2023: I was a newly minted single person in my date-myself era. Grossly optimistic about what the year had in store for me, I endeavored to live out rose-colored imaginations by taking myself out to Valentine’s Day dinner; going to events, venues, and restaurants alone; and even traveling abroad, solo.
What started as my attempt to prove I had this whole “single and happy” thing figured out turned into me broadening my social circle, meeting new folks left and right, while also sloughing off my timid shell like it was just a worn-out sweater.
Growing up, I was often dubbed the quiet kid by both acquaintances and teachers alike. I rarely asked questions or volunteered to participate in class discussions. My report cards affectionately christened me “pleasant to teach.” But as I got older, I struggled with shyness and social anxiety, feeling like it was an indispensable part of my personality.
Despite anticipating that growing older would shield me from adolescent anxieties, for a long time, my awkwardness apprehended me. It wasn’t until the pandemic that I took the plunge into on-campus living for the first time, renting out a corner bedroom of a basement in Scarborough, Ontario with two strangers and a perpetually malcontent cat. As social interactions dwindled to a minimum, I found solace in daily walks along the nearby Bluffs, exploring new neighborhoods and parks, often trekking for hours at a time.
Growing accustomed to my own company became my gateway drug to solo experiences. I emerged from that period of isolation with a newfound penchant for hanging out alone in bustling places.
I Should’ve Been a Food Critic
Solo dining was my first, true foray into “dating myself.”
It was initially nerve-wracking for me to dine alone. I felt akin to the nude, yet self-aware emperor, imagining everyone else was judging me for my solitary presence in the restaurant. To remedy my discomfort, I started bringing a journal and pen along to distract me while I waited for my food.
Usually, I don’t anticipate any spontaneous company on these outings. But that changed the day after Valentine’s, as I luxuriated in dinner at Kensington Market’s Grey Gardens. I was seated at the bar writing in my journal. Amidst the introspection, after dining on seafood, pasta, and an ice-cream-dolloped cake, I was interrupted by a couple seated next to me.
The woman beside me asked, “Hey, sorry, but can I ask you a personal question?”
My hypervigilance kicked in: Why do you want my Social Insurance Number? I rang up scenarios of being intercepted by undercover FBI agents, who’d rope me into espionage and a complete face reconstruction, making me unrecognizable to all facial ID contracts on my devices, and thus relegating me to a life of manually inputting my passwords. Still, I replied, “Sure.”
The man with her gestured toward my journal and then said, “Are you a food critic? We noticed you writing and thought you might have some dessert recommendations.”
As if a mental floodgate had opened, an overwhelming sense of flattery washed over me.
A food critic, an arbiter of taste, was exactly the kind of professional pursuit for which I’d love to experience imposter syndrome. It evoked delicately wielding miniature spoons and starched table napkins with the rigidity of a folding table. I was incredibly touched, though I knew the truth would disappoint.
“Actually, I’m not a food critic,” I confessed, yet I shared my dessert choice with them, attempting to elevate my non-expertise with terms like “tart” and “tangy.” Despite my admission, they seemed satisfied and returned to perusing their menus.
Grey Gardens’s sweet potato cake with lime-coconut ice-cream.
Suddenly, the woman commented, in a saccharine tone, “I just love solo diners.” And for a moment, I wondered if she pitied me like I was an unconscionable person who can’t convince other people to go out with them.
Then it dawned on me that her opinion didn’t really matter. Why should I be bothered about others’ judgment of me if I hadn’t already judged myself for dining solo? I pinpointed the culprit of my insecurity on a fictitious investigation board, where I was the sole suspect.
So, I kept up my solo dining ritual as I traveled to the USA and Asia. Sometimes, I’d strike up a conversation with fellow diners or staff; other times, I’d just bask in my own company, relishing the feeling of being a small blip in others’ lives. I stopped feeling the need to explain myself or seek approval for taking up space.
My Soulmate Is a Texas Cowboy
February 19: After settling into my Airbnb on a quaint historical street in Montrose, Houston – which, by the way, was reminiscent of what I imagined would be the gayborhood of the Stepford Wives’ suburbia – I had a serendipitous encounter with a neon sign that proclaimed: YOUR SOULMATE IS AT THAT BAR.
Although I briefly entertained romantic notions of finding true love in this city, my priorities were of the gastronomic variety, and my focus shifted immediately to glutting myself with Kau Ba’s inventive Texas-Vietnamese cuisine.
The highlight of my trip was my first-ever roller-skating session at Discovery Green, where my confidence in at least rolling gracefully in a straight line was immediately dashed as soon as I got on the rink. I learned that my ice skating abilities seamlessly translated to roller skating, meaning, in both instances, I officially had none; instead, I found myself clutching desperately to the guardrails like a startled raccoon clinging to a garbage bin while plotting its escape. Yet, despite the stumbling and near falls, I found a sense of accomplishment and even pride in embracing being a beginner again – and being okay with sucking really bad at something new.
The implements of my demise.
On my final night, I embarked on a solo dining excursion (no surprise) to Hamsa, followed by cocktails at Clarkwood. I intended to be back in Montrose and dilute my liver at Anvil, but since getting plastered at 9 PM was way too unbecoming of me, I decided I would pace myself between bars and sober up during interstitial Uber rides.
Perched on a stool in Clarkwood’s bar area, I sipped on a pinkish Paloma, oblivious to the emerging figure that would occupy the empty seat next to me and strike up a conversation.
