Why I decided to leave alone: Solo trip to Kyoto

For a long time I couldn't explain to myself why one day I just opened a website with tickets and started looking for a trip that I would go on alone. There was no grandiose reason, quarrels, a desire to escape from everyone, or a sudden midlife crisis, although from the outside, it probably looked that way. At some point, it just seemed to me that I had been living in a regime for too long, where I was constantly consulting with someone, adjusting to someone, and even choosing a restaurant with an eye to what would please not only me.

In the end, I chose Kyoto in Japan, why did I do that? It's hard to say now, because at that moment the choice was more emotional than logical. I looked at photos of old streets, temples, wooden houses, and gardens, and for some reason I thought: "That's where I want to go." A few days later, the ticket was bought, and with it came a new problem: now I really had to go alone.

I was a little scared at first.

The most interesting thing started after buying the ticket. While the trip was only in my head, everything seemed romantic: I was walking around Kyoto alone, taking pictures of beautiful places, going to small cafes, not arguing with anyone about the route and waking up when I want. And then I imagined an airport, a plane, an unfamiliar country, a different language, public transport and myself in the middle of it all with a suitcase, the romance evaporated a little.

I even started coming up with reasons why the trip could be canceled. Sometimes it seemed to me that I hadn't prepared enough, sometimes I remembered that you can actually have a great vacation at home without spending money on a flight to Japan. But the ticket had already been bought, and at some point I realized that it wasn't the trip itself that scared me the most. I was afraid to be alone with myself.

At the airport, I realized that there was no turning back.

Kansai International Airport

When I arrived at the airport, everything suddenly became very real. I was standing with my suitcase, looking at the scoreboard and thinking that a couple of days ago I was sitting at home and quietly going about my business, and now I'm going to fly to the other side of the world.

It was especially fun to watch myself from the side. I seem to be an adult, independent man who can solve a lot of everyday issues, but here I checked my passport, ticket and phone several times, as if someone was going to steal my documents right out of my pocket. Before boarding, I looked at my phone again and saw messages from people I knew asking why I decided to go alone in the first place. I didn't have a pretty answer. I just wanted to give it a try. Maybe sometimes that's enough.

The first hours in Kyoto

When I finally got to Kyoto, at first it felt like my brain was trying to process too much information at the same time. Different signage, different architecture, unfamiliar rules, public transport, people who are completely calmly going about their business while I'm trying to figure out where to go at all.

Kyoto Station

I checked the route several times and still managed to get off at the wrong stop. This is especially pleasant with a suitcase, because any slight deviation from the route automatically turns into a walk with extra weight. But then a strange thing happened, I realized that I didn't need to explain to anyone why I stopped.

If I wanted to look at the house, I looked. If I wanted to turn into an alley, I turned off. If I wanted to sit on a bench for ten minutes and do nothing, I just sat there. And at first it seemed unusual, but then it became very pleasant. For the first time in a long time, I don't owe anyone anything. That's probably what I felt the most. When traveling with someone, even a loved one, there are still a lot of small compromises. Someone wants to go to the museum, someone wants to go to the market. One wants to walk for another hour, the other is already dreaming of a bed. One is ready to wait for the train for twenty minutes, the other starts looking at the timetable with the expression of a man who is about to announce a transport reform. But here everything was simple: I woke up when I wanted to, left the hotel without a clear plan. I could walk all day, or I could go back to my room in the middle of the day and just lie down. And gradually I realized that this was exactly what I needed, not Japan, not Kyoto, but the opportunity to live at least for a short time exclusively in my own rhythm.

One unplanned walk

One morning I decided to go out early. In Kyoto at this time, the city feels very different: fewer people, quieter streets, soft light, the first cafes are opening, and there is still no usual tourist traffic near the temples. I was walking completely aimlessly and at some point stopped near a small garden. I didn't search for it specifically and didn't even remember the name right away. I just came in. I sat down and looked at the trees for a few minutes. And there something happened to me that I did not expect at all.

Zen garden made of dry sand

I felt good, not funny, not exciting, not "wow, how beautiful," but good, quiet and calm. I realized that I hadn't been alone with my thoughts for the last few months. Work, business, phone, messages, news, constant plans –something was happening all the time. Even rest turned into a task that needed to be done correctly. But there was no need to do anything here.

