Jacque Hendrickson

Traveling Alone

I like traveling alone. I like long, monotonous car trips and four hour layovers in airports. During these times I don’t reach for my cell phone to catch up on the lives of friends who I haven’t heard from in a long time. I make those kinds of calls when I don’t have the time—like the week of finals when I have an overwhelming amount of work due. When I’m traveling and have all sorts of time that should be boring, I don’t want to use it for any practical purposes at all.
The train is sliding along the track somewhere between the District and Fredericksburg, right on time at 6 a.m. The skin of my thighs itch a little from the stiff upholstery of the cushions and I can imagine the miniscule, red indentions from each fiber that will cluster together to make a rash on the soft skin of the back of my knees. No one will notice because it’s 6 a.m. in the morning and not many people are on the train. I imagine how crowded the VRE going towards D.C. is compared to the silent one that I’m on now; everyone is staring tiredly out the windows.

At 6:03 I look to my right and notice that a twelve year old boy sits across from me and stares out the window, holding a single canvas sack in his arms. He’s wearing a faded, white t-shirt, the kind of jeans that are outdated in their wash and cut—bright, royal blue with a high waist, and what looks like a gray-striped train conductor’s hat. A woman with long, frizzy brown hair wearing a
jean jumper with a purple turtleneck underneath and her sullen looking teenage son sit across from the other boy—their seats facing each other. The majority of the car is empty—so it surprises me that the twelve year old chooses to sit across from the two rather than find a seat with a three row radius from anyone. An old man, with feather-like white hair, who seems unable to contain his gums or random thoughts, sits in the seat in front and across from me.

Even if it wasn’t 6:04 in the morning, I still would prefer to be traveling alone. I don’t know what it is about it that intrigues me so much. Sometimes it’s nice to not have to involve yourself—to still be around many different people—but just fall into the background and observe. I can feel my spine sinking into the back of the chair, my head tilts against the giant window. I pull my head away from the window—the vibrations of the train make me feel like my brain is being jostled around. I don’t like being reminded that I’m comprised of bones and tissues that comprise organs. I like to become unaware of my body on trips and melt into my mind—feel like Emerson’s invisible eye. My being bursts into a million pieces and floats into the air, becoming unseen by all.

The jeans that I’m wearing are faded and loose, they don’t cling closely to my curves, and I’m wearing a charcoal gray zip-up fleece that is a few sizes too large. It has been washed so many times that little balls of fleece lint are gathering on the outside. My hair is up in a smooth bun—not really messy or dirty—it doesn’t look shiny and soft like it does when it’s clean. I have on absolutely no makeup that will rub off when I wipe the sleep out of my eyes. I feel completely comfortable, as if I could be watching a trashy yet satisfying reality show like the Bachelorette and eating Blast-o-Butter popcorn with my mom in our living room. I feel completely insignificant—but I promise this isn’t a bad thing. I really like to feel unnoticed when I travel alone.

I always think of the train ride between the District and Fredericksburg to be like a journey, even though the train ride is approximately an hour and 5 minutes—considering the engine doesn’t break and have to be replaced in the middle of the trip. I feel somehow daring when I descend the escalator to the trains from Union Station or step onto the platform in the cool morning air in Fredericksburg. I’m about to embark on Jacque’s Grand Adventure, I think as the train starts to jerk away from the station. I try to quickly get beyond the unsettling thought that I’m leaving something important behind. Glasses? Check! Psychology Book? Feel the rectangle imprint of it against my shin through my overly stuffed backpack. Cell phone charger? Check!

I’m loving the feeling that I’m completely alone as the train picks up speed at 6:07 a.m.; I’m on an adventure that is mine alone, no one else made arrangements to come with me in any way. And, once I arrive at the station in Fredericksburg, no one will be waiting for me. I will have 23 minutes to walk back to my dorm room alone as I emerge from the train ride that is my silent reverie. My cell phone is in front of me, but I can put it on silent and decide to be disconnected from my own personal world right now and join the flow of humanity in general.

I pull down the little tray table of the seat in front of me at 6:11. I decided not to take out my laptop because I’m always afraid that the weight of it will break the hinges of the weak, plastic table top. Instead I place a book that I won’t read, my ipod, cell phone and VRE ten trip pass on top of it. This is what I do when I travel alone, I say to myself. It’s probably safe to look about and stare at people now—it’s about 12 minutes into the trip so most people have had enough time to become situated in what they’re doing: reading, sleeping, gluing their eyes to the laptop screens while intermittently loosening their ties, yelling at their kids for leaving the sound on for their electronic games, and having loud and rude conversations with their husbands.

