bonaire flamingo sanctuary salt mountains jpg

Article by Jenn Rice, Eric Barton, and Tate Jacaruso; Image of Bonaire Flamingo Sanctuary

On the Road

Why You Should Solo Travel

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Three food and travel writers share why it’s worth traveling solo through Europe, the Caribbean, and Washington DC.

Flying Solo in Dubrovnik, Croatia

I flew to Dubrovnik in late spring 2025, just before summer chaos hit, chasing that peak Adriatic glow—and honestly, the food. It was my third solo trip there, if you’re counting. The city is ridiculously safe, locals actually look out for you, and walking home alone at night as a woman is never sketchy. But what I love most about Dubrovnik is that strangers quickly become friends, usually over peka and wine. On my first solo trip, Ivan Vuković, hands-down the best guide in the city, texted me to meet him for a lively evening of food and wine with locals. I schlepped up countless stairs, sweating profusely, to a home on the city’s outskirts where Marija and Zlatko Papak were hosting strangers around meat cooking over coals, a.k.a. peka—a centuries-old Dalmatian ritual where meat, potatoes, and vegetables slow-cook for hours under a bellshaped iron lid buried in hot embers and ash. The result is meat so tender it melts on your tongue, infused with smoky, earthy goodness. In summer 2025, the Papaks opened Local, the only dedicated peka spot inside Old Town’s ancient walls.

There are super-affordable flights to and from Dubrovnik, including a seasonal direct from Newark Liberty International Airport (catch a quick connection from the South). If you stay in Old Town, those famous Game of Thrones limestone walls glow honeygold in late afternoon, and everything is walkable. Be prepared for the stairs, though. Vuković’s insider tip: Skip Pile Gate, where cruise ships dump tourists. Use Buža or Ploče gates instead.

You don’t need a car. I rideshare, catch lifts with friends, or bus and boat around. It’s the best for solo travel because you choose your own adventure: Chill in Dubrovnik, or island hop. Absurdly cheap ferries from Gruž Harbour run daily to the Elaphiti Islands (Koločep, Lopud, and Šipan are closest). Or hit the bougie button and call my friend Lukša Malohodžić, who owns Rewind Dubrovnik, for a private boat tour. He’ll give you the Bourdain version of the islands, stumbling upon winemakers and olive oil producers in the middle of nowhere, just around the corner from the most beautiful lunch by the sea.

A magical day at Šipan means BOWA (Best of What’s Around), a seasonal fantasyland of beach cabanas, Croatian eats and sips, and a turquoise beach so idyllic I pinched myself. For longer adventures, ferries run to islands Mljet, and my obsession, Korčula, where an overnight is warranted for Lešić Dimitri Palace and its MICHELIN-starred LD Restaurant (open seasonally, usually May through October, like many restaurants in the area).

The best moments traveling alone happen over food and wine. At the Papaks’ peka dinner, I met a travel agent who became a friend. The next day, we were sipping Croatian rosé at Beach Bar Dodo, arguably the perfect place to swim in summer and grab a bite without the crowds. (Another tip from Vuković!)

At Konoba Pupo (another seasonally operated restaurant), owner Viktor Kužnin picked out the best bottle of Dingač wine and sat down to join me for a glass (or three). I fell head over heels for my first šporki makaruli (dirty macaroni), traditional pasta with hearty ragù. The black risotto made with cuttlefish ink is also a must when in these parts, and at Kužnin’s newish pastry shop across the way, I learned to love Ston cake with penne pasta(!), nuts, and sweet cream.

Forty Four, owned by NBA player Bojan Bogdanović and his cousin Damir Bogdanović, serves elevated seafood that respects tradition. Get whatever crudo is on the menu. I became obsessed with their Crvik Blasius Malvasija Dubrovačka, an orange wine that Damir introduced me to, which worked with everything. Guesthouse Forty Four sits right above the restaurant, and it’s my choice to stay for solo travelers, quaint and easy, but in the heart of it all, with Damir constantly wandering around chatting with guests.

