I’m at that glorious age where I can remember the Naked Gun movies, I know that if someone says “Shirley…”, the correct response is, “I am serious — and don’t call me Shirley,” and I’ve seen Shirley Valentine enough times to consider her my unofficial life coach.
I’ve also read Eat, Pray, Love (twice — once sincerely, once ironically) and watched the movie. Let’s just say, if Julia Roberts represents the Hollywood version of self-discovery, I’m the Rhonda from the AAMI ads version.
Rhonda, sun-kissed, practical, self-deprecating, and very much travelling solo — not looking for a Ketut to sweep her away on a scooter.
Finding Myself... Again
I travel alone, but not because I’m searching for someone or something that’s missing.
It’s more that life tends to get noisy. Work, friends, errands, and the daily business of keeping plants alive. Travelling solo strips the noise back to the essentials. It’s just me, my camera, too many scarves, and the occasional questionable beach cocktail.
There’s something about standing on a beach at 55, sunscreened within an inch of your life, that feels deeply liberating. No one expects you to be glamorous. You can chase the sunset with your camera, spill your coconut drink, and call it self-expression.
I Don’t Look Like Julia Roberts
Let’s be honest. I travel with a wide-brimmed hat, sensible shoes, and a face that’s seen a few decades of laughter lines — not a flowing white dress billowing in the Bali breeze while a handsome local serves me spiritual enlightenment with a side of nasi goreng.
And that’s okay.
Because wanderlust doesn’t require perfect hair or cinematic lighting. Sometimes it’s about the lumpy hotel pillow, and that one sunrise that redeems everything.
If Julia Roberts found herself through love and linguine, I find myself through sunscreen and a solid buffet breakfast.
Not Here for a Ketut
I’ve been to the Gilis, and endured a few meet and greets where someone inevitably mentions “energy alignment.”
Meanwhile, I’m just trying to align my sarong so it stays put.
I’m not here to meet my Ketut — or anyone’s Ketut, for that matter. But I do love meeting people. The kind who share sunscreen, trade book recommendations, or confess they once fell off a paddleboard “gracefully.”
Travelling solo doesn’t mean you’re closed off — it just means you get to choose your company carefully. For me, that’s the biggest luxury of all.
The Joys of Travelling as an Unapologetically Grown Woman
There are real perks to hitting your fifties as a traveller. People treat you with a mix of respect and gentle confusion. They assume you must know something (and truthfully, you do — like what constitutes “bad manners” and how to board a speedboat without flashing your swimsuit).
You also stop worrying about the “travel aesthetic.” I no longer need my smoothie bowl to match my bikini. I don’t wear a bikini and I’d rather photograph a fisherman mending his net or a storm rolling across the ocean.
And I’ve learned that joy doesn’t always come with a price tag. Sometimes, it’s in the quiet confidence of sitting alone at a beach bar, smiling because you got the best seat in the house — and you didn’t need a reservation for two.
If Shirley Valentine Had Wi-Fi
There’s a little bit of Shirley Valentine in me, I think — just with better sunscreen and blonde hair.
She talked to a wall. I talk to myself. She ran away to Greece. I book flexible flights to Indonesia. We’re both just women who paused long enough to ask, “Is this it?” — and decided, nope, not yet.
So, I travel. Not to escape life, but to walk through it a little differently. Sometimes barefoot, often with a camera, and always with a sense of humour.
Because if I’ve learned one thing on the road, it’s that the best version of yourself doesn’t need a Ketut. She just needs a cold drink, a smile and a sense of adventure that no insurance policy can quite cover.