Anecdotes of a flirting-averse travel cactus who is blissfully content in her own company, proving that solo travel can be its own kind of romance
I traveled to Bacolod, the capital of Negros Occidental, eager to eat my way through the city and savor the regional delights it’s known for – in particular, chicken inasal, marinated in spices, grilled over charcoal, and enjoyed with rice drizzled with chicken oil. Pastry shops, too. I planned my days around meals and my walks around different restaurants.
By early evening, with my stomach happily stuffed, it was time to take a break from eating and do something I’d long wanted to try: going to a bar alone for a nightcap. Back then, it felt like a small but deliberate experiment, one that I wouldn’t have done at home in Manila. I arrived early, before the crowd settled in, grateful for the dimness that made it easy to disappear. I ordered a drink. I wouldn’t call it my go-to, but it felt like a fitting choice. I settled into my seat, drink in hand, content in the quiet.
A few minutes in, a friendly guy struck up a conversation. He meant no harm, but all I wanted was to be left alone to absorb the scenery. After a full day of food tripping, even my mouth needed a break. I smiled, responded politely, and gently dodged his attention. Annoyance began to rise, so I picked up the tab and called it a night. By the time I returned to my hotel before 10:00 PM, I was already snoring. The day’s indulgence put me to sleep faster than that single bottle of alcohol ever could.
Traveling alone has taught me how much I valued moments like these: sitting peacefully in a corner without an agenda, noticing small details others might miss like how the light from a lamp can tint a stranger’s face an extraterrestrial shade or how glasses catch the room’s glow.
Solo travel wasn’t better than traveling with friends or a romantic partner; it was simply another way of moving through space. In my trips, I began to understand that the feelings we often call romance – attention, delight, and intimacy – can also exist in a destination or an experience. Sometimes, it appears in the way flowers bloom or how the sun’s rays make the forest glow. It is not meant to replace human connection, but exists as its own kind of enchantment. Accepting that flirting isn’t what revs my engine, I’m able to enjoy the moment entirely on my own terms.
Of course, there were times when romance brushed past me unexpectedly. In Donsol, Sorsogon, a female friend and I stayed in adjoining huts separated by thin walls. Our neighbor was a dangerously charming Frenchman with a generous amount of chest hair and an accent that did most of the work for him. When he casually said, “I was waiting for you,” we melted, briefly. Nothing came of it. And that’s part of the charm, enjoyed exactly for what it was.
Then there was Baguio, supposedly one of the most romantic places in the country with its cool, cuddle-weather. I was again with a friend, and what unfolded was a comedic tragedy of unrequited attraction: misread signals, poor timing, and feelings that never quite aligned. Looking back, it was perfectly entertaining in its own chaotic way, buckets of broken-hearted tears included.
I could lean into those moments, chase them, turn them into something more. But these days, I find myself drawn to a different kind of sweetness: ripe fruits, quiet walks, good chocolate enjoyed slowly. Traveling alone has taught me that romance doesn’t always announce itself through another person. Sometimes, it’s simply the pleasure of being fully present, savoring the places you’re in or the food on your plate, and knowing that this, too, is enough.
