Today's Helping of Chicken Soup for the Soul

[Guest guest]

Have Freedom. Will Travel

I had a ticket. I had my passport. And he had cold feet. I might have known

fairy tales don't come true. Seven months out of my marriage, I had met the

" great love of my life. " We dated a year. I'd always longed to see Europe, and,

with my divorce final, we planned the trip together. Then two weeks before

takeoff, he took off. Having piggybacked two breakups, I felt as if I'd been

through a double divorce. Here I was, thirty-nine years old, with two small

children, and facing my ultimate fear: a life alone. Was I ready to spend a

month in Europe by myself? I had a hard time going to a movie alone! But it did

seem now or never. The kids would be with their dad, the money came as part of

my property settlement, and I had a job waiting when I returned. Okay, if I was

going to be lonely for the next few years, I might as well start by being lonely

in Europe.

The highlight of my journey was to be Paris, the city I'd always wanted to see.

But now I was frightened to travel without a companion. I steeled myself and

went anyway. I arrived at the train station in Paris panicked and disoriented. I

hadn't used my college French in twenty years. Pulling my red suitcase on wobbly

wheels behind me, I was shoved and pushed by perspiring travelers reeking of

cigarette smoke, different diets and not nearly enough deodorant. The roar of

many languages bombarding me seemed unintelligible, just babble. On my first

Metro ride, I encountered an incompetent, clumsy pickpocket. I melted him with a

look, and he eased his hand from my purse to fade into the crowded car. At my

stop, I hauled my heavy suitcase up the steep stairs and froze. Cars zoomed

helter skelter, honking belligerently. Somewhere in this confusing city my hotel

was hidden, but the directions I had scrawled suddenly weren't legible. I

stopped two people. Both greeted me with that Parisian countenance that said:

" Yes, I speak English, but you'll have to struggle with your French if you want

to talk to me. " I walked up one street and across another. A wheel broke off my

suitcase. When I finally found the hotel, my heart was pounding, I was sweating

like a basketball player and my spirits drooped. They flattened altogether when

I saw my room. I couldn't stay. Could I? The wallpaper looked like it had been

through a fire. The bedsprings creaked. The bathroom was down the hall, and the

window looked out onto the brick wall of another building. Welcome to Paris. I

sincerely wanted to die. I missed my friend. I was entering my third week away

from home and my kids, and I had arrived in the most romantic city in the world,

alone. Alone and lonely. Alone, lonely and petrified.

The most important thing I did in Paris happened at that moment. I knew that if

I didn't go out, right then, and find a place to have dinner, I would hide in

this cubicle my entire time in Paris. My dream would be foregone, and I might

never learn to enjoy the world as a single individual. So I pulled myself

together and went out. Evening in Paris was light and balmy. When I reached the

Tuileries, I strolled along a winding path, listening to birds sing, watching

children float toy sailboats in a huge fountain. No one seemed to be in a hurry.

Paris was beautiful. And I was here alone but suddenly not lonely. My sense of

accomplishment at overcoming my fear and vulnerability had left me feeling free,

not abandoned. I wore out two pairs of shoes during my week's stay in Paris. I

did everything there was to do, and it was the greatest week of my European

vacation. I returned home a believer in the healing power of solitary travel.

Years later, I still urge divorcing or widowed friends to take their solo flight

in the form of travel plans. Those who have gone have returned changed; even by

a four-day weekend in Santa Fe, an Amtrak ride up the coast or an organized tour

of Civil War battlefields. Traveling alone redeems itself by demanding

self-reliance and building the kind of confidence that serves the single life

well. Certainly Paris became my metaphor for addressing life's challenges on my

own. Now when I meet an obstacle I just say to myself, If 1 can go to Paris, 1

can go anywhere.

Dawn McKenna

Contributing Author

Chicken Soup for the Couple's Soul