The Culinary Traveler

Why my first solo meal in Athens changed the way I travel — and the way I see myself.

Just before boarding my flight in Montreal, I had a brief but overwhelming wave of fear.

The kind that rises suddenly in your chest and makes you pause and question every decision that brought you there.

What the hell was I doing?

This wasn’t just a vacation. It was my first international trip alone. No companion. No safety net. No familiar person waiting on the other side of the ocean.

For a few moments, standing at the gate with my passport clutched in my hand, turning around felt far more reasonable than boarding the plane.

But fear and excitement often arrive wearing the same clothes.

So I boarded anyway.

A day later, my first solo meal overseas happened in Athens.

Not at a charming rooftop café with Acropolis views or some carefully curated travel experience destined for Instagram.

It happened in a noisy little taverna down a sketchy alleyway near my hotel.

The kind of alley that makes you glance over your shoulder and wonder if you should turn around.

I only went because the woman at the hotel front desk insisted the food was good.

By the time I pushed open the restaurant door, my stomach was in knots. Whether it was nerves or hunger, I honestly couldn’t tell.

Inside, the walls were painted a warm creamy yellow, and green plants hung lazily from the ceiling. The restaurant buzzed with mid-afternoon conversation, clinking dishes, and the kind of comfortable chaos that comes from locals lingering over meals.

I suddenly became acutely aware that I was alone.

Not “independent woman exploring the world” alone.

Just… alone.

The waiter gestured toward a table and handed me a stained, worn-out menu with English translations squeezed beneath the Greek text. I ordered a glass of wine mostly to give myself something to do with my hands while I pretended to study the menu calmly.

In reality, I was convinced everyone in the restaurant had noticed me.

The solo woman.  

The tourist.  

The nervous foreigner who is trying to look confident.

Eventually, I ordered chicken souvlaki in a pita and a Greek salad — the first of many Greek salads on that trip.

When the food arrived, something shifted.

The warm pita. The smoky grilled chicken. The cool tzatziki. Tomatoes that actually tasted like tomatoes. Olive oil pooling at the bottom of the salad plate. Condensation slides slowly down the inside of the wine glass.

Outside, Athens carried on around me.

And inside the taverna, nobody cared that I was eating alone.

The conversations continued. Plates clattered. Wine was poured. Laughter bounced across the room. Life moved forward, completely uninterested in the fact that I occupied a table for one.

At first, that realization felt humbling.

Then it felt freeing.

What struck me most wasn’t the food or even the city itself.

It was how unfamiliar it felt to make decisions entirely for myself.

To choose a restaurant because I was hungry.  

To linger over a glass of wine without worrying whether someone else was bored.  

To sit quietly with my own thoughts and realize they were enough company.

Somewhere along the way, many women become so accustomed to caring for everyone else that simple independence starts to feel almost indulgent.

Sitting there alone in Athens, I realized how long it had been since I had permitted myself to fully occupy my own life.

Somewhere between the first sip of wine and the last bite of souvlaki, the fear that had followed me from Montreal began to loosen its grip.

Not because I suddenly became fearless.

But because I realized I didn’t need to wait for companionship to deserve beautiful experiences.

Many women spend years arranging themselves around other people’s schedules, preferences, and comfort. We wait for the right partner, the right friend, the right moment, or enough confidence before allowing ourselves to fully experience life.

But confidence rarely arrives before the experience.

Usually, it arrives because of it.

That little taverna in Athens did not magically transform me into a fearless solo traveler overnight. But it gave me something even more valuable:

Proof that I could feel uncomfortable, uncertain, and completely out of place — and still be perfectly okay.

Now, some of my favorite travel memories begin with a table for one.