The train from Grand Central Station to New Haven was the last before peak prices kicked in. It was filling quickly.

I chose a place in a six seat compartment. One man was there. He had slipped his bag beneath his seat and I did the same. Soon a tall man sat facing us.
“We need to put those bags overhead. I need my leg room.” Both of us looked at the high rack with concern. The tall man placed the bags above. We learned his destination was before ours.
“I’m getting off at the last stop and can help you with those.” A young man said from across the aisle. The short man and I thanked him.
We settled in for the two hour ride.
“Can you use your inside voice?”said the long legged man to the same young man some five minutes later.
Soon our seating area and the entire car was full. Some people were standing. Others sat on the floor. Snacks and drinks were passed back and forth between friends and family sitting apart.
“Would you move your arm to the left?” said the tall man to the business man sitting by his side. The man adjusted his arm to the left without a word.  The tall man put on his head phones and opened his book. His shoulder crowded the woman beside him.

New York City’s subway cars and walls brandishing spray paint was not uncommon in the 1970’s and 80’s. To some it was artistic expression, to others an eyesore and emblem of urban blight. Later campaigns triumphed and virtually eradicated remnants of these exploits. Although some of the artists enjoyed illustrious careers, the stigma attached to the artform remained.

Traveling through certain cities in South America I noted a markedly different attitude. Townspeople were embracing these painted walls with pride.

Now certain neighborhoods in New York City are rethinking the past and tempting residents to create and appreciate similar works anew.

Traveling makes me particularly aware of what I take for granted at home.

Here an outpouring of water is available with the turn of a faucet. Hot or cold is determined with ease.

Many places require other means. Large containers of water are often brought from distant sources. Animals, machines, adults and children may play a role in the task. But the lack of pipes need not deny residents of its flow.

Expats live all over the world and I know very few, but the ones I met in Nicaragua did not seem unique. Many of them were retirees coming from the U.S. primarily to stretch their pension dollars. The men and women had already been in this country for years, some as many as ten or more. They lived in a separate community amongst themselves. Very few spoke more than a few words of Spanish and explained that they had little time to learn. Others stated that the residents who came to clean their homes, shop for them, and provide other services preferred it that way. These expats did not seem to have any Nicaraguan friends.

Knowing I was traveling alone, they warned me about going anywhere after dark (the sun set at 6pm) and to take precautions in all I do. Their fear was palpable.

I later met a woman, also from the U.S., who chose not to live with the expats. She spoke fluent Spanish, and had been living happily there for years without incident.

I stayed in this town only three weeks, but spoke often with the locals and engaged in their daily routines, never feeling fear. I made an effort not to succumb to the ignorance and paranoia that inflicted others. Instead I did my best to fit in.

Never having lived on a farm, most of my experiences with food is what I buy. However, a small vegetable garden my parents’ tended to and my chore of picking ripe tomatoes and cucumbers off the vines gave me an early appreciation for fresh produce.

As a teenager I spent a week on a farm in Vermont. Virtually everything was home grown. Few things I’ve eaten since compare.

I have been invited to dinners where the fare was simple but the lettuce and other vegetables came a few feet from where I dined. Buying as I often do prepackaged, prewashed salad from a store tastes like a completely different entity. I concede to the ease and conveniently forget what I am missing.

In my travels I have seen men and women toiling in fields sometimes aided by oxen and horses or basic tools. It reminds me of the hard work growing food entails.

During my annual check up with my ophthamologist a short conversation on travel ensued. I mentioned, in some context, that I often travel alone. His immediate thought was how difficult that must be. Then went on to describe an incident, his sole experience traveling alone, where a man kept trying to pick him up and would barely take no for an answer. Thus he assumed that a woman alone would be constantly bombarded with male attention. I almost didn’t wish to disappoint him with the truth. (I also suspect that there are a few men and women who might accept such attention gladly.)

