I had spent most of the day gawking at the works of Renoir and Cezanne. So filled was I with emotion and inspiration that I thought I’d burst at any moment. I walked out of the museum and headed towards the sea. And there, with a hundred other promenaders, I breathed in the fresh sea air, grateful to be alive at such a time, at such a place.

I am at the Tsim Sha Tsui waterfront promenade, an anonymous tourist among hundreds, delighted not to be known or seen. At 57, I have discovered the joys of traveling solo, and I am absolutely loving it.

Used to be, traveling was a communal affair. One travels with family, friends, colleagues, etcetera. The early solo travelers were explorers and adventurers with the means and wherewithal to do so. In recent years, I watched in awe women younger than I going off on their own adventures—and I yearned to do so myself.

I finally did the deed a few weeks ago, and I dare say that I am all the more better for it. It was freedom of the most sweetest kind.

Initially, I drew up detailed itineraries. When I got to my destination, however, I threw them all out the window. Instead, I just imagined how I’d like to spend my days and followed my feet.  

One day had me walking and walking and walking. I wanted to see the murals of Sai Ying Pun, and went on a couple of detours along the way. I went up the stone slab street of Pottinger, delighted by shops selling everything from sewing supplies to souvenirs. At Central, I watched fellow tourists feeding feral pigeons; there were so many of them, tourists, I mean. In fact, following a tourist bus led me to Man Mo Temple. I walked the length of Hollywood Road, stopping by galleries. At the park, elderly men walked round and round the pathways, getting their afternoon exercise. I debated between grabbing an early dinner from a hole in the wall joint where locals converged or pushing forward. I pushed forward and was finally rewarded with building upon building decked out with colorful murals. And yes, right in the middle of all this art was a park, where yes, locals were exercising.

It was liberating not to think of anyone or anything else. While I love traveling with family and friends, solitude is deliciously fulfilling. Satisfying is the knowledge that you can survive on your own in a land not your own. Tempting is the possibility that you can just very well disappear, slip into the throng of humanity and somehow rediscover yourself, reinvent yourself even. For what is travel but the search for the self.

Out of your comfort zone you dare to imagine a life different from your own. You get curious about an alternate universe, who you could have been, where you could have ended up. And while you may not end up packing your bags and moving to some exotic destination after traveling solo, you could find yourself with a new hobby, a rediscovered passion, or at the very least a renewed interest to care for yourself.

So go, book that flight, pack light, travel solo. You’ll bring home more than a suitcase full of souvenirs.