Solo and female!

I’ve had quite the easy time so far: ride from the airport in Sao Paolo, maid service upon arrival, my own bedroom and private bathroom, the father of my couchsurfing host refusing to accept any money for shipping my laptop to NYC, ride from the bus station in Rio with help from friendly Brazilian I met while en route to Rio, assistance from current couchsurfing host, Marcelo, with purchasing bus tickets, booking accommodations and offering pleasant company for various things to do and see (read: everything).

I haven’t had any truly challenging days (unless you consider underestimating the strength of the bottomless caipirinha while on a boat in the middle of the sea a challenge), only a couple of snags along the way, but as a foreign female traveling by herself, I think I may even be at an advantage at times.  Recently, my friend Paula sent me an excellent (and brief) link to both the male and female perspective on the solo female traveler: does she have it easier than the solo male?

As Paula and I once backpacked together through Greece, Italy, and Spain for five weeks the summer after we graduated college (yes, we were overnight ferrying it to the pristine but festive island of Mykonos while the majority of our friends became acquainted with the cubicle), I can attest to the luxury of leaving my bag with a friend while I hopped on over to the restroom before the train’s (or ferry’s) departure.

However, safety and, ahem, pee issues aside, I think traveling alone is empowering, liberating, and thrilling.  While I don’t know if I’m ready after only a week and a half to conclude that we solo ladies have it easier than the solo guys, I am happy to share a couple of my positive solo travel experiences.  Social interaction, for example, Dave’s (aka the male perspective’s) first point, is not difficult for the woman by her lonesome; I’ve found myself bonding easily with foreign women who don’t speak a word of my language.  It’s not the kind of  bonding that leads to a best friendship, mind you, but it’s the small connection that warms the soul and reminds me that words aren’t always necessary.  (And, of course, it’s not all that hard following a little eye contact to make friends of the opposite sex either!)

Nilda (prnounced New-duh), the maid in the Patrick household, took a liking to me and I to her.  Though verbal communication was difficult, we had our moments.  One evening when I was leaving the townhouse, Nilda rushed to the door to ask me if I was staying for dinner.  I understood as  much from her gesturing towards the set table and the smells of food cooking in the kitchen.  What I wasn’t sure was how to ask her what time dinner was so that I could make an informed decision.  I struggled with trying to get her to uderstand me, and eventually I just took out my watch and pointed to the time (7 PM), which is when Nilda said “oito” for 8 PM.

“Ate mais tarde (see you later)”, I said, and when I returned with a bottle of wine and showed it to Nilda, she nodded, opened it and placed it on the table with the other dinner beverages.

In the afternoons, unable to tear myself away from my twice-daily caffeine habit, I’d timidly (still completely unaccustomed to havig a live-in maid) seek Nilda’s help with making the coffee.  Each time, she seemed to do it happily but not without looking at me in my tank top and bare arms and asking me if I was cold (frio?).  Once I put a sweater on, Nilda seemed content.

The day before I left, I took out my camera and indicated to Nilda that I wanted to take a picture of us.  Even though she wasn’t pleased with her appearance (something I figured out by her expression and quick removal of her hat) we smiled for the camera.  And when I left, she came over to say goodbye, and I asked Patrick to thank her for me and tell her I enjoyed meeting her.

When I was in China, I had similar bonding experiences in spite of the impossible language barrier.  There was the woman who owned the hostel in Yangshuo who gave me breakfast porridge and laughed when her daughters translated that iId named the kitten that lived with them.  We say together and drank tea, but we did not speak.   And then there was the old and sage Great Wall tour guide who looked out for me as I was the only one among the group traveling by myself.  When I showed her the picture taken of us, she smiled her big, toothless grin again.

Earlier today, an Argentine woman started began speaking to me.  She had somewhat of an ulterior (but harmless) motive, for she was practiing English, doing her homework as she told me.  A lovely woman, she stressed the importance of my safety, told me to be very careful in Argentina.  Certainly, we were in a safe and relaxing environment, on a boat in Arraial do Cabo, a small, sleepy (at this time of year, anyway) beach village a few hours from Rio.  (Next to Sao Paolo and Rio, it felt like an oasis of safety, but I was grateful for her insight.)

There are, undoubtedly, plenty of obstacles I’ll face by myself on my journey, feelings of homesickness notwithstanding, but I hope none of them will be serious or detrimental.  For now, I am mixing it up a little actually and will be traveling with a friend from college for a few weeks in Brazil.  I excaped on my own yesterday to Arraial do Cabo, and not without some minor scrapes and bruises either (story to come), but Erin and I will say goodbye to Marcelo on Monday and bid him billions of thanks for his incredible hospitality before we head to Salvador, which is, according to Lonely Planet’s South America on a Shoestring, *the* place travelers are most likely to get mugged.  They say there’s safety in numbers, so perhaps this junction of my solo travels is best interrupted.