You're Never Alone When You Travel Alone: A Lesson Learned

She grabbed my hand. She actually pulled my arm from across my chest and held my right hand.

“What is your name?” she asked, looking up at me from underneath her visor.

“Liz,” I responded. I was too distracted by the rings on her fingers to hear her tell me her own name. I felt a jewel on her index finger and a smooth band on ring finger.

She asked where I was coming from, so I reluctantly told her New York. I asked her the same, and judging by her accent, I waited for her to say India.

Nope. Canada.

“You’re so quiet. Are you OK?” Her eyebrows furrowed.

“Yes, I’m just traveling alone. Taking a solo trip.”

“You came to Hawaii by yourself? Well,” she said, patting my hand, kind of like how my mom would when I was a kid. “You can walk with me and my husband.”

I looked past her at the husband. He returned my gaze with a sympathetic smile. His wife had clearly done this before.

My hand started to sweat. Could she tell? I don’t think she cared anyway, because she led me down each path of the Polynesian Culture Center, past the filtered waterfall, the mock pole houses, and the glowing coals of the imu oven. And she watched me, too, as if to make sure I was truly enjoying the fire dance in front us.

Eventually I slipped away to eat dinner in solitude, to enjoy the culture center alone, as I had planned. But when the sun fell and I rendezvoused with the group at our designated bus, she was there — this woman whose name I will never know — waiting for me.

“Oh, good,” she said with relief. “You made it back. I was worried.”