A [Hotel] Room of One's Own: Ketchup, Confidence, and the Case for Solo Travel

For TLF’s Content Manager Alex Creange, there are few things better than traveling alone. A [Hotel] Room of One’s Own is her tribute to striking it solo, whether for a stroll around the neighborhood or an international adventure.

Anyone who knows me knows that I hate ketchup, despise the stuff, actually. The obscene red dye #40 color, the sugary fakeness, the horrific sound it makes as it struggles to escape the confines of a plastic bottle, the crime scene splatter it leaves in its wake — all firm tallies on the negative side of a sticky napkin. 

I’m not sure where the distaste stems from. I’m not a condiment hater: mustard and mayo are all good in my book. I’ve never had a “bad experience” with it, the way some people do with sushi or sangria. And it’s certainly not an inherited preference — my father puts ketchup on everything: eggs (socially acceptable), macaroni and cheese (possibly niche?), and chicken soup (an act that should warrant legal ramifications). But as much as I hate the stuff, I also hold it as some strangely sacred mental mile marker, a symbolic red push pin on the map of my career. 

“As much as I hate ketchup, I also hold it as some strangely sacred mental mile marker, a symbolic red push pin on the map of my career.”

I spent the formative years of my travel career working as a hotel investigator for TripAdvisor. For three and a half years I traveled around the world visiting hotels and writing about them. It was a dream job. I averaged 150 days on the road each year, alone — a young 20-something girl who thought she was an adult. People always assume that I quit because of loneliness, that traveling half the year without so much as a colleague in tow must’ve been too isolating to bear. But in reality, being by myself was the thing I loved most about that job. I’ve always felt comfortable, even enjoyed, being alone. Traveling solo never felt like an accomplishment, it felt like a necessary outlet for intrapersonal development.

Bookish, shy, and not exactly articulate, I’m not a natural conversationalist. Talking to people I don’t know falls on my list of preferred activities somewhere between unloading the dishwasher and going to the dentist. But traveling alone is a reckoning of sorts. Striking it solo in an unfamiliar place is empowering and soul enriching, sure, but it also forces you to stand, chin up, in the potbellied backwaters of your own disquietude. When I’m alone in a place where no one knows me, some external force of nature — call it confidence, self reliance, or preternatural elasticity — pushes me to be someone I’m not. Beyond the perimeter of the world I’ve created for myself and those who know me, I’m outgoing. I’m extroverted. I’m someone who eats ketchup. 

“When I travel alone, some external force of nature pushes me to be someone I’m not: outgoing, extroverted, someone who eats ketchup.”

At some point in my traveling years, I can’t remember when or where it was, only that I was alone in a restaurant, I was served a plate adorned with the all too familiar red dolloped ramekin. My server, incorrectly interpreting my look of distaste for intrigue, spieled a list of adjectives too gentrified for ketchup. But even the logophile in me couldn’t be swayed by the “seasonal,” “artisanal,” or “housemade,” so I removed the tomato-y paste from my plate. But at some point during the meal — blame it on jet lag, curiosity, or pure exhilaration — I did the unthinkable and dipped a fry. What I tasted was sweet, and tangy, and utterly addicting. Before long I was asking for more. 

With no family to gasp, friends to stare, or coworkers to question every adamant proclamation I’d ever made, I ate that ketchup with gusto. I’m pretty sure it was a one time thing — my true feelings toward the stuff remain unchanged. But in that moment, the ketchup’s sweetness surely stemmed from its taboo. I could eat it, freely, without anyone around me to tell me otherwise. Hardly illicit, that ketchup memory will forever solidify why I love traveling solo. Being alone is an act of rebellion against every convention you’ve assigned your life to. 

Thankfully, for the sake of this article and the sake of everyone thinking I need to get out more, condiments aren’t the only mantra driving my solo serving purview. For my 25th birthday I went sky diving in New Zealand, something I had to buy photo evidence of, since I normally can’t make it past the second rung on a step ladder. I joined a yoga retreat in Costa Rica, a true accomplishment for someone who can’t put jeans on without losing balance. I’ve gone surfing, driven motorcycles, attended weddings, and filled the in betweens with odds and ends I’ll leave for scrupulous minds to discern. I haven’t tried any kind of dancing yet. That’ll require a few more trips (and a lot of alcohol) to crack. 

“Thankfully, for the sake of this article and the sake of everyone thinking I need to get out more, condiments aren’t the only mantra driving my solo serving purview.”

This story isn’t really about ketchup, the same way Virgina Woolf’s essay was never really about the room. It’s about identity, and how traveling alone forces you to take stock of your own composition. I realize I hold a privileged position, as a single, childless, white, English-speaking, passport-holding woman, to stand on a podium and wave this frivolous flag. Not everyone has the breezy ability to say “to hell with it” on a Thursday and have bags packed by Friday noon...especially when the sole purpose of getting away is having the opportunity to moonlight as someone you’re not. But you don’t have to cross international borders to reap the benefits of my platitudes. Sitting alone at a bar outside of your neighborhood can deliver the same endorphins. But considering the overarching theme of my job is to write about things that inspire people to travel, I’ll leave you with this: eat the damn ketchup, book the damn trip.