At 6:16 a.m. I feel as though I should be sad because I just broke up with my boyfriend. But, for some reason I’m not as I skip through songs on my ipod. I’m enjoying the solitary moment right now where I can be quiet and not have to engage in social interactions. I can be in close proximity to people without engaging in them or their lives. Sometimes I learn a lot about people through their conversations with each other or on the phone, or their outward and obvious actions. Other times I have to make up stories for why they’re on the train and where their final destinations will be. Is she married? How old are they? Is he satisfied with his life? Will I ever be satisfied with my life? I never notice people staring at me—well, besides creepy old men and perhaps young guys. And, I have a feeling I wouldn’t know what to do if someone was probingly staring at me the way that I stare at them.

A woman comes up from behind me and motions to the adjoining pair of seats that are facing my seats, “Is anyone sitting here?” she asks in a North Carolina drawl.

“No,” I reply, moving about in my chair without looking at the time. The woman has fluffy, platinum-blonde hair, and she’s wearing an orange-red skirt suit. Her mouth is large and exaggerated by blue, pink lipstick and big teeth; the unchanging smile directed at me is interrupting my solitude and making me uncomfortable. I try to smile back, but I know it’s not working because I’m one of the worst fake-smilers in the world.

“I was in the car over,” her eyes barely seem to blink “But it was getting a little rowdy.” I don’t question why it was rowdy, and instead nod.

“Where are you going?” The woman’s large mouth seems to be laughing at me.

I wonder if traveling alone is a gender issue. I know it probably was in the past. But, today, with many women attending college and having full-time jobs alongside men in various fields, is it still brought into question? So, I turn to the world-wide web, one of the most reflective portraits of America’s society where information is only a click away, to see if the readily available consumer discourse relates to my own personal experiences. The J.D. Power and Associates website says “Whether you’re a business, student or leisure traveler, women traveling alone in the U.S. and abroad today need to be vigilant about their personal safety,” (Women Traveling Alone). A few of the measures they suggest urge women to keep a copy of their itinerary with a family member, pick hotels that are part of a major chain, obey the dress code of the area, ask for a new room if the hotel attendant says your name too loud and even travel with other people if at all possible (Women Traveling Alone). This illustrates how society puts a very tight band of security around women. But, in all reality, will a woman who has a job that requires her to travel often really need car to door service at night from the concierge?

“Never announce that you are traveling alone and wear a wedding or engagement ring (even if you are single) to discourage unwanted male attention,” (Women Traveling Alone). This further emphasizes the fact that women are shoved into the traditional roles of the victimized and require the security of men to watch over them, symbolized in the wedding ring.

The American Society of Travel Agents groups women with students in their article on tips for traveling alone (Tips for Students). This suggests that women are ignorant and helpless in the same way that a young student would be who is traveling alone for the first time. Is there really no sense of maturity and growth that would affect a woman’s ability to travel alone safely once she’s an established professional?

Everyone has tips. Different websites urge women to obey instructions, be prepared, and most importantly, try to travel in groups. However, I’m a Girl Scout, and one of our many mottos is to always be prepared. I remember packing outfits, complete with underwear, shorts, shirts and socks, in zip lock storage bags, each one titled for the intended day in black Sharpie marker for camping trips as a little girl. And, of course I had a few extra for in case one of the outfits became wet or muddy. I always had the same strong, metal LED flashlights that my dad kept near his toolbox in the garage and extra batteries. Sometimes I even brought an extra pillow because one year a girl left gum under her pillow, and in the night it was torn to shreds by a raccoon. I know how to be prepared. So, I find many of the incessant details thrown on me by women’s travel websites a little obvious, these are details most people learn as kids. And, why would women in particular have to be reminded of these things? Now that I’m on stereotyping, let me think of what traveling tips for a man would be, if there was such a website. Maybe one would be how to smuggle enough Cuban cigars to share with friends off the cruise ship.

My mom always gets nervous when I drive home from college late at night at the end of terms. She urges that I attempt to travel with another person or come home before dark. Perhaps it’s this oppressiveness that stirred a fascination and desire to travel alone whenever possible; it’s opening a forbidden door, set by my parents and reflected as a whole by society.

