Why I waited so long to travel alone
Travelling alone wasn’t something I had always dreamed about, particularly to a country where I wasn’t a native speaker like Japan.
In fact, for most of my life I never really considered it an option. I was never that 20 something that dreamed of a backpack and a European adventure, I was more concerned about earning as much money as I could, finding the white picket fence and 2.3 children.
I’d travelled before, but there had always been someone beside me. Family. A partner. Someone else to decide which train to catch, someone else to ask for directions, someone else to confidently unfold those enormous tourist maps that somehow always looked as though they’d been designed by an origami expert.
Travelling with other people has a funny way of sharing responsibility.
When you get lost, it’s “our” fault.
The time you miss a train, someone else probably distracted you.
Accidentally end up on the wrong side of the city, well… at least you’ve got someone to laugh about it with while you work out how to fix it.
Travelling alone feels completely different to travelling with someone else.
Every decision is yours to make, and every wrong turn belongs to you too. There’s no one to blame if you accidentally end up on the wrong train or spend twenty minutes walking in the opposite direction. It’s just you, your backpack and whatever decision seemed like a good idea five minutes earlier.
Confidence Doesn’t Arrive First
For years, I quietly convinced myself that perhaps solo travel simply wasn’t for me. It wasn’t because I didn’t want to see the world—far from it. My list of places to visit seemed to grow every year. I’d happily watch travel documentaries, save beautiful destinations on Pinterest and tell anyone who would listen that I’d love to go there “one day.”
Maybe I Was Waiting for the Wrong Thing
The problem wasn’t the destinations.
The problem was that, somewhere along the way, I’d convinced myself that adventures were meant to be shared. I was waiting for the right travelling companion, the right timing or the right set of circumstances. Looking back now, I wonder if I wasn’t really waiting for any of those things at all.
Perhaps I was simply waiting until I trusted myself enough to go. Tiny cafés tucked into laneways. Snow-covered villages. Temples. Mountains. Streets filled with little shops that sold things nobody actually needed but somehow everyone wanted.
Japan had been sitting on that list for a very long time.
The only problem was…I kept waiting for someone to come with me.
The Invitation I Couldn’t Ignore
Then one day, quite unexpectedly, the universe seemed to pop something in the mail and say, “Here you go, Kay. Let’s see what you do with this.”
It was a wedding invitation.
In Japan.
Of all places.
I remember looking at it and laughing. Japan had been sitting quietly on my travel wish list for years, but always in that vague, one-day kind of way. One day when someone could come with me. The day when the timing was perfect. I keep thinking at some point I would feel brave enough, organised enough, worldly enough, and preferably fluent in at least three Japanese phrases beyond “thank you” and “where is the toilet?”
But there it was, right in front of me. A real invitation. A real reason to go. And suddenly all my comfortable little excuses had nowhere to hide.
I realised this might be my moment. Not just to attend a wedding in Japan, but to finally see whether I could stop waiting for someone else to make travel feel possible.
Maybe if I wanted to experience the world, I had to start trusting the one person who was definitely coming with me.
Me.
Which, I’ll be honest, felt both empowering and slightly concerning. I realised something that felt both exciting and slightly annoying. If I kept waiting for the perfect travelling companion, I might spend the rest of my life waiting.
Sometimes life doesn’t hand us the perfect circumstances.
Sometimes it quietly asks, “So… are you coming or not?”
I booked the ticket. Japan here I come…
You Can Plan Everything… Almost
I wish I could tell you I was one of those fearless travellers who simply threw a few clothes into a suitcase, wandered into the airport without a care in the world and confidently embraced whatever happened next.
In that moment I wasn’t.
In the weeks leading up to the trip, I became incredibly organised. At least, I thought I had. I checked that my passport was still valid more times than any reasonable person should. Every time I walked past the drawer it was in, I’d pull it out “just to make sure” it hadn’t mysteriously expired overnight.
