The Curse of the Girls' Trip

I'm a feminist. I love women. I travel alone.

This is my friend Tessa with me a couple of years ago. I was driving to Kansas City to visit CJ, a trip that takes me through Tessa’s town, so I stopped to have lunch and a visit, which I don’t do nearly often enough.

Tessa and me, Columbia, Missouri. April 18, 2024.

Tessa and I met in high school, but we were a couple of grades apart. We got acquainted during her senior year when we were in a class together (Public Speaking, I think?)

I always had a friend crush on Tessa. She was (is) SUPER cool and unique, funny, and just radiates a delightful kind of lovingly weird worldview that piqued my curiosity back then. I was sure she was WAY too cool to want to be friends with me (still pretty sure she is, but don’t tell her).

But guess what? Way back in the early 2010 we connected via social media and have been friends ever since. She’s one of my favorites. We have all the stuff in common—music, books, politics, senses of humor, and the quirks that come from being neurodivergent women of a certain age.

This week, on Instagram, I learned we have something else in common when I posted this:

She responded:

Not to mention that yesterday, I had a doctor appointment where my upcoming trip to New Orleans came up. It’s a funny story that paid subscribers got to hear me tell on video.

One of the staffers at the clinic asked if I go to New Orleans with a group of my girlfriends, and I all too quickly replied, “Oh god, no!” while laughing. “I go alone.” And she looked at me like I had lost my mind.

Tessa’s just one of the wonderful girlfriends I’m lucky and privileged to have, but it’s extremely rare for me to travel with them. I occasionally drag my bestie, Suzie, out of St. Louis. Like Tessa, Suzie and I have enough similar quirks that make us good travel partners. We both like to go solo, and no one gets pissy if we want to do different things. We go our separate ways, do our stuff, then reconvene to share the stories. It’s pretty great, but it’s also pretty counter to the concept of the traditional girls’ trip.

It took a sadly long time for me to accept that, despite loving the company of other women and being a feminist, I’m not a “group of girlfriends” kind of woman. A lot of times I’m not even a good friend for other women, which I’ve also accepted. Granted, I knew that without having a bunch of them crawl out of the woodwork a few weeks ago upon publication of that linked article, but it was a good reminder that it took awhile for me to discard who I thought I was supposed to be and embrace who I really am—a slightly misanthropic bon vivant who is terrible at maintaining the mask that so many neurodivergent women wear.

I took a trip with two women many years ago. How many years ago? We were in a restaurant together during that trip the first time I heard Lady Gaga. So, many years have passed. We were catching a Wilco show—we knew each other through a Wilco fan message board—in Delaware, and a Philadelphia Phillies game the next night.

Everything started out great. Cheesesteaks, bars, record stores. But when we arrived at the show I had the familiar feeling that I was about to act in a way that would get me ostracized.

I’ve always been physically slow. Between having flat feet, short legs, and a lot of body fat, I am not built for speed. I also hate walking with fast walkers who don’t slow down for me and rush ahead. Both of my trip mates did this in an effort to get a spot in front of the stage.

By the time I caught up, the rail at the stage was mostly full. I asked if, since they were both taller than me, I could smoosh in front so all three of us could see, and was told absolutely not.

Inside, I was a little mad, mostly because I felt ditched and hung out to dry. I’m used to seeing the backs of heads at shows, so I was fine with that.

I was quick to release the anger so it wouldn’t ruin my night. I spent some time near the stage and later, when I was exhausted by the claustrophobia, I told my travel partners I was going to have a seat and I’d catch up with them after the show. Then I took a general admission seat and enjoyed the rest of the show, able to see the band, be comfortable, and even stargaze.

We were on the guest list for the afterparty, so I met with them after the show. As soon as we were in, they ditched me, left me standing on the opposite side of the party. And I actually fucking cried because of this, standing backstage after seeing my favorite band, all alone with no one willing to share the experience with me.

I could feel the disapproval coming from my travel partners and to this day I have no idea why.

And that’s the catch, one I have also been guilty of throughout my life: Women are taught that it’s rude to complain. So we bottle it up, whisper it in secret to other women. Stew about it.

They could have said, “You can’t physically keep up and that’s a problem for us,” which sounds horrible but at least then maybe we could have come up with a plan that was better than what we did.