Women traveling alone in a professional sense have greatly increased due to the growing number of women in the workforce. According to an NYU survey from March of 2003, “"Coming of Age: The Continuing Evolution of Female Business Travelers", “Women business travelers don't feel valued by the travel industry,” (Brown). The survey also found that women consider travel to be an integral part of their job experience “80 percent view business travel as a sign of professional achievement,” (Brown).

There are outlets that support women’s travel such as The Women’s Travel Club website. The website suggests a book called Travel Alone & Love It: A Flight Attendant's Guide to Solo Travel, by Sharon Wingler. According to The Women on Their Way Book Club review this book teaches you to “Claim total freedom to do just as you please,” (Women’s Travel Club). Perhaps, I attempt to “claim total freedom” when I travel alone. I’m restricted by nothing except time; which doesn’t really matter, because time is always a constriction.

It is the first time I have ever flown alone. I have a few books in my backpack, pictures to look at on my laptop, a Teen Vogue to peruse under my arm, an ipod to listen to and stores to browse in. I’m on a layover between D.C. and St. Louis, in some seemingly out of the way airport. I have a little over three hours of time before my plane will start boarding, and I absolutely love it.

It’s the day before Thanksgiving, people are rushing about every which way with their over-stuffed, checkable rolling suitcases that won’t fit between the seats in front of them and totes. I never like to use totes when I travel because the idea of not being able to zip my belongings up scares me.

I enjoy standing in the middle of the giant hallway, pretending like I’m deciding between a Philly cheesesteak sandwich and a real fruit smoothie. This is one of those airports with a mini-mall inside. I rarely go to the mall at home, much less alone. I always feel lost and confused in malls by all the activity and stores that are repeats of each other, just with different titles, like bad beach reads. It’s sensory overload. But for some reason, right now I’m okay with this faux-mall situation. I’m actually enjoying it. The people here don’t have the stressed purpose of searching for the strapless bra that they probably won’t find or the prom dress that will be over-priced and unflattering. No one is going to buy a plane ticket, be frisked by security and have to carry heavy bags around with them just to come to _____ Airport’s mall. Everyone is just casually waiting.

I find myself walking into a Bath and Body Works and rubbing different fruity lotions into little patches up my arms. I smell each scent until they all start to blend together before realize that I smell like a flash fire in an incense factory, which isn’t very polite before boarding a small, closed container.

I walk into the little Gap and enjoy the neutral tones of the clothes that are brightly lit by the fixtures. People absently mill about rather than tearing their way to the clearance corner.

I then stroll into a miniature Barnes and Noble and stand in awe at how every section of the store is condensed into individual, tiny areas. This store is the most crowded and closest to the gates. I don’t feel like I can stand in one place and get to know a book because everyone is bustling about in a rush to find something to fill the time they have to kill. This is the kind of customer that comes into an airport Barnes and Noble in contrast to the perfume smelling, clothes browsing airport customer. Instead of even looking at any of the books I stare at a woman with a teacup poodle dressed in couture and trembling in a leather carrier. I love how I would never see this inside a Barnes and Noble in St. Louis.

I also love how I can randomly wander about the stores without any purpose or explanation. I don’t have to agree with a friend that something is cute, cool, terribly ugly, looks good on her when it really doesn’t and then consult on whether or not she should buy it. It’s good to not have to explain yourself sometimes. Now I’m going to stand in front of the smoothie menu for 13 minutes before deciding that I’ll settle on strawberry banana.

I’m driving on California One with three friends and Pollock, Rachel’s aunt, our rented Ford Explorer twisting and turning with the terrain. The two lane highway stretches along a cliff, with a straight drop down to the ocean on one side and a wall of green, craggy mountains on the other. Pollock, enjoys speeding along the natural bumps and turns of the road. My friends let me sit up front since I didn’t have a turn the whole time we were in Santa Barbara and Los Angeles. Now, I can take off through the large windshield and fly up onto a tree on the highest mountain, then jump down to the sea lions basking in the sun a hundred feet below where the rocks meet the water. I haven’t seen terrain this unique and pretty since I’ve driven through the Austrian Alps, when I was amazed at how grass could glow neon and Technicolor and cows could have floppy ears.

“I remember the first time I drove on Highway One, with my family when I was 15. It made me realize just how big the world is,” Pollock says, reading my thoughts, “And, it made me realize that I had to get out of the Midwest when I graduated.” Pollock’s springy curls bounce along each bump, her small hands rest lightly on the steering wheel.