I spent hours reading about the Japanese train system, convinced that if I studied hard enough it would somehow all make perfect sense once I arrived. My phone was full of downloaded maps, translation apps and even offline maps, just in case technology decided to abandon me at the worst possible moment. I packed a portable phone charger because, clearly, I was the sort of traveller who planned ahead.
Honestly, I was feeling rather pleased with myself.
Look at me, I thought. I’m practically a survival expert. Bear Grylls would be proud. As far as I was concerned, I’d thought of absolutely everything.
Well… almost everything.
Somewhere Along the Way, I Began Trusting Myself
After a few days in Japan something wonderful started happening.
The nervousness slowly disappeared.
I’d worked out the trains. Well… mostly.
By then, I’d mastered the art of politely bowing back to people who bowed to me first, although I suspect mine looked more like an awkward nod from someone whose back had suddenly become stiff.
I had even discovered convenience stores that somehow sold better food than many restaurants.
One thing that amazed me most was how Japanese vending machines seem to appear every thirty metres, almost as if the country collectively decided nobody should ever suffer from unexpected thirst.
The biggest surprise wasn’t that I’d managed to navigate another country or work out the train system.
It was that, little by little, I had started trusting myself.
Not in some grand, life-changing moment where inspirational music suddenly starts playing in the background. It happened much more quietly than that. Somewhere between catching trains, ordering food by enthusiastically pointing at pictures on menus and realising that getting slightly lost wasn’t actually the end of the world, I began to relax.
When I Finally Put the Map Away
For the first few days, I’d been determined to tick off all the places I thought I should see. I’d carefully marked attractions on maps, worked out train times and convinced myself that every minute needed to count. But after a while something shifted. I found myself putting the map back in my bag more often than I pulled it out.
There is something wonderfully freeing about having absolutely nowhere you need to be. No one asking what you’d like to do next. Was no need in trying to keep everyone happy. No compromises about whether to visit another temple or stop for coffee. If I spotted a tiny shop selling beautiful handmade bowls, I’d wander inside. When a little side street looked interesting, I’d see where it went. If I found a park bench with a lovely view, I’d happily sit there for half an hour watching the world go by without feeling guilty that I was “wasting time.”
I started noticing things I probably would have missed if I’d been rushing from one tourist attraction to the next. Elderly neighbours stopping to chat across their front fences. Children riding bicycles home from school, still in their uniforms. The smell of fresh bread drifting out of a tiny bakery tucked between two houses. Even the sound of the trains somehow became comforting rather than intimidating.
It no longer felt like I was trying to see Japan.
It felt more like I was giving Japan the chance to introduce itself.
When the Pictures Turned Out to Be True
I was off to see the amazing bamboo forests. I’d seen the photographs for years—towering green bamboo stretching high into the sky, soft light filtering through the leaves and peaceful walking paths that looked almost too beautiful to be real. I wondered whether the pictures had been edited just enough to make the place seem magical.
They hadn’t.
The moment I stepped onto the path, I understood why people travelled from all over the world to experience it. The bamboo swayed gently overhead, making the softest rustling sound, and everything about the place invited you to slow down.
I had arrived early, and at that time there were not too many tourists, but before long they arrived in massive busloads, totally destroying my serenity. So off I went to explore another place, feeling rather grateful I’d experienced the bamboo before the crowds arrived.
The Japan I Wasn’t Looking For
As I walked and wandered, the souvenir shops had given way to little homes, and every now and then someone would wander past, smiling or stopping to chat with a neighbour as though they had nowhere else in the world they needed to be.
There were little local shops that clearly weren’t there for tourists at all. They existed simply because the people who lived there needed somewhere to buy bread, vegetables or a cup of tea. I loved watching the shopkeepers greet their customers by name, laughing together as though they’d had the same conversations hundreds of times before.
It suddenly felt as though I’d stepped out of a travel guide and into somebody’s ordinary Tuesday.