The Paloma I ordered just before he showed up.
Turning in my seat, I saw a fit guy in a short-sleeve button-up, with a face adorned by neatly cropped hair and a modest beard and stache. Despite the dim lighting, I gleaned that he was attractive.
Now, my name is Juliette. Some people mistakenly hear it as Julia, but I do my best to emphasize the Francophone aspect, even exaggerating the ette to the point where it might reinstate my childhood speech impediment. Yet, despite my efforts, I can’t seem to shake off the sticky Shakespearean association.
So, naturally, I embrace what everybody is thinking every time I pronounce my name.
“I’m Juliette, like Romeo and Juliet” is my go-to introduction.
However, when he introduced himself as “Romeo” upon learning my name, it was a major turn-off. I couldn’t help but respond with a playful jab: “Really? Another Romeo? That seems to be a popular choice tonight.” But the drink I was nursing must have been strong because I found myself engaged in conversation with him for longer than I anticipated.
He was perhaps the closest thing to a cowboy I’d ever encountered. There was a subtle drawl in his otherwise ordinary American accent, and he was refreshingly direct and curious, making our conversation an exceptionally enjoyable interview. He seemed endlessly fascinated by a woman who spontaneously decided to visit Houston and take up roller skating in the park as a vacation activity. After I learned that he used to spend loads of time gallivanting around his family’s ranch, it got me wondering if he ever forked a bale of hay in his life. The fascination was mutual.
When I think back on the winding path of fate that brought me to my boyfriend, I can’t help but recall that neon sign that ignited our journey together (hello, soulmate at that bar). I believe our gut feeling can steer us in the right direction, and when we’re willing to step outside our comfort zones, unexpected opportunities are better able to find us. Looking back, I’m thankful I took that leap into the unknown and embraced that call of adventure.
Since Houston, I’ve continued to heed that call.
I Promise I Don’t Have a Drinking Problem: A Study
In June 2023, I traveled all the way to Singapore as part of my university’s Summer Abroad program. For a month, I’d be learning about Chinese society and culture from a global perspective. The chosen criteria for my course’s research paper seemed straightforward enough: delve into an aspect of Singapore’s Chinese population. Little did I anticipate that my research would involve a casual exploration of the city’s nightlife and alcohol-infused conversations with locals, culminating in an A grade by the end of the semester.
My quest for research material began in a gelato shop with a simple Google inquiry: Crazy Rich Asians filming locations in Singapore. The closest landmark in proximity to me was a street called Bukit Pasoh Road, in Singapore’s Chinatown, which served as the shophouse-lined background of Rachel and Peik Lin’s chicken conversation.
I explored the narrow, stone-paved street, where my curiosity led me to stop before a shop sign adorned with an onion logo and the name “Gibson.”
Intrigued, I stepped inside and found myself in a multi-storied watering hole, where Gibson occupied the second floor. Upon entering the establishment, I was enveloped in an atmosphere that was both dim and moody, yet intimate. The bar’s backsplash was adorned with green, orange, and yellow accents that made me feel like I had been tucked into an Irishman’s jacket pocket.
A respectable pastime on a school night.
I wasn’t alone at the bar table for long. My bartender – a bespectacled, Mr. Clean-domed man – swiftly drew me into conversation, curious about my reason for being in the island city-state. When I brought up my research project and mentioned I was focusing on interviewing members of the Singaporean Chinese population, he lit up and proudly declared himself a perfect fit for that demographic. He even threw in that, deep down, he felt like he was Italian, but hey, he became my very first interview subject.
Casual chats quickly evolved into a chain reaction of meeting and conversing with individuals who either identified with or diverged from subjective experiences of being Singaporean Chinese. The benefits of this development were twofold. I discovered a topic that deeply intrigued me and provided ample material for writing, as well as had the opportunity to engage with an incredible cast of people and see the world from their perspective.
I departed Singapore with newfound friends from both my class and extracurricular adventures. Oh, and let’s not forget the alcohol tolerance I’ve built up—I guess I graduated from more than just academics.
From Alone to Among
After leaving Singapore, I traveled to Vietnam to visit my family, then ventured solo to South Korea. At first, the idea of being this lone documentarian hoarding the stories of a new place seemed thrilling. But when I reached Seoul, that shiny veneer wore off, and I was grappling with what some call “traveler’s depression”—that feeling of loneliness in a sea of unfamiliar faces.
Seoul held the most excitement for me, as it was where I had my most loosely planned itinerary. But I soon realized that “being alone” wasn’t what initially drew me to explore new places. What really made those trips unforgettable was the connections I made with locals who shared their tips or even joined me on adventures around their cities. That was where the real magic happened.
For the longest time, I fancied myself a lone wolf. I cherished my alone time, had hobbies I enjoyed solo, and figured I was perfectly content flying that way through life.
I bought into the contemporary cultural push to be fiercely independent, to stand tall and self-assured all on my own. But that’s just not how I’m wired. Like most humans, I thrive on connection, on sharing experiences with others. And I believe true autonomy isn’t about shutting out the world; it’s about knowing who you are and holding onto that sense of self while engaging with people from all walks of life.
In unfamiliar places, I discovered I craved human connection more than I realized. So, I made a point to put myself out there, chat with strangers, and really care about the folks I met along the way.
I’ll be honest, I’m not suddenly the center of attention wherever I go, but I’ve become more open, more curious. That, to me, is the real gem of solo travel—the connections and the person I’m becoming to nurture them.
