“Solo in Seville” – Part One

11 minute read

The truth about my trip to Seville is that I needed to escape life for a little while.

It’s taken me 45 minutes to write that sentence, because up until now I’ve been sat staring at a blank screen, ruminating on how best to start this feature.

To my left is the guidebook that I took with me, and to my right is the journal that I wrote throughout the trip.

It’s like having the proverbial angel and devil on either shoulder; one telling me to focus upon the beautiful architecture and famed orange trees, while the other is telling me to share the truth of how I felt while I was there.

Because the absolute bottom line is that this was a trip that was motivated by pain; a pain that I’d kept from almost everybody around me, and a pain that had been consuming my life.

It’s been seven months since I went to Seville, and it will be even longer by the time this is completed and published ⁽¹⁾. Because it’s only now that I feel able to write this, from the perspective of a person that has completed a journey.

It’s only now that I can see it all through balanced eyes and with a heart that is finally at peace.

The booking of this trip coincided with the ending of a relationship.

And in addition to the break-up, at the very same time I lost a couple of very special people from my life; the loss of which is still felt today.

The break-up and subsequent losses are not something that I’ll be dwelling on too much in this feature, but it’s necessary to mention them for context. But that’s as far as my explanation will go ⁽²⁾.

I’m now experienced enough in life to know that you can never run away from pain, and if you try to manoeuvre your way around it then every path you take will eventually circle back to it.

Instead, the only healthy way to deal with it, is to go right through it; to face it head on.

That’s exactly what I did, and when I booked the flights to Seville, I did so three months in advance. My belief was that by the time the trip came around it would act like a treat, a reward.

I believed that when the day arrived and I stepped foot on the plane, I’d feel free, happy, and ready for the next chapter of my life.

I was wrong.

Day Zero – Sunday – Radisson Blu Hotel, Stansted Airport

As I dropped my bags onto the floor of the hotel room, the door closed behind me with a heavy thud and I heard the latch click into place.

I sat down on the edge of the bed and let out a deep sigh, the kind that always signifies the end of a long and tiring journey.

I lifted my arm and checked my watch, seeing that it was 4.42pm, and having already completed my online check-in for the early morning flight at 6.10am, I had plenty of time to kill.

Resting my arm back down onto my knee, I looked up at my reflection in the mirror that was in front of me, and the silence of the room felt deafening.

It had been more than five years since I’d last travelled alone and I’d gotten used to enjoying my adventures with a partner, with both the special moments and the routine tasks being shared.

And I’d liked it. I’d liked it a lot.

That had all changed now, but as the eternal optimist I clapped my hands together, and then smiled at my reflection before speaking out loudly.

“Fuck it! It is what it is.”

And then I started laughing to myself as I made my first observation about my new circumstances and of the distinct differences between solo travelling, and travelling as a couple.

The very moment you reach the hotel room, the holiday truly begins. I’d entered my room in disillusioned silence today, but when you’re with a partner it’s more like…

“Hey, we’re on holiday!”

Which is then followed by a massive hug and a few kisses before smiling at each other and excitedly saying…

“Let’s go get a drink!”

And then you leave the hotel room, slap your girlfriend’s ass on the way out, find the hotel bar, nail a bottle or two of prosecco, and then three hours later you find yourself stumbling back to the room and you start shagging like rabbits.

You know, that first ‘holiday shag’.

Or, taking it back to the start of this paragraph, maybe you get to the hotel room and are feeling a little tired and a bit flat. Your girlfriend wraps her arms around you and there’s a conversation like this…

“You okay babe?”

“I’m okay, just a little tired from the drive.”

“Awww, come here.” She says, giving you a great big hug and a loving kiss.

“Hey, we’re on holiday. Let’s go get a drink.”

And then you leave the hotel room, slap your girlfriend’s ass on the way out, find the hotel bar, nail a bottle or two of prosecco, and then three hours later you find yourself stumbling back to the room and you start shagging like rabbits.

The point being that when you’re travelling with a partner, the night always ends with sex.

But solo, it’s a different matter entirely.

You reach the hotel room feeling one-half excited, and the other-half deflated. There is complete silence, other than the sound of the air conditioning, and so you look at yourself in the mirror and say…

“Hey, you’re on holiday. Let’s go get a drink.”

And then you leave the hotel room, slap your own ass on the way out, and then you find the hotel bar, grab a couple of pints, and then three hours later you come back to the hotel room and start wanking yourself silly.

You know, that first ‘holiday wank’.

If you can be bothered.

Anyway, the point is, travelling with a partner is way better.

And sex is a lot more fun than wanking.

Less than an hour later I was sat in one of the hotel restaurants sipping on a pint of beer, and I found that I was settling into things quite quickly. Yet I couldn’t help but get reflective.

The more I travel solo, the more I can say with outright confidence that it’s very much aligned with personal development, and it’s a real test of character.