There’s something incredibly special about seeing the places tourists come to visit. But there’s something even more special about stumbling across the places where people simply live their lives. It reminded me that behind every famous destination are thousands of ordinary moments happening quietly every single day.
That Little Voice Was Right
It took me an embarrassingly long time to realise I had absolutely no idea where I was. You know that feeling when a tiny voice quietly whispers, “I don’t think we’re supposed to be here anymore”? Mine had been whispering for quite a while. I probably should have listened sooner.
A Flat Phone and a Missing Cable
“No problem,” I thought. Google Maps had become my travelling companion over the past few days. It had faithfully guided me through train stations, helped me find tiny cafés and somehow always seemed to know exactly where I was, even when I didn’t.
Except this time…
It didn’t.
My phone battery had finally given up.
I’d packed a portable charger. I remember feeling rather pleased with myself at the time. Look at me, thinking ahead like a seasoned traveller. I’d clearly matured into one of those organised adults who anticipated problems before they happened.
With a smug little smile, I unzipped my backpack and reached inside.
There it was…my portable charger.
One Tiny Detail…
…but where was the cable to connect the two things together? It appeared to be missing. Before long, the contents of my backpack were scattered on the sidewalk as I hoped that the universe would deliver and it would magically appear.
It didn’t.
Then it hit me.
The portable charger had successfully made the trip to the Bamboo Forest. The charging cable, however, had decided to enjoy a much more relaxing holiday back at the hotel. I could picture it perfectly, sitting neatly beside my bed exactly where I’d left it after charging my phone the night before.
Only I could manage to prepare so well for the problem and then leave behind the one tiny thing that made the whole plan work. It was such a “me” moment. I’d packed the solution… just not the part that actually connected it all together.
It’s amazing how quickly confidence disappears when you’re standing in a country where you speak approximately four words of the language.
I looked around.
Where were the tourists.
No familiar landmarks.
A flat phone.
No map.
Just me.
And a growing suspicion that I’d become far more adventurous than I had intended.
I considered panicking.
Then realised panic has never once charged a phone.
So instead I kept walking.
The Little Café That Wasn’t Really a Café
By this stage, I was beginning to think I really should find another human being. Not because I expected them to magically know where I needed to go, but because it felt like a better plan than wandering aimlessly and hoping I’d eventually bump into a train station.
As I turned another corner, I spotted what looked like a little café.
Well… “café” might be giving it slightly more credit than it deserved.
It looked more like somebody had opened the front door of their home one morning, put a kettle on and decided anyone passing by was welcome to stop for a cup of tea. There were no fancy signs, no tourists lining up outside and certainly no Instagram influencers taking photographs of their lunch. It was simple, welcoming and felt like the sort of place the locals had probably been visiting for years.
I took a deep breath and wandered inside.
A Conversation Without Words
An elderly couple looked up and smiled as though they’d been expecting me all along. They must have been well into their eighties, perhaps even their nineties, and they greeted me with the kind of warmth that immediately makes you feel a little less lost.
There was just one tiny problem.
I didn’t speak Japanese and they didn’t speak English.
Which meant our conversation got off to what could only be described as a spectacularly unproductive start.
For a few seconds, we all stood there smiling at one another, each waiting politely for the other person to suddenly become fluent in a language they’d never learned.
It was becoming increasingly obvious that this conversation was going to require a great deal more enthusiasm than vocabulary.
I pointed vaguely towards the road.
They nodded politely.
I said, “Train?”
Blank faces.
The Kindness I Never Expected
Then, for reasons I still don’t fully understand, they made me lunch.
Before I could even attempt another round of charades, a toasted cheese sandwich appeared in front of me. I hadn’t ordered it.
In fact, I wasn’t entirely sure I’d successfully communicated anything at that point, other than the fact that I looked slightly confused and very obviously not from around there.
