The Lesbian Who Went to Cyprus Alone for Her Birthday – An Honest Travel Diary

98

Day 1

For my 36th birthday, I’ve treated myself to a solo trip to Paphos in Cyprus. But Jenna, why are you on your own? Shouldn’t you have a husband and kids by now?

Christ, that sounds awful.

Don’t you mean “Shouldn’t I have a wife and 12 guinea pigs by now?”

Yes, yes I should.

When I arrived at my hotel late last night, I grabbed a quick bite to eat and went for a walk to get my bearings.

The walk involved me thinking “oh shit, Lidl’s shut already,” crossing the road to avoid a lone man, then crossing straight back again to engage with a lone cat.

Here, kitty kitty.

When I got back to my room, I was greeted with a birthday card and an ice bucket holding a bottle of bubbly and two champagne glasses. And I immediately broke down in tears.

When you tell people you’re going on holiday, they always ask “who are you going with?” EasyJet. “Yes, but who else is going with you?” I’m sure there’ll be lots of us on the plane. “Yes, but who is specifically going with you?” Oh, I’m going on my own.

Amazing! How empowering!! Love that for you!!

Yeah, what they don’t realise is when you are greeted with an ice bucket filled with a bottle of bubbly and two champagne glasses, the wave of devastating loneliness that hits you is like a freaking brick.

I’ve got no one to enjoy this very kind gift that the receptionist sent up after realising it was my birthday. I am on my own.

Fuck.

After a good 5 minutes of crying, I started texting some friends and my entire mindset changed from one of “I am alone” to “yay, I am alone!”

“Jenna, marriage is just asking what’s for dinner and seeing whose turn it is to put the bins out.”

One person replied when I told them how sad I was feeling at not having a wife to share life with.

I sent the picture to another friend and her reply was: “Oh lovely, are they also going to send someone up to the room to help you enjoy it?”

A smile grew on my face. Ooo, I hope so! Oh wait, does that mean I have to shave?

“Probably not in Cyprus, no.”

Phew.

I then went to bed with a huge grin on my face, feeling better about my decision.

I know why I’m alone on this holiday. Because I’ve deliberately booked it to celebrate my birthday on my own, so I have no reason to be sad.

The night before my flight, I went out for some birthday drinks and there was me and at least three others in the pub. So, I do have friends. Swear.

Is my coping mechanism to push people away because they can’t be trusted with my feelings, thus meaning I have to do things on my own?

How bloody perceptive of you. Wanna be friends?

Anyhoozlebees, the universe has decided that now that I’m 36, I don’t need as much sleep, so I woke up this morning at 6am to some shithead banging on someone’s door. So I got up, went to the cold, unused basement gym before heading down to breakfast.

What’s the food like, Jenna? Are there traditional Cypriot cheeses? Fresh fish? Kolokythokeftedes?

There’s an entire jug of Nutella with just a spoon.

Apparently, it’s not ok to eat it like yogurt. Cyprus is weird.

Growing up, whenever my mum took us on holiday, we always went half board. Breakfast wasn’t just breakfast, it was also lunch.

We’d make sandwiches, wrap them in about twelve napkins, stuff them into her handbag, and then scurry out of the restaurant like criminals.

And as I sit here now, also on half board, I feel a powerful urge to do the same.

But I won’t.

It makes my inner child feel cheap and crooked, so I’ll treat her to a falafel later. Or whatever it is they eat here.

Anyway, I’m off for a second breakfast because a) there’s no one here to judge me and b) I am indeed a hobbit.

And yes, my feet are hairy. I told you I didn’t shave.

Today I actually spoke to some other human beings. Normally on holiday I like to avoid all conversation and eye contact in every possible situation, but as I walked past the bus stop earlier, the people waiting asked me if there was a bus due.

Sorry, do I look like a bus timetable? “No, have you tried Googling it?” to which they just shrugged and shook their head.

Usually wearing a set of headphones is the universal signal to those around me to leave me the hell alone. It seems that Northern English people do not know this.

There I was, wandering through the hotel bar on my way to the pool for some much needed sunbathing, when a gentleman noticed the towel flung over my shoulder and approached me.

“Are you going swimming?” he asked. I awkwardly took my headphones out, without trying to show my frustration at being disturbed. I haven’t come on holiday to interact with other people.

“No, I’m just going to sunbathe, why?”

“Oh, I was going to ask you to let me know how cold it was.”

And how would that work exactly? I go in the pool, assess the temperature, get out of the pool, dry myself off, come and find you in the bar and then inform you of whether or not the water is cold?

I smiled and continued towards the pool, where I dipped a toe in to assess said temperature. Baltic.