When you travel as a couple, you have each other’s backs and can help lift each other’s spirits. And everything is made so much simpler, right down to the seemingly insignificant things, like having somebody to stay with the suitcases while you visit the bathroom or fetch some food for the flight ⁽³⁾.

But when you travel alone, it’s about complete self-reliance.

There’s nobody to share the responsibilities with, nobody to make you smile, and every single thing that happens sits firmly on your shoulders. You have to be constantly vigilant, responsible, and you have to be your own best friend and cheerleader.

The personal growth that comes from all this is significant, but I’ve been there, done that, and I’ve got the proverbial fucking t-shirt; in every single size, and in every single colour.

Through balanced eyes I’d say that neither solo nor shared travel is better than the other, and there are benefits and drawbacks to both. It’s each to their own and I can enjoy both, no matter what.

But I’ll admit that I’m now at a place in life where, given the choice, I’d much rather share my experiences and create lasting memories with a partner. In the absence of that, however, you can be damn sure that I’ll make the best of whatever my circumstances are, and I won’t waste any time wishing for what could’ve been, when I can move forwards and enjoy what already is.

“Are you ready to order?”

I looked up to find a young waitress standing in front of me, leaning against the edge of the table and holding a notepad and pen.

“Hey, sorry, I was miles away.” I said, shaking my head and rolling my eyes in self-mockery. “What did you say again?”

The waitress giggled, and then a warm smile appeared on her face. “That’s okay, I do that all the time.” She laughed. “I was asking if you’re ready to order?”

Her voice had a soft and friendly tone, and the calmness in which she carried herself had a relaxing effect on me. Sinking further back into my chair, I answered. “I’d like the bacon burger. And could I get another pint please?”

“Sure.” She said brightly, and then she turned around and disappeared towards the kitchen.

I looked around the restaurant and observed a number of different people in a number of different circumstances. There was a large family on one table and a young couple on another, and to both my left and my right was a man and a woman by themselves, respectively.

Once again, I started to get reflective about my own circumstances, and of how different it felt to be travelling alone for the first time in my forties. Although these feelings were purely self-imposed, today just somehow felt different to the start of my previous solo trips.

Maybe there’s something about turning forty which forces you to review where you’re at in life, and maybe that’s where the whole mid-life crisis thing originates; when you hit a certain age in which you feel it’s too late to go back on the decisions you’ve made thus far.

When you’re in your twenties and even throughout your thirties, it’s possible to make bad decisions and even have a few major fuck-ups; yet you’re somehow able to start over and feel as though you have plenty of time ahead of you in which to explore new options.

But this ability somehow seems to disappear in your forties, and as such there’s both a deeper sense of urgency about life, yet also a strange kind of acceptance; and these two opposing sets of emotions can lead to feelings of either panic or contentment.

It’s in our nature to focus upon what we don’t have and upon the things we haven’t done, and as a result it’s often panic that can lead the way; and thus, creating the potential for a mid-life crisis ⁽⁴⁾.

The harsh truth is that there will always be things we haven’t done, and no matter what choices we make there will always be unexplored alternatives that we didn’t realise. Unless we’re able to draw a line in the sand and say “this is where I’m at”, we will forever be caught in a vicious cycle in which we’re always looking elsewhere, feeling unfulfilled, and trying to satisfy a thirst that can never be quenched.

When I sit back and think about the life I’ve lived, I’m way more inclined to veer towards contentment rather than panic, and so there’s no fear of me rushing off just yet to buy a big red sports car with a twenty-something trophy-blonde sat in the passenger seat.

Because the simple truth is that I feel really happy with my life, provided that I choose to focus upon the right things, and find acceptance for the rest.

When I look at the things I’ve done, the people I’ve met, the adventures I’ve had, and the risks I’ve taken; I can quite happily say that I have really fucking lived. I’ve grabbed life by the throat and I’ve squeezed every last drop out of it; and although I may not have done everything, I’ve done as much as I could with the time that I’ve been granted and the circumstances that I’ve found myself in.

And for this, I feel truly blessed.

But the one area of my life in which I cannot help but feel a sense of longing, is in never having become a husband or father; and it’s the latter, in particular, that stings the most.

When I was in my 20’s I always believed that by time I got to the age I’m now at, I’d be married, have a couple of children, and that I’d be walking the dog every morning before work – that was always my ‘Plan A’. ⁽⁵⁾

And while I accept that at 45 years of age ⁽⁶⁾ there is still time to have these things in my life – should the right person come along – I also accept that at 45 years of age these things may never actually happen.

That’s the realisation that hits hardest for me, yet at the same time I’m open to the possibility that maybe I was never intended to follow that path, and that maybe I was always destined to follow an alternative; that there was a Plan B all along.

And that maybe, just maybe, Plan B needs to become the new Plan A.

