pool and overlooks the ocean. I can't say I was too into the music, or the crowd, or the club itself, but you can't go to Mykonos without going to Cavo Paradiso; again, 'apparently'.

 

There are a number of other Ibiza-style super-clubs like this, but in my opinion at least you'll have more fun at one of the bars or smaller clubs in town. Much more atmosphere, and drinks aren't 20 euro (Well, given the Greek economy at the moment, they may be).

 

I hate to trash Greece while they could so desperately use your dollar, but Mykonos really wasn't for me. Santorini and other less party-esque islands are said to be amazing, and Athens has the most amazing history in the world, but unless what I have described above appeals to you, the perhaps give Mykonos a miss.

Anne Frank Huis Amsterdam

08/11

I had read her diary and her biography by Carol Ann Lee and so felt as though I had spent hours upon hours with Anne Frank and her family in their secret annex.

I travelled to Amsterdam to spend a week being young and having fun in the party-renowned city after having spent many weeks with my family in Houten, Utrecht.

I had a blast as is inevitable in Amsterdam; staying in a youth hostel, meeting new people and seeing the various sights Amsterdam had to offer.

I had wanted to see Anne Frank’s house in Amsterdam ever since hearing her tale when I was a young girl, and I took a day alone to experience it for myself.

I arrived at the house one chilly Amsterdam afternoon…and then had to walk another 200 hundred metres to the back of the line (I recommend going early in the morning to avoid the queues) before waiting for 90 minutes to enter.

I knew not what to expect but I had to admit what I discovered was one of the most powerful things I’ve ever experienced.

Upon entering the house and ascending the stairs one is taken through the factory and offices of Opekta; Otto Frank’s company which distributed a pectin-based gelling preparation to be used in jam-making.

The offices and store rooms of the building are exactly as described by Anne in the diaries and as one walks through the building one can imagine Otto, Mr Kleiman and Miep Gies working away. These areas also contain a small exhibition including videos, Nazi propaganda from Holland during the war years, and a furnished model of the annex.

After the discovery of the Franks the Nazis stripped their annex of all furniture and possessions. When turning the site into a museum and memorial, Otto Frank made the executive decision to leave the house empty as the Nazis had left it, and not fully furnished as the Franks had.

When ascending into the back office, the map as described in the diary and the swinging bookcase loom before you. A lump entered my throat as I realised more than ever how real the plight of the Ottos was, and suddenly it was no longer a story on a page, but a very real reality.

I crossed the threshold of the bookcase and walked up the tiny staircase leading to the annexe that Anne had so often described tiptoeing up in stockinged feet so as to avoid detection.

As I walked through the rooms I was amazed that the map of the Nazi invasion of Europe that Otto had marked out with pins was still on the wall in their bedroom, and pencil markings of the girls’ heights. The room that Anne shared with Mr Pfeffer still contained the celebrity pictures which Anne so meticulously glued to the walls and took so much joy from.

The kitchen, while empty, was in my mind’s eye full of the two families around the dinner table, as they eyed each other off for taking too much and contributing too little. So much of the diary revolved around food in the annexe (or lack thereof) and the politics of sharing. I saw this all come to life as I stood where the usually-silent battles took place.

Opekta and the annex on Prisengracht, Amsterdam

The bathroom where Anne’s housemates thought she spent too much time in the mirror, and the toilet which could rarely be flushed for fear of capture stood before me as my eyes welled thinking what a normal young girl she had been.

Peter’s attic, where Anne came to spend so much time in the end to the dismay of all the parents in the annex, was bigger and gloomier than I had expected.

After walking through the annex, the diaries of Anne Frank are on display, along with a small exhibition on the camps which the Ottos found themselves in the end. There is also a wall of the hundreds of various republications of the diary all over the world, in more languages than you could think of.

In the horrible story that is that of the Franks, this is the one and only consolation; that Anne’s wish of publishing her diaries and becoming a famous writer were realised, even if she never lived to see the fruition.

This experience was certainly unforgettable and even more profound than I had expected. Otto Frank’s decision to open the house as a museum and memorial has been commended as keeping the horror of the holocaust alive so as not to repeat it.

Anne’s story is certainly not a unique one, thousands of families suffered as hers did. But we have her to thank for personifying the terror of WWII and keeping the plight of holocaust victims in the minds of many for decades, and will-be centuries, to come.