Minor stress

But don't think that after that I turned into an enlightened traveler who sits under a sakura tree and understands the meaning of life. I still remained myself, one day I decided to figure out the route on my own, I took the wrong train too confidently and discovered this only when I realized that the surrounding landscapes were completely different from what I expected to see. I looked at the phone, then at the scoreboard, then back at the phone. 

Wooden and bamboo facades of houses

And I realized that a wonderful independent trip can now turn into a wonderful independent trip to a completely different city. I had to figure it out, and I realized that instead I saw wooden and bamboo facades of houses. The funny thing was that no one could say to me, "I told you so." And you know, it turned out to be unexpectedly pleasant. I made a mistake on my own, figured it out on my own, and went back to where I needed to go. It's a small thing, but for some reason it's these little things that give you confidence later.

In the evening, I realized why I had come

Shijo Street

I spent one evening completely without a plan. I just walked through the streets of Kyoto until it started to get dark. Shops were closing somewhere, lights were turning on in the windows, people were returning home, and I was walking slowly and not in a hurry. At some point, I took out my phone to text someone and stopped. I suddenly wondered why. Not because I was lonely. On the contrary, loneliness was not perceived as something unpleasant for the first time in a long time. I was just in a place where no one expected anything from me. And it turned out to be surprisingly liberating.

I realized that loneliness and being alone are not the same thing.

Ninezaka Paved Pedestrian Street

Before this trip, for some reason, I thought these things were almost the same. If a person travels alone, it means he must be lonely. If he's sitting alone in a cafe, it means he has no one to talk to. If he's walking alone in an unfamiliar city, it means he's waiting for someone. It turned out that everything was completely wrong. You can be alone and feel great. You can sit at a table, drink coffee, look at the people around you and not feel any urgent need to fill the silence with conversation. You can walk down an unfamiliar street and suddenly feel much calmer than in a company. For some reason, Kyoto helped me understand this.

What changed after the trip

I did not return from Japan as a completely different person. It would be too beautiful and improbable to write like that. I still sometimes put things off, I can still open the refrigerator and look inside for five minutes in the hope that by some miracle dinner has appeared there, and I still periodically make overly optimistic plans for the day. But something has changed. I stopped being afraid to do things on my own.

The facade of the Kannon Hall Buddhist Temple

If I want to go somewhere, I no longer automatically think, "I need to find a company." If I want to go to a restaurant, I go, if I want to go to a Buddhist temple, I don't need to explain why I became interested in Buddhism. If you want to see a new city, I can go alone. And most importantly, I no longer perceive time alone with myself as something that needs to be distracted from.

Why did I decide to leave alone anyway?

If you were to ask me now why I bought this ticket then, I probably would have answered a little differently. I didn't leave alone because I wanted to escape from someone. I left alone because I finally wanted to hear my own thoughts. I needed to take away the usual noise around me for at least a few days and check what was left when I didn't have to adjust to anyone, rush anywhere, and constantly explain something to someone.

Forest of Kimonos

In Kyoto, I realized that I didn't have to be busy all the time. My thoughts became clearer, and there was order, like in a Kimono. I liked it
an art installation in the Arashiyama area. I finally realized that it's not necessary to talk all the time. You don't have to turn every day into a list of achievements. Sometimes you can just walk down an unfamiliar street, go to a small cafe, look at an old house, make a mistake with a train, laugh at yourself a little and continue on your way.

Now I sometimes choose to be alone on purpose.

After that trip, I began to look at travel a little differently. Of course, traveling with loved ones is great, and I would never give up on such trips. But now, sometimes a time appears in my calendar that belongs only to me. And if someone asks if it's boring to travel alone, I don't try to explain it for a long time.

The Hall of the founder of the Higashi-Hongan-ji Temple

I just remember one quiet evening in Kyoto, when I was walking down an unfamiliar street, everything was quiet, there was no plan ahead, and for the first time in a long time I didn't want to rush anywhere at all. And I will probably never forget the peace I found in the Hall of the founder of the Higashi-Hongan-ji Temple. I guess that's when I realized why I left. I was going to Japan to see Kyoto. And I came back with the understanding that sometimes it is really useful for a person to get lost for a while not in a strange city, but in his own life – in order to find himself again.