Croatian wines will surprise you. They’re hard to pronounce at first— Plavac Mali, Pošip, Grk—but taste them all. D’vino Wine Bar has staff who’ll guide tastings without pretension. Between the wines and the local meats and cheeses, you’ll realize you’ve been there for four hours, and it’s time to go…or is it?

One morning, Marija, Zlatko, Ivan, and I drove to Pelješac, about an hour north along the Adriatic Highway featuring some of the prettiest views you’ll ever see, for oysters…for breakfast. Croatian flat oysters have a unique taste profile: briny, sweet, and creamy with a distinctive mineral finish that only these waters produce. We housed bottles of Tomac sparkling wine and got so into the oysters that Ivan filmed us slurping them with sound on. We laughed, replaying it over and over. The slurp sound was magnificent.

In Lapad, where locals actually hang out, I became obsessed with two spots. Cave Bar More is a natural cave bar with tables as close to the sea as possible, perfect for morning coffee, listening to waves, or golden hour Champagne. Hotel Kompas has an outdoor terrace overlooking the Adriatic where Marija and I met for espresso martinis. It should be noted that Croatians love to imbibe. There’s always rakija (a fruit brandy popular in the Balkans) lurking.

Bottom line: Always say yes to rakija, breakfast oysters, peka dinners, and lingering longer. This is where the magic of solo travel in Dubrovnik unfolds.

— Jenn Rice

jeep tour washington park jpg — Washington-Slagbaai National Park, Bonaire

Solo With a Tailwind in Bonaire

In Bonaire, I found the sweet spot between work and wind—and a reminder that solo travel is necessary maintenance.

My windsurfing skills were near zero when Taty Frans (of Frans Paradise) met me on a stretch of sugar sand on the southeast corner of Bonaire in the southern Caribbean. He showed me where to stand and how to hold the sail, then sent me off into the cerulean waters of Lac Bay. I felt full of optimism, Frans being a kind, encouraging teacher, in a constant state of the widest of smiles, lots of “you got this” before I sailed away.

I headed out, the wake behind me the only waves in the bay. Turning really was as easy as he described, and I headed back to the beach. I turned again, and made the same loop, more times than I could count. Bored with my simple circles, I eyed the opening in the bay. I wasn’t sure if Frans would mind if I tried the rougher, windier waters offshore, where the ocean sparkled with whitecaps, its darker blue waters a reminder of its depth. Or perhaps I should just remain in the safe cradle of the bay. Which was it going to be?

I had come to Bonaire alone. Not because my wife doesn’t love travel— she does, and better than I do in many ways—but because every adult ought to go somewhere alone now and then. Solo trips force you to travel differently, to talk to a stranger on the barstool next to you, every day a series of decisions you alone get to make. If that sounds selfish, call it maintenance. It’s self-discovery in the form of a few days to yourself some where that’s new or pleasantly familiar.

After hundreds of trips over the years as a travel writer, including to 21 islands in the Caribbean, Bonaire remains one of my favorite destinations, largely because it’s a melting pot of two vastly different cultures. There’s the one of locals speaking Papiamentu, most everyone laid back and welcoming in the ways of the islands. But Bonaire is part of the Netherlands, and eight in 10 island residents are Dutch, explaining the bitterballen at every bar and the pale, blond teenagers working at every restaurant.

After landing, I rented a car, the best way to see everything on the island, which is just a bit bigger than Brooklyn. But I didn’t need it for my first adventure: The local tourism board helped connect me with Jarne Everts, a Dutch expat who runs a kitesurfing company. Everts pulled up at sunrise in a pickup with mountain bikes hanging off the tailgate. We drove into the interior of the island, just outside the capital, Kralendijk, into country that looks like Arizona borrowed a shoreline: splayed cactus, scrublike coils of wire, rocks and gravel the color of clay pots. We headed off on dusty trails that meandered through the brush until the entire world seemed to fall into the Atlantic. It was beautiful in the sparse, coarse way of deserts.