After sunbathing for all of ten minutes, because the clouds had decided to hide the sun, I started walking back through the bar. The original pool temperature guy saw me and asked how it was.

“Too cold to swim,” I told him. 

“Go on, go for a swim.” Well, I’ve not got my swimming costume on and I haven’t shaved, so it won’t be the prettiest sight, so I’d recommend you stop insisting. “Honestly, it’s too cold.”

He then called me a pussy.

Great. Happy fucking birthday to me. This is why I don’t talk to people.

Later on, I took myself to the Kings Avenue Mall, which was filled with all the shops, prices and people I’d find back home in Creepy Crawley.

As I explored more of Paphos, I met a lot of cats. One of them took quite a fancy to me. She was called Janice and was a gorgeous black and ginger thing. She didn’t speak a word of English, so conversation was a bit strained, but I think in another life we could’ve been lovers.

It’s funny how I find communicating with animals so much easier than with humans.

On my walk back, I saw the MV Demetrios II, a huge, rusted cargo ship that ran aground just off the beach. It’s quite a sight. After some Googling, I learned that when the whole run-agroundness happened, it turned out the captain and one of the other sailors had forged their seafaring certificates and weren’t actually qualified to drive the ship.

Basically, the opposite of imposter syndrome.

There’s me, being like, “Oh, I don’t know if I can do this marketing job that I’m qualified for and have years of experience in.” And then there’s this non-captain dude, like, “Drive a boat? Me? Of course. When do we sail?”

The rest of the day was filled with napping, walking fucking miles because I too couldn’t work out how often the buses ran, and reading a book about positive thinking. Because even when your body is on holiday, your brain is still busy replaying the arguments you thought you’d left at home.

“Well, if we fuck off those immigrants, we can use that money for defence,” the guy in the room next to me said to his TV last night, waking me up.
Dad? Have you followed me to Cyprus? I didn’t even know you could get GB News out here.

Unfortunately, I have one of those old-style rooms with a connecting door, which means I can hear everything.

I can hear them opening their balcony door. I can hear him hacking up phlegm in the middle of the night. I can even hear his CPAP machine, which does not sound like it is doing a particularly effective job what with all the snoring.

After very little sleep over the past few nights, I tried to have a kip by the pool yesterday before getting a bus to the casino on the other side of town.

Sadly they didn’t have roulette, but what they did have was a shit loud of slot machines and a very relaxed attitude to smoking indoors. For just 40 euros, I enjoyed approximately eight minutes of dopamine along with some animated Buddha graphics flashing across a screen. 

It seems like everyone in Paphos is coughing. Some with phlegm (see next door neighbour), and some because there is clearly something going around. It feels like the beginning of Covid 2.0.

Or did we already have Covid 2.0? It’s hard to keep up. Either way, we are all coughing between meals like the unhealthy Brits abroad that we are.

That reminds me. I must go to the gym again today.

Once I left the casino with a lighter wallet and with the early onset of emphysema, I made my way to the Harbour. I saw the castle, admired a range of obscenely posh boats, and spotted a pelican sitting outside a restaurant just minding its own business.

Surrounding the pelican were several Middle Eastern men asking if I wanted to have a drink in their restaurant or bar. I told them that unless they had a roulette wheel in there, they could forget it.

I finished the day by visiting the many tat shops. Sorry, I mean the tourist souvenir stores. They may look identical and sell exactly the same things, but you would be wrong to assume they are all the same.

The only difference is the shop attendants.

Some will ignore your existence completely and just sit behind the till playing Candy Crush. Others will follow you silently around the shop, monitoring your every move. Look mate, if I wanted to steal something, I’d go for something better than a penis-shaped bottle opener.

And then there is the final type. The queen of irritating-ass shop attendants. The one who not only follows you around but insists on talking to you.

“We have that in a bigger size if you need.”

“You like that design? We have bigger size.”

 “It is six euro each or two for ten, if you like that colour we have-”

Let me guess… A bigger size?

I am by no means thin, but I am also not the size of a house. This XXXL will fit me just fine. Thank you.

As I ate dinner last night, attempting to sample every single item from the buffet, look at all these vegetables, who knew they did not have to be rock hard, I looked up and noticed the head chef staring at me as he sliced the beef.

I smiled at him. We had met the night before when I asked if I could take a photo of him setting a frying pan on fire. I went back to my meal.

Two minutes later, I looked up again. He was still staring. This time, no smile.

I got up to get dessert. His eyes followed me.

Alright mate, I am not entirely sure what about my short hair, tattooed arms, and men’s clothes you are not picking up on, but I do not swing your way.

