The first solo trip I ever took was a nerve-wracking experience. I had just broken up with a boyfriend and had a non-refundable plane ticket to a foreign country and figured, YOLO!, I'm going. (Except this was before the days of "YOLO," so whatever the 2006 equivalent of that was.)
Granted, the "foreign country" was Ireland, and there was really nothing for me to worry about outside of finding a bar in Dublin to celebrate St. Patrick's Day -- yes, the Irish celebrate it too -- but I was still terrified. Hell, until about two years before that, I had never ever flown by myself… or, really, much at all. Like, twice maybe. Ever.
Today I fly so much that I forget about flights ("What's this reminder email from Southwest? Oh, shit."), and I almost ALWAYS go alone.
Obviously, people travel for different reasons. I travel for different reasons. As a travel writer, I go on press trips and to conferences, events, and whatnot. I visit friends and family, and I travel back and forth between two home-base cities on opposite ends of the country. I also just go away by myself, to fun cool places. Basically, I travel a LOT.
And nothing beats vacationing alone.
"Egads!" says you. "Aren't you sad and lonely? Don’t you feel like a pathetic loser with no friends? Don't you hate yourself because no one likes you enough to go somewhere with you?” Thank you for your concern, oh unrepentant extroverts, but no, I’m quite fine thanks.