Pollock stops the car at one of the many look-out points and the five of file out. We look at the sea lions below; the waves splash against the rocks and lightly spray them with water. We look off into the ocean and along the coast at how the mountains seem endless. Then, we stand up on a rock and take a picture.

It’s nice to travel with companions when you’re experiencing something new and unique or going on an unexpected adventure. Sometimes, the presence of others can help to validate the intensity of the situation and they can help you realize things about the experience that you wouldn’t realize on your own. Also, it can be nice to have a guide when traveling so you can make the most of the experience. Without knowledge of the area, it is hard to know what is worthwhile seeing. Even if you have a guide book, it is sometimes better to have the assistance of someone who knows the area well and has already explored and made errors. I sometimes find it hard to establish adventures for myself unless I have an accomplice; one day I’ll be able to do this on my own. I’ll be my own guide, as well. However, on this Spring break adventure to California, my three friends are my accomplices and Rachel’s wild aunt is our guide. Right now, I feel very close to my friends and like part of a grand adventure.

I’m going to college with the hopes that I will one day be successful. When I travel alone, I enjoy the exhilarating feeling that I am an independent woman accomplishing great things; even if the great things of the time include shivering in a cardigan in the overly air-conditioned train car as I eat a sausage biscuit and try to use my photographic memory to cram for a psychology test. It’s interesting, because in the midst of traveling over the past year, I have read two books that inspire adventure: Captivating, by John and Stasi Eldridge and Forever in Blue: The Fourth Summer of the Sisterhood by Anne Brashares. Both are the kind of books that I probably wouldn’t want to be seen reading on the Gizmo patio by hipster intellectuals at Knox College, but don’t care if people who I will never see again view me reading in passing. I don’t care if the woman sitting next to me beneath the heat lamp while waiting for the red line train to Jackson sees me, a 20 year old woman, reading a book that probably would have been last appropriate when I was 14.

The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants is a series of books that involve four girls who are very close friends, but are always apart from each other over summers in travel. Throughout the separation they learn to grow as individuals and embark on adventures while still maintaining their friendships. Sometimes, it’s nice to read an easy book such as this one, and I have to admit that I feel inspired by it. I was a Girl Scout for 13 years, and most of the trips that I went on in childhood that did not include my parents occurred with my Girl Scout friends. I was use to this support system while traveling, such as the time when I traveled to California with three of my friends. So, at first it was a little odd to be in the action of traveling on plane, train or car without any companions.

Captivating uplifted me in a different way. It discusses how every woman has wishes and desires unique to her own personality and separate from societal outlines, and wants in turn to be desired and strives to be part of a grand adventure. I desire my sausage biscuit on the grand adventure of the 6 a.m. train ride from the District to Fredericksburg.

The part of the book that drew me in was the beginning when Stasi Eldredge is on a boat trip with her husband and two sons and their small boat could be capsized by large waves. It seems to be a disaster, but yet Stasi handles the situation calmly and views it as a wonderful rush and adventure (Eldredge 3). I strive to have adrenaline rushing experiences such as these. When I came to this point in the book I rubbed the corner of the page before turning it, feeling the texture made from the paper pulp between my index finger and thumb. I set the book down and thought about what I really desire: an internship in a big, vibrant city, the ability to not feel as though I always need a boy in my life and to feel content with my situation in life, in general.

Sometimes, I feel the sense of grand adventure through an occurrence that seems anything but grand. When I was coming home for Spring break as a freshman, my flight was delayed, and upon arrival I had to run across Atlanta’s airport to make my connecting flight. This was one of those occurrences that could have gone incredibly wrong, but felt satisfyingly exhilarating at the time.

I found a website titled “The Adventurous Wench” that urges women to sign up for one of their tour groups because it’s “easier & safer than going on your own, and so much more fun!” maybe because “there's always time for shopping,” (Adventurous Wench). Websites such as these urge women to flock together and take on gender roles. However, I do agree with Deanna Keahey, the founder, that “Nobody's superior, we're all just trying to live our lives as best we can. Natural wonders uplift the spirit, and put our petty problems in perspective. Adventure stretches our capabilities and sense of self,” (Adventurous Wench).

I’m standing over a cliff, roughly 25 feet above a small bay in the river we have been rafting in. I stare down at the murky green water below, my eyes aren’t really focusing on anybody’s face. Right now I feel like just one, large stomach that is churning about and a brain that is racing ahead. My physical senses of the rest of my body are numbed. I’m the last person left trembling on the ledge; everyone else out of our group that wanted to plunge into the water has already jumped off screaming, followed by a splash.

