Travelling solo to Narvik taught me a lot. I romanticised the idea of solo travelling before I’d done it. Absolute freedom to do whatever you pleased, right? I’ve always been an independent person, so the concept appealed.
Perhaps I got too much of what I wanted.
The town itself is magnificent. There were many days I spent marvelling at the immense fjord in a rental car, with a white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel every time a car passed or overtook me on the narrow mountain roads. I drove a team of eager huskies through a Sami farm and ate lunch in a traditional lavvu. I learnt to ski, gliding fawn-legged down the baby slope at Narvikfjellet. I met some locals at the après-ski on Sunday, who surprised me with their warmth and friendliness towards a total stranger. I stopped so many times along the road just to take pictures and admire the view. Not once but twice, I pulled over to climb a nameless hill on a whim. I sat facing a glacier, and savoured the complete stillness.
But no matter how far I travelled, I couldn’t outrun my problems. There were difficult days I spent mostly rotting in bed in the (admittedly luxe) hotel room. I broke my camera lens after an ill-advised detour on an icy path, and instantly spiralled steeply downwards. I remember crying inconsolably down the phone to my mother later that day in that same rental car, waiting for someone to pick me up and take me home.
Most of all, I remember lying in the snow just a hundred metres from my accommodation, watching the Northern Lights dancing through the sky above me. I know the scientific explanation behind the phenomenon, but in that moment, it was pure religion – a communion of sorts. The fulfilment of a lifelong dream.
And yet, I cannot help but simultaneously recall the aching loneliness. The misery is etched into the memory, inextricably linked. I longed for someone to share the experience of being under the aurora sky for the first time. A friend or family member next to me, basking in the cold, thanking God to be alive and witnessing such beauty.
Instead, I was left to be small under a vast curtain of light.
Everyone I met on my trip told me I was brave for going it alone. At the time, I didn’t know what they meant. I didn’t feel brave. I felt like a pathetic loser for not having a real plan.
But looking back now, I have to agree. I am proud of the Tara of a few months ago. She was able to come up with solutions on the fly, and navigate mostly alone through the pain that always seemed to catch her unawares. I want to comfort her and tell her not to feel guilty about ‘wasting time’ – she is allowed to do or not do whatever she wants. Eat Belgian chocolate truffles in the hotel bed. Don’t tour the port. Cry in the car. Watch the gulls hunt in the fjord for an hour. Absolute freedom: anything goes.
This is the gift I give myself.
