In recent months, I’ve joined several Facebook travel groups for women—especially for solo travelers (so many now, in the Trust Fund Baby Influencer era) and women over 50—partly because that’s what I am—a solo woman traveler over 50—partly because it’s the target demographic for my most recent book, An American in Pandemic Paris. A Coming-of-Retirement-Age Memoir. I’ve undoubtedly frittered away more time that I should reading the travel reports, queries, and comments of members, but it’s been eye-opening.
While the nationalities of writers aren’t always noted, I have noticed particular traits that seem, sadly, widespread among American women. The most prominent of these is fear for safety. Now, I know these women live in a country where sending your child to school in the morning and stopping in for milk at the local 7/11 at any time of day involves a potential for gun violence that is exceedingly rare elsewhere on the planet—an extreme example of being in the wrong place at the wrong time—but there also seems to be a huge fear of personal violence: mugging or rape. I’m just guessing that’s what they all mean by ‘is XX safe for women traveling alone’? The response of women living in the places in question is universally: ‘yes it’s safe’, and I can imagine them perplexed to discover that American women, who live with such possibilities for violence on a daily basis, are not aware of the abnormality of this concern in the rest of the world. Women (not to mention LGBTQ individuals) must always exercise more caution than men when alone anywhere, of course, but most places I’ve been are either safe or unsafe in non-gendered ways.
Despite having been stalked over the course of several years by an individual who tried twice to kill me (in the 1970s—story for another day), I don’t project such non-normative behavior onto others nor fear for my life each time I step outside (although I did have an unlisted phone number back in the day so Stalker Chuck wouldn’t have such an easy time of finding me again – if, indeed, he were interested). But this mode of thinking certainly explains the reaction ‘you’re so brave’ ascribed to every woman who confesses that she overcame anxiety/fear (not necessarily of death, but certainly of some hindering thought – getting lost?) in order to travel.
Interestingly, in this multi-racial, international cohort, the issue of race is rarely raised; to me it seems a natural, after or even before, gender. Only once, in a glass-half-empty comment to an overwhelmingly glowing travelogue, did a reader wonder if the non-Caucasian author felt any racial hostility in her tropical paradise. I was shocked. I would guess that had the author-traveler experienced such unpleasantness she would have mentioned it, but that such a thought spontaneously and randomly infiltrated the consciousness of an apparently paranoid reader, saddens me. How terrible to traverse this magnificent world suspicious of, rather than curious about, the unknown, like a feral dog. I’m pretty sure I’d stay home if I felt I triumphed over danger each time I headed to Paris. Or Cairo, Berlin, Shanghai or the Quebec wilderness.
This mistrustful American attitude seems even more shocking considering the vast majority of solo women travel reports are positive, giddily and inspiringly so, and often concluded with musings about plans for the next adventure. When bad/undesirable experiences occur—from having your AirBnB host cancel hours before your arrival, to missing connections and pickpocketing—most (including Americans) chalk them up educational misadventures and stories that are funny/entertaining in retrospect. But some, when their vision isn’t realized, contemplate (and sometimes do) pack up and head home to their SUVs, air-conditioning, and pet walkers.
Another strange and fascinating fact (for me) is competitive traveling. As if it were a contest! There are people who know off the tops of their heads how many countries/states/capital cities they’ve visited. It reminds me of my Girl Scout days, when on Saturdays I eagerly completed requirements for various badges that I proudly sewed onto my ‘badge sash’ for all to admire. But I was twelve or thirteen then. I’m not sure what inspires adults to engage in such (seemingly infantile) behavior. Often, such ‘counters’ pack in a frightening number of locations into a few days, leaving oversized carbon footprints in their wakes. Some have never left their countries before or never flown alone. Some even consider tour groups and cruises solo travel! It’s made me aware of just how different my experience is, along with that of most of my various tribes (historians, musicians/dancers).
I feel especially privileged to never have to search for accommodations in many wonderful places—Swiss alpine villages, Swedish and Californian forests, Croatian and Irish islands, New York, Paris, Berlin, Budapest—because friends live there. An unanticipated benefit of making genuine connections along the path of life. Frequently, I travel because I want to see someone and the environment in which they thrive. Sometimes, it’s other things – sparsely populated natural beauty, for instance, ideally with few if any (or at least infrequent) signs of humans.
I’ve also been astonished by the large number of American women who relocate alone to places that seem to me far flung: Fiji, Goa, Namibia, Nicaragua, northern Ontario, Zanzibar. I’m not sure I’d consider such women brave, but I am curious to learn their stories and how they can thrive in settings so different from those to which they are accustomed. How much time do they really spend at these chosen homes?
Part of my curiosity about older single expat women stems from my own search for a ‘forever’ home. I like the idea a lot, although based on my behavior, I apparently prefer the life of a global nomad, at least for the moment. There are many places I feel at home but mostly for only a few months a year. I’m a Buffalo gal who needs seasonal changes (with snowy winters) and lengthy periods close to big bodies of water. Is this because I grew up beside Lake Erie and spent summers on the Maine coast? And then lived in New York with a view of the Hudson River from my window and then in Cleveland? Or perhaps because I’m a Pisces? Or might the explanation be more deeply rooted? Genetic imprints from my coastal-dwelling Irish ancestors or my Greek-Jewish forefathers? It’s a mystery.
Most Americans are descendants of individuals who left their homelands due to discrimination, famine, greed, poverty, war, or (in the case of many with Irish and African roots) colonial dispossession or enslavement. Perhaps the restless longing for a homeland and community—a reassuring sense of rootedness—is what shapes the American character?
