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On being alone, and other adventures



I've never been one for solitude. It's not that I don't like myself -- on the contrary, spending time alone isn't distasteful to me at all. Rather (and this is in no way a complaint), I have been blessed with abundant family, friends and loved ones whose company often seems more exciting to a lone stroll or foray into a cafe.
Coming to Glasgow alone has changed this. The only person I know in this whole city is with me constantly -- I can't avoid spending time alone. In the week I've been here, I have walked miles on cobbled streets and sidewalks that are cracked patchworks of pavements, wandered into charity shops, cafes, pubs, museums, bookshops, grocery stores....
As someone who talks a lot, days spent by myself are vaguely jarring. Words that would generally spill out into the chilly air have no ear to catch them, and so they remain to bounce around as unarticulated thoughts and observations in my mind. My solitude makes every exchange an important part of my day rather than another contribution to endless sensory input. A request for directions, a "cheers" as I exit a bookshop, a commiseration with a fellow pedestrian over the buffeting wind are all vivid memories of my explorations.
I don't remember the last time I spent this much time alone. I cook and eat primarily by myself, not stopping to ask anyone if they mind having garlic in the eggs, and showering plates of pasta with as much Parmesan as I like, simply because there's no one else to eat it. Despite the fact that I began classes this week, being here still feels like a vacation, and I think it's because I'm able to luxuriate in silence and thought in a way I didn't know I wanted.
For the first time in a long time, my life doesn't feel colored by other people -- it feels colored by me. Me, and the city that I'm calling home for now. Rubbish (I call it that now) spills out of bulging dumpsters and dogs always have wet paws. The city's sandstone buildings are smeared with the accumulated smoke of centuries of industry, but the discoloration doesn't make them feel less grand. It's rather like the grime of Glasgow makes it more beautiful, in the same way a person who works hard hours in the sun is tan and creased in a way that feels essential to their identity.


Perhaps I feel less lonely than people in other centuries because I can take advantage of iMessage and FaceTime to catch up with loved ones, and because Netflix reliably makes meals feel less lonesome. But I don't want to think of this use of technology as cheating. I wander around the city without headphones or cellular data, with nothing to distract me from my own feet. Attempts to save money mean that I've been avoiding the tiny orange subway in favor of slightly longer walks, and that I've been sipping water and snacking on clementines from the produce shop around the corner rather than indulge in a flat white and a scone on every corner (although if I wanted to, that would certainly be an option). Combined with the relatively small wardrobe I brought with me, I feel that I'm living a sort of stripped-down version of my life -- there are fewer choices I have to make every day, but at the same time Glasgow presents me with a million options whenever I turn a new corner.
All this to say, so far, so good. Being alone is, as they say, a wee bit scary, but if two's company, I'm happy for it to be just me and Glasgow,

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