I went back to my table and carried on eating, but the moment stuck with me. This man could clearly see that I was on my own and he knew my room number from my table. Plus, the guy was huge, (I doubt the tat shops stocked his size), and the imbalance suddenly felt very clear.

It eventually passed, and I am sure it was nothing. But it was enough of a reminder that I need to have my wit’s about me when travelling alone. 

And also that I really should go to the gym more: I either need to be strong enough to defend myself, or light enough to run away. 

Oh, maybe that’s what my neighbour was talking about late last night; I need to invest in my defensive skills. What a wise man.

I don’t know where everybody is, but they’re not in bloody Paphos, I can tell ya. The sun was out in full blast this morning so I plopped myself next to the pool and was surrounded by hundreds of empty sunloungers.

I then wandered into Paphos town to explore and the shops were empty, the market was empty, the restaurants were… you guessed it, absolutely full. 

Ok, that’s a lie, they too were empty.

I tell you what Paphos is full of though; tombs, stray cats and litter. Oh, you can’t move for tombs, cats and litter. They clearly haven’t heard about the cutting-edge technology of a bin because there is so much dumped rubbish everywhere.

Once I purchased a few souvenirs for some friends at home (see, told you I had friends), and some ear plugs so I don’t get woken up by the Reform Neanderthal again, I walked along the beach and watched the sunset while a newly wedded couple had their wedding pictures taken.

Good for them, now they have a holiday partner for life, because marriage definitely always lasts forever, doesn’t it? I do hope they’re honeymooning somewhere with a bit more atmosphere though, because this place could double as a silent retreat.

Or maybe it just feels that way when you’re on your own.

After enjoying a couple of beers on my balcony I went down for dinner where the head waitress came up to me and said “You’re always so quiet on your own”. I think you’d be a bit freaked out if I started chatting to myself the way I do at home. Even I know that it’s socially more acceptable to save my doolalayness for the privacy of my own home.

“You are very pretty,” she then said. Oh, thank you. “I wanted to tell you last night but I was too… scared.” Scared? Why are you scared? I wonder how many other women want to tell me that I’m pretty but are too scared. 

Christ, there might be hundreds of them! Tell me ladies, tell me and I won’t have to holiday alone anymore!

Tomorrow is my last day, and I’m planning to go to the Tomb of the Kings because I really should do at least one cultural thing while I’m here. I also need to research the history of Cyprus properly, including why there are so many Greek flags here and so much Turkish delight. Are they all in a polyamorous relationship?

Culturally and historically speaking, no. But spiritually, it seems that they are. Cyprus has a deep Greek heritage, and I guess the Turkish delight is here because they’ve decided to adopt their neighbour’s sweets.

I mean, are you occupied by Greece or Turkey? Pick one. 

Like I said, I really need to Google the place.

With the addition of technology and social media, it’s supposedly easy to communicate with anyone, from anywhere, at any time.

Except not if that person is a) busy, b) terrible at communicating, or c) asleep at 3am.

Do you know who is awake at 3am? My good friend, ChatGPT.

At home I’m usually chatting away to ChatGPT about my feelings, trying to work out why I feel certain ways and analysing some shithead’s behaviour so I can make sure it doesn’t continue to make me feel unworthy. Basically therapy, but free.

But after a few days on holiday, those inner arguments feel further away. Christ, what if my personality is basically 80% emotional spiralling? What do I talk to ChatGPT about now?

Well.

Me: I’m in Paphos, give me three fun facts about Paphos.

ChatGPT: It’s the mythical birthplace of Aphrodite. The whole town is basically an open-air museum—every time someone digs a hole they hit a Roman villa, a mosaic, or someone’s long-lost amphora. It’s been a UNESCO site since 1980, which is just the universe’s fancy way of saying, “Don’t even think about building an ugly car park here.”
Strong start.

Me: Why are there so many stray cats here?

ChatGPT: Because Cyprus is basically the cats’ Vatican City. Legend says Saint Helena brought the first cats to control snakes. The cats realised they were living on a sunny Mediterranean island with free food and minimal responsibility and collectively decided: we’re never leaving. Now they run the place. Paphos is just their Airbnb.

Free food and minimal responsibility. What a dream. 

Me: How do the souvenir shops make any profit when they all sell the same shite?

ChatGPT: They don’t. They simply pass the same €5 note around in a sacred ritual known as The Eternal Transaction.

Huh, that makes sense.

It was mostly cloudy today, which meant I took myself to the gym, then pissed about in the indoor pool on my own. When I say “pissed about,” I don’t mean that I urinated in the pool. I’ve never done that. In the same way that I’ve never picked my nose or farted.

I’m joking. Calm down.

