If you’re like me, being alone is one of those things you spend most of your time avoiding. Unless I’m in some kind of intensive study disposition or having one of those occasional 20 minute introvert moments, I do very little by myself. Walking and talking, eating, grabbing coffee, even taking naps are better with other people, and in some cases, I would even be embarrassed to be seen doing them by myself. So when en route to see a prospective grad school this weekend, I decided to stop in Boston for 24 hours by myself, where I experienced a bit of a culture shock. Because it was St. Patrick’s Day, I was under a moral obligation to do that most taboo of solo activities—drinking alone. And, frankly, it wasn’t half bad.
Travelling alone was always one of those things I just assumed worked out. People go on exchange—they go to Europe, or South America, wherever, and they do it by themselves. Nobody really tells you how they dealt with the fact that they had to find their way from the airport by themselves, navigate an unknown city despite their terrible sense of direction, and go to meals without feeling like the most awkward, creepy, unfortunate guy in town.
Those worked out alright. Studying Google Maps for about half an hour before I took off didn’t hurt. The nice bus driver let me on for free when I didn’t have the right change and a delightful Bostonian spent about 10 minutes looking up directions to my hotel on his phone when I took a wrong turn. The concierge recommended a great breakfast place where they seated me with a stranger, and we bonded over recommendations of things to do in the city, the craziness of the Tea Party, and delightfulness of Newfoundland. As for walking around the city, the constant upward arch of my neck probably gave away my tourist status, and the signs and maps all over the place made navigating even Boston’s nonsensical streets somewhat manageable. Plus, it was sunny, which is more than can be said for any walk taken in Montreal over the past several months.
No; the real challenge would be the drinking. There was no way I could be in Boston on St. Patrick’s Day during my first year of being legal in the prude United States and not grab a beer along the way. But, who drinks solo? Alcoholics, mostly. And even though everybody knows it’s impossible to be an alcoholic while still in university, I didn’t want to give off unseemly appearances. I tried three pubs in the morning—including the original Cheers because I’m cliché—and breathed a silent sigh of relief when I discovered they were closed. By the afternoon, I decided to just go for it. I stopped into a pub blasting Irish music, coughed up the $10 cover they were entitled to that day by happening to have the word “Irish” in their name, and sat down at a table by myself. I ordered a Guiness and the worst shepherd’s pie I’d ever eaten and tried to see if I could make some friends. But since the other patrons were a group of middle-aged businessmen and a drunken 23-year old (I know, it was her birthday) flirting with them, I opted to read my book instead. In fact, the main people I regretted not befriending that day were the two girls filming a parody of Rebecca Black’s “Friday” at 8 a.m. in the Boston Common.
Being alone can be pretty intimidating I suppose, but it also gives a lot of freedom. I woke up when I wanted, did what I wanted, and generally had an awesome time. There’s also a certain confidence to be gained from not even having the option of being social—you kind of embrace the situation, and maybe find an outlet in concierges and hotel receptionists who are always willing to listen.
All of which is to say, Boston is beautiful. Go take a look. And you could even do it alone.