A few moments later, they placed a steaming cup of tea on the table. To this day, I couldn’t tell you what was in it. I don’t know whether it was green tea, herbal tea or something that had been passed down through the family for generations. Whatever it was, it was absolutely delicious.
Perhaps everything tastes better when you’ve spent the last half an hour wondering if you’re ever going to find your way back to the train station.
Or perhaps food simply tastes different when it’s served with genuine kindness.
Even though we couldn’t understand each other’s words, somehow those lovely people had understood exactly what I needed.
Before I needed directions…I needed someone to make me feel welcome.
When Charades Become Public Transport
As much as I would have been quite happy to sit there all afternoon enjoying toasted sandwiches and whatever magical tea they’d just served me, there was still one small problem.
I had absolutely no idea how to get back to the train station and, without finding the train, there was very little chance of me finding my hotel.
It was becoming increasingly obvious that our limited collection of English, Japanese and enthusiastic smiling wasn’t going to solve this one.
If I was going to explain what I needed, I was going to have to find another way.
I really wish someone had been standing in the corner with a video camera, because what happened next must have looked absolutely ridiculous.
There I was, a grown woman sitting in somebody else’s little home café, trying to explain that I needed to find the train station without sharing a single common language.
Desperate Times…
So I did what any sensible person would do.
I became… the train.
I started waving my arms up and down the table, making what I can only describe as enthusiastic train movements. At one point I was fairly sure I even mimicked the train doors opening and closing. I may even have made a few “choo choo” noises. Honestly, once you’ve committed to becoming public transport, there’s no point doing it half-heartedly.
Looking back now, it was less like asking for directions and more like an audition for a very low-budget interpretive dance performance.
Suddenly, We Were Speaking the Same Language
The lovely couple simply sat there watching me.
They weren’t laughing.
Nor did they look confused or embarrassed for me.
They just watched patiently, letting me finish my rather dramatic reenactment of the Japanese rail network.
Then, all at once, their faces lit up.
They had understood.
Not my words, of course. But exactly what I was trying to say.
The Best Map I Never Expected
Then, almost as if someone had switched on a light, the lovely gentleman smiled, nodded enthusiastically and disappeared into another room.
A few moments later he returned carrying nothing more than a piece of paper and a pen.
Between the three of us, we somehow managed to create what has to be one of the most memorable maps I’ve ever owned.
It certainly wasn’t Google Maps. In fact, I think it was much better.
He carefully sketched a few little streets, added a couple of landmarks that obviously meant something to the locals, drew a railway line across the page and then finished with a great big arrow pointing in the direction I needed to walk. Every few seconds one of us would point at the drawing, then point towards the road outside, nod enthusiastically and smile as though we’d just solved a particularly difficult puzzle together.
And somehow…I understood exactly what they were trying to tell me.
As I folded that little hand-drawn map and tucked it carefully into my pocket, it occurred to me that sometimes people don’t need the same words to understand each other.
Sometimes they just need a little patience… and a willingness to look slightly ridiculous together.
The Journey Home
I thanked them more times than they probably understood, bowing far more often than was necessary before jingerly walking out the door, hand on my pocket making sure that the little map was still there.
I stepped back out into the quiet streets, following their directions one landmark at a time.
Every now and then I’d pull the map out again, check I was still heading the right way and smile to myself, hoping I’d interpreted their artwork correctly.
Then, after what felt like a very long walk but realisticly was just several minutes…I saw it.
The train station.
I honestly don’t think I’ve ever been so relieved to see a railway platform in my life. It wasn’t just a train station anymore—it was my ticket back to familiar streets, a fully charged phone… eventually… and, most importantly, my hotel room.
As the train pulled in, I couldn’t help but look back in the direction I’d come from.
I’d set out that morning hoping to see a famous bamboo forest.
Instead, I found something I’ll probably remember for much longer than the bamboo itself. The depth of kindness, the insight into how Japanese villages work, and one of the best grilled cheese sandwiches and tea that I can remember. Priceless!