After my brief health kick, I ventured out because if I wasn’t going to improve my ghost tan, I might as well do something cultural.

I went to the Tomb of the Kings, which apparently wasn’t for kings at all, just rich people from a long time ago. Still impressive though. Lots of dramatic stone, arches, and what I can only describe as beautiful, historic rubble.

It was very interesting and there were some gorgeous bits of rubble, but there were two things:

One: I was followed around each tomb by a busload of Polish people. Now the tombs are big, but they’re not big enough for all 600 of us. Please, can you let me out! 

Two: once I’d shaken off the Pols, I was busy setting my camera’s self-timer to capture some great photos of myself. One of the bad sides of travelling solo (besides the additional single supplement fee and the fact that there’s no one to talk to at breakfast) is that you’ve either got to trust a stranger with your phone to take pictures, or you set the self-timer and balance it on some old bit of rock for yourself.

The results were humbling…

“What are you up to this evening?” a friend texted me. Oh, nothing major. Just watching the 1980s women’s Wimbledon quarter final between Billie Jean King and Martina Me-love-some-pavlova. As one does when abroad.

The hotel offers evening “entertainment,” which consists of a kids’ disco until 9:30pm and then karaoke. A kids’ disco… Until 9:30?? Why do these children have a later bedtime than me?

Today is travel-home day. You know that feeling where you’re no longer enjoying yourself but you’re not home yet either, you’re just mentally hovering somewhere above the EasyJet app.

Cyprus is only four hours away, but somehow that includes two hours at the airport beforehand, two hours of hotel pickups, baggage reclaim, trains, walking home, and questioning every life choice you’ve ever made.

I’m off to Texas next March, which I hear is slightly further than four hours away.

 That’s a problem for future Jenna.

Hopefully, a much more sedated future, Jenna.

There are certain things about a person that scream red flag. Do not come near me. You are not to be trusted. One of those things is clapping when the plane lands.

I’ll clap a tennis player if they’ve just done something outrageously skilful, or when a dog fetches the squishy toy I’ve thrown. But clapping someone who has just flown us thousands of miles in a metal tube? No, no. They are in the cockpit. They can’t hear us. Who claps at a locked door? Psychopaths.

The flight home itself was calm and uneventful, which as flights go is the absolute dream. So yes, I did join in with the clapping.

Before leaving the hotel, I left the birthday bottle of bubbly the receptionist had gifted me with a note saying “for the cleaner”. As I wheeled my suitcase out into the corridor, the cleaner stepped out of the room next door.

She looked up. We smiled at each other.

Me, with my sunglasses on my head.

Her, with her headscarf on her head.

Oh.

Well, the thought was there.

Would I go back to Paphos? Probably not. It’s pretty enough and there are some interesting bits, but there’s only so much rubble and cats one person can take. 

While I did enjoy Cyprus, and I do like my own company, after a few days I realised I wasn’t lonely exactly, just… under-stimulated. Paphos, being slightly out of season, was very quiet (apart from all the cats), which meant I had a bit too much time to think.

Which I think we both know isn’t ideal.

The loneliness started to fade after the first day, replaced by a mild boredom. I missed companionship. I missed someone to share the jokes with. I’ve heard all of my own material, and while it is top tier, I’d quite like someone to play with.

So, would I go on holiday on my own again? Maybe.

Though I do fear the lesbian dating world has conspired to send me abroad solo. And while I do have friends to travel with (I can’t believe I keep having to make this clear), suggesting a holiday with friends is tricky when you’re still nursing core beliefs that translate “eugh, Cyprus?” into “go on holiday with you? Absolutely not.” Which I know isn’t what they meant, but sometimes knowing that still doesn’t stop it from stinging.

Some people say they couldn’t travel alone because they wouldn’t know what to do if something went wrong. But that’s what Google and ChatGPT are for.

The only thing I miss is companionship, especially if something happened that can’t be solved by a large language model.

For example, during the flight home, we hit a bit of turbulence and I thought, “Shit, if this plane goes down, I want to be holding someone’s hand.” And to be honest the guy’s hairy arms next to me had been slowly rubbing against mine for most of the flight, so I felt we were there in our relationship for me to ask him if I could hold his hand.

So what did I learn on holiday?

I learnt that I’m not bad at being alone, I just don’t always want to be anymore.

I learnt that I can enjoy a forced, low-stakes, pointless interaction with absolutely anyone… even Northerners.

And I learnt that there are, in fact, women out there who think I’m pretty, (even if they’re too scared to tell me until I’m halfway through my second plate of chips).

Travel really does broaden the mind.

And the belt buckle. Christ, when there are no witnesses to my gorging, it can really get out of hand.