Among the more perplexing trendlets we’ve scrolled past this year is “rawdogging,” the act of denying oneself all forms of entertainment for the length of a long-haul flight. No books or games or movies or naps for our rawdoggers; instead, the guys—always guys, only guys—stare straight ahead at the flight map or the seat back of the person in front of them, spending the whole time lost either in thought or in search of a good one. As with all trendlets, there’s no way of knowing whether it’s real or just six goobers on TikTok with the same dumb idea. But it gained traction because it feels real. In a year when guys tried to out-guy one another via Cybertruck purchases and diss tracks, isn’t it more plausible than ever that they’d try to one-up each other at nothing?
Relax, try-hards, and try harder. If you’re going minimalist, go all the way. Rawdog the whole trip. Go somewhere new, with no plans, no guidebook, and—this is the key ingredient—no companions. If you do this in a foreign country whose language you do not speak, all the better. Solo travel, in an unfamiliar place and with an empty itinerary, is more extreme. It is much rawer. And it is delicious.
Apparently, we’re already doing it. Sixty-nine per cent of Americans planned to take a trip by themselves this year, according to an American Express survey. The number goes up to 76 per cent for millennials and Gen Z, which suggests younger people are more comfortable in their own company or else they are more unpleasant to be around. I have found both to be true!
Either way, I believe in solo travel with the zeal of the convert.
My conversion happened this summer in Italy, a place I had only seen over and over and over again on my Instagram feed. For years, it seemed like everyone went to Italy in the summer, and it was time for me to be everyone. As luck would have it, Gruppo Montenegro, a food and spirits company, invited me to tour its amaro distilleries in Bologna and Venice. It was all the excuse I needed. After the official business ended, I extended the trip five days.
When I touched down in Bologna, it hit me that I’d done nothing to give those five days any structure. I hadn’t picked out a town to hole up in, much less a room. I hadn’t learnt any words in Italian, including those for hello, help, and Italy. I hadn’t hit up my colleagues for good restaurants to try, and I work at Esquire magazine.
The official part of the trip was packed with activities, all of which, like everything in Italy, involved wine and snacks and Select Spritzes. When it wrapped up, I was in Venice, just me and my bag with nowhere to put ourselves. I stranded myself. And I liked the way it felt.
I hadn’t picked out a town to hole up in, much less a room. I hadn’t learned any words in Italian, including those for hello, help, and Italy. I hadn’t hit up my colleagues for good restaurants to try.
I’d had a grand and vague plan to rent a car and go into the mountains, or to hop on a train and find a small seaside village to make my own, but Venice was already in front of me, dense with art and architecture and history (and snacks and spritzes), so why not stay? I rented an Airbnb in the relatively quiet neighbourhood of Cannaregio and rawdogged Venice, with nothing on the agenda but my own whims.
So I followed them. I wandered, alone. The thing about Venice is that it is so tightly packed that you don’t really see the sights until you’re right on top of them. You turn a corner and the Rialto Bridge jumps out at you. You take a left off the footbridge over the canal and a massive medieval cathedral full of Renaissance art takes you by surprise. And you are always within arm’s reach of wine and snacks. It is a barrage of beautiful sights, sounds and smells, and I immediately understood how my dog feels whenever he sticks his head out my passenger-side window.
The urge to talk to people became overwhelming, particularly after a few lunchtime proseccos. I admit I broke from the ways of the rawdogger by making ample use of the iPhone Translate app, which is how I learnt that Italian is a language with an extremely high percentage of words that are fun to say. Italian could have stopped at “Ciao!” and secured a top-three finish in this category, but it did not. “Costruzione!” I shouted upon seeing a construction site. “Ospedale!” I bellowed as I passed the hospital across from the cemetery. “Sto imparando l’Italiano moltooooolentamenteeeee!” I enthused, surely the most triumphant reading of the statement “I am learning Italian very slowly” that any of my waiters and bartenders had ever heard. Honestly, I got on my own nerves this way only three or four times.
According to that American Express survey, two thirds of solo travellers planned their trips around self-care. There is no self-care like being on your own, in a place where you know no one, where a conversation with another person is impossible unless they only want you to shout “Construction!” at them. The conversation moves inward. You decide for yourself how you feel about Piazza San Marco or Canova’s tomb or the 12th little plate of ham you just ate. When there’s nobody to talk to, you learn to recognise the sound of your own voice.
The answers you seek within your soul aren’t in the seat back. They’re out on the streets of a place you’ve never been. They’re in the overheard snippets of rat-a-tat conversation in a language you cannot understand. If you are in Italy, they’re in spritzes and snacks. They’re in the simple act of maximum self-care: answering for yourself the question “What do I want to do with this day?”
Rawdog your next trip. But don’t be a weirdo: Bring a book for the flight.