I started out on this white water rafting trip with 18 other Girl Scouts that I’ve known for years, but now it’s just me, standing alone. Thoughts of everything that could possibly go wrong are racing through my mind. If I angle my jump a little too much one way, I’ll crash into the rocks; or, if I angle out too much the other way, I could land on the people in the boat. And then I’d probably kill someone; or at least, cause grave injury. The ledge didn’t look this high from the raft. I have already long ago passed the point of embarrassment from not jumping fast enough. So, hell with dignity.

Ok. I’ve been standing here for a while. Everyone has been annoyed with me for some time. I’m going to stop all thoughts and jump now. My eyes shoot forward and my mind numbs as I feel my feet leave solid ground. Now, I’m just a giant stomach, with two eyeballs that watch as I fall closer to the water. I PLUNGE deeply in and all thoughts return, instantly phrases are racing through my mind. Don’t open your eyes. Don’t open your mouth. Move your arms. Swim upwards. You jumped—and oh my god, this water is icy.

My nose is bleeding from the icy impact of the water, but the jump and the exhilarating feeling of accomplishment is well worth it.

I remember how my family would rent a condo in Florida every summer. We’d get up early and go out onto the beach in the soft morning light. We’d swim in the lukewarm water that was cloudy with the silt from the bottom and pick up sand dollars with our toes. It always amazed me how different the living sand dollars looked from the ones you can buy in She Sells Seashells, that were bleached white and had ribbons, lace and googly eyes attached to them. Alive sand dollars are a rich, tan color and almost seem to have a very short layer of fur, kind of like suede. When you turn them over, their millions of legs move together and their center gulps for water that isn’t there.

One morning I had just finished burying my grandmother in the sand and in the process I found a beautiful conch shell; very much in tact, it shimmered in the sunlight. When I put it up to my ear I could hear the sounds of the ocean. Leaving my grandmother buried in the sand, I ran to the shore to find my mom and show her the shell.

However, in the process of walking the distance from the dry sand to the water, I somehow walked at a diagonal and ended up too far down shore. I couldn’t see my mom, sister, aunt or grandma anywhere near by. I began to run up and down the shore; and even though I was only six, I became frantic that I had lost my parents, within a few minutes. I cried and looked about nervously as I ran, not noticing the shell bits that were gathering in my Teva sandals. I sought out two teenage girls to help me find my family; somehow I had been taught that this was the right thing to do.

J.D. Power and Associates advises women “If you need help, ask a woman or families with children for assistance,” (Women Traveling Alone). As a six year old girl, I already knew this rule, grouping together as women is taught to us at a very early age.

It’s 6:23 a.m. and the train squeals to a stop in Franconia, people will get off and others will get on to fill their places. The woman in the business suit is still staring at me, waiting for an answer. She raises an overly arched eyebrow.

“Going anywhere?” she rephrases the question. Maybe she thinks that I’m deaf.
“Yes,” I say “Fredericksburg.”
“Is someone waiting for you there?”
“No.” I don’t tell her that I’m a freshman at the University of Mary Washington returning from a very uncomfortable weekend spent breaking up with my boyfriend. I also don’t add that no one will be meeting me because I’m perfectly capable of walking back to campus on my own. The walk is relatively short and goes through a nice area of town, my bag is light and manageable and the weather is beautiful. And, if all of these factors were inversed, I could always call a taxi for $4. Even if I did want some one to meet me, I couldn’t because my nearest family members are in St. Louis and all of my friends at school will still be asleep when I arrive.

5 minutes before we stop in Fredericksburg I have all my belongings returned to my bags and the strap of my duffel and purse are already on my shoulders. At 7:11 a.m. the train arrives in the station

I step out into the bright morning sunlight and look about at the colonial town of Fredericksburg. I like how people treasure the cannon balls in their houses and businesses from the battle that occurred here during the Civil War. I realize that I might transfer next year, and I’ll be apart from the guy I just broke up with and the new posse of girls I quickly befriended in insecurity. I have no idea what will happen in a year, and I love it. I love that right now I don’t know what will happen on this ordinary walk back to campus. Anything out of the ordinary could happen and I would experience it alone. Satisfaction sits in my collarbone, knee caps and dimples as I take the staircase off the platform and begin a new phase of my life.