On Fear

I’m not afraid when I travel alone, and I haven’t been for a very long time.

“Were you afraid?” As a solo traveler, it’s inevitably the question I’m asked when I return from a trip and tell friends, colleagues, and family about my recent adventures. Sometimes the phrasing varies. Instead of leaving open the possibility that I’m fearful, the asker might assume it: “Weren’t you afraid?” It doesn’t matter if I’ve spent three weeks in Budapest, or two hiking remote Icelandic trails. The question is always the same.

My answer now is, like the question, always the same. “No.” I wasn’t afraid.

This wasn’t always the case. When I first began traveling, in my early 20s, I spent much of my trips terrified. I remember my first time in Munich I stayed huddled in the hostel after dark, reading Lord of the Rings — and not because I enjoy lengthy descriptions of hobbit breakfasts.

But generally speaking, I’m not afraid when I travel alone, and I haven’t been for a very long time. That people consistently ask me if I am, or was, makes me wonder what I might be missing. Am I oblivious to potential dangers? Am I too trusting, too naive?

Part of the reason people ask if I’m afraid is because I’m a woman. This irks me, but I also know their concerns are merited. Women, or non-binary individuals who might be perceived as women, could face more risks when traveling, especially alone. To this day, before I leave for any trip, my mother will caution me not to leave the hotel by myself for any reason (advice which I never follow.)

But on a broader scale, there are inherent risks in traveling that everyone faces, from the irritating (petty theft) to the tragic (terror attacks). These dangers are present everywhere, but travel — to a place we likely don’t know, where we might be more dependent on the help of others — renders us particularly vulnerable.

The odds, so far, have been in my favor. I was only ever almost robbed once, when I was a student in London and I caught a sloppy young thief attempting to stick his hand in my bookbag (had he succeeded, the only thing he would have gotten was a handful of colorful pens). With regards to gender, the worst things I’ve experienced have been catcalls, and even these were usually more flirtatious than lewd or menacing — and never in countries like Italy, Morocco, and Turkey, where I’d been warned I’d experience non-stop harassment.

By far the most worrisome incident I’ve encountered when traveling happened this past January when I was in Bosnia. Police evacuated the airport for a possible bomb threat just as I was departing customs. I’d somehow missed the yellow police making off a large quadrant of the arrivals hall in my search for an ATM. (In my defense, the police didn’t seem that concerned with the evacuation — they let me extract my money before shooing me outside, along with other straggling passengers).

I know I’ve been lucky that my brushes with potential troubles have been mild, and that my experiences don’t reflect everyone’s. But even when things go south, it’s not fear I experience — annoyance, irritation, concern, but rarely fear.

The times I am fearful usually occur when I’m hiking. I don’t do anything technically challenging, remote, or even very lengthy — Cheryl Strayed on the Pacific Crest Trail I am not — but I’m not always good at recognizing warning signs. I hiked the Kumano Kodo pilgrimage route in Japan completely alone and at the start of the monsoon season, which meant that two of my five days on the trail were spent trekking for hours in downpours — and in running shoes, not hiking boots. As much as I loved being on the trail, even in the rain, I was terrified that each step I took would result in a broken limb.

Even when I go prepared, the idea of stepping out into the wilderness can be daunting. I hiked the popular Laugavegur through the Icelandic highlands in 2021 and, although there were many others on the trail, the long, lonely stretches through volcanic hills and around glaciers meant that I often didn’t see anyone for miles — probably the first time I had ever been truly alone in my life.

At the summit of Mount Rysy in Slovakia’s Tatra Mountains, where I was bundled up in waterproof gear, the cloud cover was so dense I couldn’t see beyond my boot-clad feet dangling over the ledge.

But even in the moments when I’m scared, I keep going. I inch myself down from the fogged-in summit. I walk to the next trail marker. I take things, literally, step by step. It’s the only good choice I have.