“Here we go.” The waitress said, setting a pint of beer down in front of me, and having appeared seemingly out of nowhere.

“Thank you very much.” I responded.

“Ah, so you heard me this time.” She joked, winking at me. And then her tone changed to one of genuine consideration. “You look like you’re a little more with it now?”

“Well, yes, I’m back in the land of the living again.” I said, and then smiled. “What’s your name, by the way?”

“Anna.” She replied. “And yours?”

“I’m Elliot. Nice to meet you, Anna.”

“Nice to meet you too.” Anna replied. “Glad you’re back with us.” And then she disappeared once more.

Anna was right though, because it’s amazing what clarity we can find when we give ourselves some time away from everything and a little space to think, to reflect, and to get honest with ourselves. And a lot was starting to come clear.

No matter what life has in store for me, the sincere truth is that I’m not afraid of being alone, but I am afraid of being lonely; and there’s a huge difference between the two.

I would much rather be alone, than be with somebody who makes me feel like I’m alone; yet this final outcome is not determined simply by whether or not you’re in a relationship. It’s determined by whether you have the right person, or people, in your life; that not only allow you to be you, but who love you for being for you, rather than for who they want you to be.

Anything less is simply not worth having.

As I climbed into bed and set the alarm for 2.45am, I felt optimistic about the trip and for whatever lay ahead of me. Yet there was something gnawing away at the back of my mind; something I couldn’t quite put my finger on.

I switched out the light and lay staring at the ceiling for a little while, my eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness. And as I made out the smoke alarm on the ceiling, a little red light blinked at me, and again, and again.

My mind fell into rhythm with the light, and I suddenly felt the need to tell myself, each time, that I was going to be okay, going to be okay, going to be okay.

I’d done this stuff before, and I’ll to do it again now.

It’s time to travel solo again.

Solo in Seville.

The first thank you

Before I go any further and end part one, I’d like to send out my first thank you; to my friend and work colleague, Katrina.

I’d said very little to anybody during the build-up to the trip, and it was only in casual conversation that I’d mentioned to Katrina where I was going.

Given how I was feeling at the time, my intention had only been to keep a private journal and I had no real thought about writing a feature for the website.

But it was in this conversation that Katrina, unprovoked, made reference to my previous travel writing. She talked about the Thailand Travel Diary and then gave specific mention to Four Nights in Florence (with a slice of Pisa), and how my descriptions had stayed with her ⁽⁷⁾; descriptions which she was later able to recall during her own trip there.

It had been five years since that feature was published and I certainly didn’t believe that anybody would even remember it, let alone recall specifics.

It’s amazing how a few simple words can make a huge difference to somebody’s life. Thank you, Katrina, for giving me that confidence boost. This feature may not have existed without you.

Click here to read Part Two of “Solo in Seville”

Footnotes

⁽¹⁾ At the time of publishing this feature, it’s now been 2 years and 4 months since this trip to Seville.

⁽²⁾ It is important to understand that while I may write personal stories and share my own thoughts and feelings in these articles; I never have, and never will, share intimate aspects of my life; nor will I ever speak about those that I have been intimate with. Writing like this is done so for reasons of catharsis, and as a way of helping others who may be going through similar experiences. Articles like this are focussed purely on myself, exploring my own approach towards dealing with a break-up and the struggles that brings; but the details of any past relationships will always be kept private, mainly because they’re nobody else’s business, but also out of respect for any past partners.

⁽³⁾ It’s easy to take for granted how simple such tasks are made when you’re with somebody else, and if you’ve never travelled solo then you may never have even considered such things. But think about it. Can you imagine how difficult it can be when you want to do something as simple as visit the bathroom when you have a large suitcase and carry-on luggage that can’t exactly be squeezed into an airport toilet cubicle? Or how about when one person secures a table at a coffee shop while the other person goes to make the order? All such simple tasks become so much more complicated when you’re alone, but that’s all part of the test, right?

⁽⁴⁾ The term ‘mid-life crisis’ in itself is enough to induce panic, and so I instead prefer to call it the mid-life review. Yeah, that sounds better.

⁽⁵⁾ Although we also have to be mindful and ask ourselves, was it a ‘Plan A’ by design? Or was it a ‘Plan A’ by default? Societal expectations can often provide us with the things that make us truly happy, but in contrast, they can also make us grasp for things that we don’t even want. Only you can answer this.

⁽⁶⁾ 45!? Is that how young (old) I was when I started this. Try forty-fucking-seven. That’s how long this bloody piece of writing has taken!

⁽⁷⁾ If I remember right, it was the description of the clicking sound that the heels of my shoes made on the footpaths.

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Related articles:

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“Four Nights in Florence (with a Slice of Pisa)” Part One

“The Thailand Travel Diary” Part One

Don’t Ever Give Yourself The Chance For Regret

You Are Not Alone

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