Traveling with this lack of communication makes for a miserable trip for everyone involved. While Suzie and I don’t travel together often, I know exactly why we can travel together and have a great time: we communicate really well. And we’re patient with each other. And flexible. If one of us wants to take a nap and the other wants to go have an afternoon cocktail, it’s not a problem.

I couldn’t physically keep up with Suzie at one point during our New Orleans trip three years ago. In addition to the factors that made me slow in Delaware, I was also dealing with a bunch of compressed nerves in my lower back that made walking and standing extremely painful. What did she do? She helped me find a place to sit on Frenchmen Street to recover, then did me the favor of fetching our rental car and driving me back to our suite. I ordered a muffuletta for dinner delivery. She got tattooed. And when she got back we talked and laughed and scared some young women at R Bar and it was all a non-issue, even though I was flashing back to that night in Delaware years ago the whole time.

Coffee and a rest in the Treme neighborhood with Suzie. New Orleans, Louisiana. Three years ago today (February 25, 2023).

Back on the eastern seaboard many years ago, the drive from Wilmington to Philadelphia did not go well at all. Being at the prime of my unhealthy people pleasing years, I worked my ass off to get re-accepted into the girlfriend group to no avail. Of course, because who wants a needy hanger-on ruining their good time? When I accidentally sloshed a latte in the car, and then offered the use of the GPS unit I’d brought with me (pre-smartphones, y’all—ancient times) while we were driving around lost, I could feel their opinions of me dipping lower and lower.

So I gave up.

I breathed.

When we checked into our hotel in downtown Philadelphia, I told them that I wasn’t going to the baseball game with them, and I didn’t need a refund from them on my ticket. I chalked up my change of heart to not being a baseball person (true), and wanting to do some city exploring (also true).

Somehow, this seemed to piss them off more. I hated it. Absolutely hated having people angry with me. But knew that I couldn’t change it.

Honestly, considering how needy I was for validation in those days, I’m really surprised I was that accepting. I think that trip was my first real lesson in understanding that it’s useless to try to win over anyone who’s decided they don’t like you, for whatever reason.

They left, and I was relieved. Might have cried to release the pressure of the weekend. Got dressed up nicer than I would have for the ball game, and set out to explore the Rittenhouse Square neighborhood slowly on foot. I found a great yarn shop (I used to knit a lot), then took myself to dinner at Parc. That’s where I learned that bustling French bistros with sidewalk seating and prime people-watching feel a lot like home to me. Far more than any MLB stadium. I lingered for a long time, enjoying every minute.

Dinner and self-realizations at Parc. Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. July 11, 2009

Eventually I walked back to the hotel, doing some shopping along the way. I got back to the room before they did, chose my bed, did some writing, made a plan for the next day, and watched a “Saturday Night Live” rerun before they returned while I was reading.

They stomped in. One took the second bed, and the other the armchair, saying nothing to me. I said that I’d had a lovely evening, wished them goodnight, and went to sleep.

The next day I woke up early and got the fuck outta there. Taking a cab to the airport and waiting a few extra hours at the gate was far preferable to tagging along to Reading Terminal with people who obviously didn’t want me around. And really? Putting on my headphones and reading a book at the airport for a few hours without being bothered was a wonderful way to regroup and recover.

I knew I’d never talk to either of them after that trip, and by then I was really glad that was the case because guess what? I probably hated them more than they hated me at that point.

A few months later someone made up National Unfriend Day for Facebook, and they both unfriended me. But really, the friendships were definitely over as soon as I set foot on the plane home.

And I haven’t spoken to either of them since. Which has always been fine with me.

So that meme I saw a few days ago made me laugh. Because everything about that trip was so fucking dumb that it soon became laughable. From my need for validation to their middle school-level communication styles. All dumb. And not the only time this happened. While I have had plenty of travels with friends that have been wonderful, others have been plagued with this same shit. Knowing that it’s not just me helps, even now.

I’m so thankful I now have friends like Tessa and Suzie who work to understand me, treat me with patience and kindness, and communicate directly with me. I’m also thankful for the time I spent alone in Delaware and Philadelphia, learning how to do what has become one of the most rewarding things in my life: finding myself and continuing to learn who I am when I’m on the road.

I might be a little surly, but coffee helps, if you’d like to buy one for me. No promises that I won’t slosh it in your car, though.