Perhaps a great deal has to do with one’s attitude, but I have rarely if ever been in an uncomfortable situation because of a man’s advances. Even while I was sharing the close quarters of an overnight train, I felt the rapport was quickly established as friendly, but nothing more. My challenges were limited to the day-to-day affairs. Where was I going? How would I get there? Where would I be staying? etc.

We all have our travel tales and he clearly had his but it did not resemble mine or others I know.

I primarily began this blog to offer some thoughts and advice on traveling alone. Perhaps I have inspired some readers along the way.

Some recent articles indicate that we are part of a growing trend. More than before people are opting to travel alone. Those people tend to be women. They are not necessarily single nor unattached, but they are, for various reasons, opting to go somewhere on their own. Information abounds. Opportunities to find a travel experience suitable to your budget and needs is getting easier. Businesses are taking notice and companies are catering more and more to the solo traveler; paying single supplements are becoming less prevalent.

If you have been thinking about it, but have not yet done so this may be the moment for you to seriously consider a venture of some kind solo. Whether you decide to join a group or venture out entirely on your own, the world is awaiting your arrival. And it begins just outside your door.

Like many New Yorkers, if I see a tourist looking confused or pouring over a map I ask if they need any assistance. Much less often do they come over to me.

I was in a non-touristy part of Brooklyn for an appointment yesterday. While locking up my bicycle a young man approached me with a backpack, holding a GoPro camera and phone in one hand. He asked if there was a hostel nearby. I did not know the area and suggested he find something using his phone. No wifi was his response. Where are you coming from? Korea. No, I mean today. Korea, I just arrived.

How he ended up on that corner I did not ask, but a subway station, just there, may have been the reason why. I didn’t wish to be late for my appointment but after all the kindness shown me in the past I also did not wish to leave him there. I asked him to come with me. He did not hesitate. Finding the office, for the first time, together we settled in. I briefly explained the situation to the receptionist. His appearance and gentle demeanor raised no concerns.

I used my phone to see what was near, but the choices were few and the reviews poor. I then found a hostel in Manhattan I knew quite well. He was pleased. I called. They just had a cancellation and could accommodate him, as he had hoped for three nights. With a confirmation number, address, and directions, he thanked me several times and was on his way.

Train travel across long distances likely means sleeping in a compartment. Depending on the class you choose this may mean a compartment for two, four, six, eight or more bunk beds. I have sometimes been assigned compartments by gender, sometimes not. I have been placed with other foreigners and/or locals. The top bunk has added privacy but agility is a must and ample headroom for sitting up is not guaranteed. The lower bunk is the most accessible to all. And it may be the only place for those sleeping above to sit up straight, thus becoming the communal couch throughout the day.

Habits and routines need to be adjusted accordingly. But fortunately my experiences have all been with those who in the evening, regardless of age, nationality, or gender, were happy to sleep. Train travel, perhaps because of the swaying movements is notably soporific.

This short-lived communal living arrangement lends itself to courtesies of which I have seen few, if any, exceptions.

One of the distinctions I have noted between English and Asian conversation is our use of the words “yes” and “no”.

I recall a shop in Japan, where I was looking for a particular item. I could not locate it and asked a saleswoman who spoke some English for assistance. Trying to keep things simple, I said something like “You do not have brushes?” shaking my head for emphasis. She said “Yes.” I waited expectantly for her to show me where they were, but she remained with a lovely smile. Confused, I asked again, “You do not have brushes?” She said “Yes, we have no brushes.” In a country known for its emphasis on politesse, it seemed a perfect way to avoid ever having to saying no.

Of course this is the most logical. She is affirming the response to my question, but I am accustomed to someone confirming by reiterating. The conversation would be more like this. “You do not have any brushes?” “No.”

Years later while visiting a small city in Vietnam I wandered into an English class. Their level was quite advanced and they were practicing conversations. The teacher was delighted to have a native speaker join in. I spent a few hours enjoying their enthusiasm and progress. I also shared, to their amusement, my idiosyncratic use of “yes” and “no”.