Welcome to Florence, I Will Be Your Solo Traveler Doula
Guest post by FOAA (Friend of One Adventure Away) Megan Starks
A woman wearing a sweatshirt with “Rome” printed in collegiate font stretched across her chest is standing alone at the edge of the piazza. She isn’t dressed like anyone jockeying for tips, so I know she isn’t the tour guide. And I certainly know she is an American. We can spot our own.
“Hi, are you here for the tour?” I ask her.
I would come to repeat these words a dozen times during the several months of traveling by myself across Europe. I sign up for a tour or guide or activity in each major city I visit. In each instance, I watch relief and belonging light up the fellow tour-goer’s eyes. I fancy myself a bit of a doula for solo travelers.
“I am, I think this is where we meet. Are you here for the tour too?”
This Rome sweatshirt lady’s response has me trying to imagine the circumstances in which I would be standing in a Florentine Piazza at 8 p.m., wearing walking shoes, dressed in layers, bearing knowledge of a Florence history and bar crawl tour, yet not be there for it.
“Yep,” I respond. I am not going to pass judgement on Rome just yet. Her smooth Southern drawl could lower heart rates, she seems friendly, and she is a fellow solo traveler. After spending a week biking Tuscany by myself, I need her as much as she needs me. Okay, maybe more.
Just then, a youngish guy in tennis shoes and a windbreaker meanders toward us, his cell phone positioned like a compass and his eyes looking over at the generic fountain like it is a Christmas tree.
“Five bucks says he is here for the tour too.” I barely finish the sentence before he turns his gaze toward us, “Are you guys here for the tour?” Rome and I start to laugh but I quickly return to the serious job of traveler doula.
“Yes! Come join us, we are just waiting for the guide.” I watch an expression of relief and belonging bloom across his face. As we wait, we exchange names, originating location, trip duration, and what we have to return to back home.
Nico is from San Francisco, third generation, with his grandparents emigrating from Japan generations ago. Sadly, they were shoved into an internment camp for a short period; happily, they entered the San Francisco real estate market early enough to own a Lower Pacific Heights Victorian. He goes on to confide that he took a week off of work at an IT company to use his vacation days before he quits.
Rome is Jennifer from Georgia. She is traveling alone for the first time and chose Italy because she plans to move here. “I just wanted to make sure I like it before I move.”
Good idea, Rome, good idea. An only child, she is waiting for her ill parents to die before she moves. Once this loose end is tied up, she’s out.
“We’re over here!” A woman dressed for tips in a stylish wool coat and fedora is waving at us from the other side of the fountain. She doesn’t waste time asking us what we are here for; she already knows, she’s a professional.
Mia, our tour guide, welcomes the three of us into a larger group, made mostly of American exchange students who are following a dress code suited for the nighttime rambunctiousness of youth.
“I left my bustier at home,” Rome says under her breath.
“So did I!” Nico says, somewhat believably.
“I’m wearing mine under all these layers,” I add.
An unspoken agreement is formed, the three of us are doing this tour together.
The guests form a circle and Mia introduces us to her assistant, a spitting image of Lindsay Lohan circa her misdemeanor years. She completes the look by holding up a bottle of wine in each hand. She will be filling and refilling our plastic cups over the next 30 minutes, during which time we will stay in this circle listening to Mia share a centuries-old Italian tale of child marriage and fratricide.
With our hearts warmed by Chianti and a bit of torrid history, we head to our first stop, an unremarkable bar on the other side of the Arno river. The bartender walks us to a long table in the back, speckled with small bowls of potato chips. I wonder if this is the “appetizer included,” part of our tour. The limited drink choices are explained and everyone acts like they are deciding on the last cocktail of their life. As a traveler doula, I encourage Rome to try the most Italian choice of the three — the Aperol Spritz. She agrees, and Nico follows suit.
Next, we visit a buchette del vino. Each person is allotted 30 seconds to pick up their drink and take photos next to the small 17th-century wine window. Nico ignores the time limit and assures me that at least one of the 100 photos I took of him will make it to his Instagram page.
Our last stop is a classic trattoria, but Mia warns us that it will transform into a techno dance club within the hour. Halfway into our drinks, Nico announces that he has to be up in 5 hours to catch a flight. He signs off by ordering Patron tequila shots for everyone. The group toasts to him and his travel budget. I make a mental note to buy that type of validation the next time I’m offered the chance. The exchange students take their shots and settle in, giddy they don’t have to go search the streets for a club.
“You want to go somewhere else?” Rome nods. We thank and tip our guides and move to a place down the block, a bar undergoing a metamorphosis more our style. Karaoke is about to start. We find our place at a table near the dance floor and drink bottled beer while waiting for Bon Jovi and Neil Diamond.
The Italians do not disappoint, and each rendition of a karaoke classic births new awe. Someone starts singing Outkast’s “Hey Ya.” I lose Rome to the dance floor. She is surrounded by several handsome dark-skinned men who appear mesmerized by this woman in a sweatshirt, swinging her butt from side to side, happily flirting with them one by one.
Suddenly it is the wee hours of the morning and I am ready for bed. The crowd is too thick to make my way over to say goodbye. I wave to Rome from across the dance floor and give a series of hand gestures I trust she recognizes as, “I’m leaving, nice to meet you, be safe and have fun!” Her big smile and enthusiastic wave assure me she feels safe. Maybe Rome does belong in Italy.
Traveler doula duties complete, I return to my own company. Walking back to the hotel, I mull over what Parisian tours I’m interested in. I don’t trust myself with the parfumerie tour and accompanying eau de toilette making class, which is sure to leave me with custom perfume that smells like dirt. The guided tour of the Louvre seems like it requires more deep contemplation than I’m up for. I decide on the Montmarte Cheese and Wine tour. I generally like people who like wine and cheese. I also decide to buy a traveler doula uniform before I leave, a sweatshirt with Florence printed across the front in collegiate font.
