In 2010 I did something that I’d never done before.  (No, not that.  Where did you get that idea?)

I traveled alone.

Not just that – I traveled to Europe alone.

Up to that point the majority of my travels had been with other people (friends, groups, classes).  I’d driven from Deer Lake to Corner Brook by myself, and I’d gone into London from Harlow for a day on my own, but that was pretty much my history for going solo.

Why did I do it?  Well, I really wanted to go back to London.  A friend and I had talked of going to London, Scotland and Italy together, but when the time came she wasn’t able to make the trip.  I had money saved up and I had some free time, so I decided to go.  Alone.

I had a friend who was a travel agent who hooked me up with a deal on flights, and got me direct flights from Halifax to Gatwick and vice-versa.  I found a good deal on a hotel using booking.com.  My passport was primed.  I was good to go.

I was also a tiny bit terrified.

I’d never flown by myself.  I’d never checked into a hotel on my own.  Hell, I hadn’t even truly lived on my own until 2008.

I was worried that I’d dislocate my kneecap again, and there’d be no one to call the ambulance for me. Or maybe some strange person on the street would distract me with something shiny and steal everything I had, leaving me poor and penniless in London, without a passport and no way to go home.  Or maybe the plane would be detoured to some strange exotic land where I would either be sacrificed to a mountain God or expected to translate for the King/Queen/Sovereign Leader under threat of death/sacrifice.

…Then again, maybe nothing crazy would happen and I’d be okay.

[btw: thanks to my grandparents for giving me the “worry-gene”.  Why jump to a conclusion when you can free-fall headlong into a thousand conclusions?]