Everts and I, we didn’t say much as we pedaled, me occasionally shouting about how pretty something was and him answering in accented English. Finding a local with a similar hobby is the secret to traveling solo, a partner in crime, someone you daydream would be your bud if you made this island home.

Afterward, I ate goat at a hilltop place called Posada Para Mira. The stew is so richly seasoned you forgive the bones, pulled between lips and dropped next to the plate’s salad. I drove into Kralendijk, ducking into cafés and bars to test the Wi-Fi before settling on a busy coffee shop out onto an intersection where everybody seemed to honk out of habit. Coffee and pastries on Bonaire are as good as you’d expect from the Dutch, and the number of Europeans on their laptops are a reminder that this island has become a destination for those who want sunnier places to spend the winter.

Which is how I found myself back at my hotel, Harbour Village, where I retrofitted a balcony lounger into a desk and made the sea my white noise. Hammocks between palms doubled as places to write, and a chair at the restaurant on the pier a place to check emails. A solo tip if you don’t plan to entirely unplug: Bring a small portable charger so you can claim a corner with shade and a breeze.

Dinner wasn’t far away, the place on the pier called La Balandra, where the “wait to be seated” sign is a ship’s wheel and spotlights in the water keep barracuda circling below. Later, I headed into town for a late-night pilgrimage to a tikibar for a mai tai and conversation with the bartender, a Dutchman who characteristically never smiled but talked about the happiness of northern Europeans. (This tiki bar has closed since I went, but if you drive downtown at night, every sandy alleyway holds a pub that’s just as welcoming as the last.)

The next morning I drove north to one of the island’s little cove beaches, each of them feeling hidden, just for you. Driving along the coast later, I passed a strip of charming villas built for scuba divers to wade right offshore into water the color of a Tiffany box. Farther out, where the water drops off and becomes night-sky dark, there’s a wall of coral that attracts aquarium fish of every color.

On the ledger that day were more activities suited to a single traveler. I stopped by the Cadushy Distillery, where they make a liqueur from cactus juice, then drove over to the far side of the island for land sailing—think go-karts with sails, deliriously fun as you try to balance without flipping over (again)—and jumped in with a group about half my age. Nobody seemed to mind, even when I won the second heat. (To be fair, I lost every other race.) Then I headed to Ocean Oasis, an openair bar that felt more Tulum than the board-shorts-and-flip-flops vibe of most everywhere else on Bonaire. They served apps on long cutting boards, and people in white linen picked up an orange glow from the sunset. I found myself sharing a beach lounge area with strangers, beers in buckets and talk of nothing serious. They were late for a dinner reservation, but nobody was getting up.

The next morning I headed downtown on a tip from the bartender at La Balandra, who told me about Pastechiamo, a food truck that sells pastechi, an empanada made of sweet dough. The little cart sat just across from the bay, and I devoured the cheese-stuffed pastry with my legs dangling off a dock.

For my last meal, I stopped at Stoked Food Truck and ordered the tuna sashimiburger, then carried it to the jagged limestone rocks above Te Amo Beach. Tender tuna, crispy wonton bits, spicy mayo, and a fluffy bun—one of the best meals I had on the island, and definitely the one with the prettiest view.

Finally, I headed past the pyramid mountains of salt along the southern coast to meet Frans for my windsurfing lesson. After getting bored with the safety of the bay, I took wider and wider turns until I was just yards, then feet, then inches from where the ocean began. A sandbar kept the waves from entering, and I became crusted in the salt drying on my skin from their spray. I was certain my board could clear the sandbar. All I had to do was lean toward the sea.

Bottom line: There’s a particular kind of joy in attempting something new alone, choosing your level of adventure without conferring with anyone else, feeling the twin pull of safety and the wide open. That’s all solo travel is in the end: a series of those small choices, each one a vote for who you are when nobody’s looking.

— Eric Barton

Admit One in Washington, DC

Just you? I got this question a lot at hostess stands and ticket booths in DC last spring. Even at the check-in desk in the Capitol Building. Just you for the tour? As the ticket salesman looked around for others, I realized that it had never occurred to me to invite someone else along on this trip.

At the beginning of the year, I sent a text out to friends who owned cats in cool cities, asking if they needed a pet sitter during their travels in the coming year. I had one taker, my friend Gabby in DC. It was a pretty great deal: I would watch and care for her cat, Blue, and stay in her townhouse in Columbia Heights while she and her husband, Jacob, took a weeklong trip to Scandinavia.

When I wasn’t home hanging out with Blue, I was exploring the District. The beginning of my trip was Memorial Day weekend, and I wanted to give the museums and monuments a wide berth, so I spent most of it in Georgetown. I stopped at Mediterranean restaurant Alara for brunch, was seated by the front window, and ordered avocado toast with an over-easy fried egg, grilled Halloumi cheese, and drizzled honey on top, a sweet and salty experience. It was a sunny day and the front doors were open, so I people-watched while tucking in to warm bread with olive oil. I met up with my friend Madi and we walked and talked, combing thrift stores, admiring the neighborhood’s rowhouses, and stopping at a bodega for two cold Martinelli’s apple juices.

I was first in line for my tour of the Capitol the next day. They put me in a big group made up of couples and families, and I let my mind and gaze wander to the architecture, the domed, painted ceiling of the Rotunda. Then I hurried to my reservation at The Saga, an upscale restaurant at the RitzCarlton Hotel led by chef Enrique Limardo, for an early dinner. I sipped watermelon gazpacho in a tiny coupe (they do butternut squash in the fall and winter), which was light and fresh, and followed it up with pa amb tomaquet (tomato bread) and gambas alajillo, garlic shrimp with peppers and crusty bread, which came out sizzling and had the perfect amount of spice. For dessert, I chose the churros, which I dunked in melted chocolate.

Blue the cat pc Gabby Migliara — Blue the Cat

On a rainy morning I wandered presidential paintings in the National Portrait Gallery for hours, and it was still pouring when I arrived at Centrolina for lunch. They offer half portions of pasta, perfect for a lone guest. Amy Brandwein, owner and chef, came out and walked me through the menu. In a sea of white tablecloth options in DC, she said she wanted to open an Italian restaurant “where the food could be the star.” I ordered the rich and indulgent lamb ragu, which warmed me from the inside out, and the neri pasta, each forkful of squid ink noodles tangled with soft-shell crab and seaweed. As I ate my mango, lemon, and raspberry sorbet, I took in the room. Deep greens and blues, flickering candles and unhurried guests, sizzling pans in the open kitchen. I left reluctantly, back out in the rain.

Later in the week at the Museum of Natural History, as I stood in the utter chaos of an eighth-grade field trip, I asked a woman behind the desk when was the best time to come—she said “the second they open” in the morning, and I made plans to come back and do just that. At the National Archives, where a hundred people crowded around the Declaration of Independence taking photos, a guard told me to come back at noon when most visitors are off eating lunch. When I did, the place was almost empty, and I was able to pretend I was Nicholas Cage in a bad movie for as long as I liked.

I sat outside Van Leeuwen Ice Cream the next day, eating scoops of banana bread pudding and fudge brownie and writing a postcard to my sister about my solo adventure. On my last evening, Madi drove me around the monuments: a white obelisk, a vast row of columns, a solemn figure overlooking a pond, not a soul around. A stark contrast to the day before when I sat on Lincoln’s steps, tourists pouring up and down the stairs and families chattering happily. It was as though I blinked and they were gone. I blinked again and I was packing up my things with a long and heartfelt goodbye to Blue, then breakfast with Gabby and Jacob, back from their trip, and finally boarding the train home.

Bottom line: The thing about traveling by yourself is you’re not really alone if you don’t want to be. I picked a city where I have friends, met a few chefs, chatted with locals, and played with Blue. I wanted to build in those moments of companionship, and I also enjoyed those times when it was “just me,” whether I was wandering a quiet museum or savoring a good plate of pasta in peace. When you travel solo, there’s space for all of it.