driving to salem, MA for the plot
more notes on traveling, anxiety, and loneliness, but also beauty and wonder and walkable communities
[email users, this post is too long for email format! consider reading on desktop or, my favorite, downloading the substack app to read the full post!]
When I traveled alone for the first time to Columbus to push myself when it came to my anxiety, I wondered if I played it too safe. While proud of myself, a little voice in my head nagged me that I didn’t take a real chance. A few months later, I was in my bed overdosing on the Girl Historians podcast about the Salem Witch Trials. Because the algorithm picked up on this, I started getting social media posts about “the perfect autumn trip to Salem” shown to me. So then I did what I never do: impulsively book a trip across the country to a city I’ve never been to. Okay, impulsively is embellishing a little. I scoured Airbnb for days, my stomach in knots over whether or not I should do this, before finally booking a place. Surprisingly, I didn’t think much about it after that. Sometimes I’d entertain the idea of canceling, but I reminded myself that the nonrefundable deposit had been paid so I was G-O-I-N-G.
Oddly enough, I was more nervous driving to Columbus than I was to Salem. On the morning of, I left with a bagel and coffee and didn’t look back. Except to cry about leaving my cat. I had seven hours on the road ahead of me-I planned a pit stop in Niagra Falls because I’d never been before and if I was going to pass it on the way and needed to stop somewhere for the night anyway, why not there? When I finally made it to Niagra Falls, the only thought I could hear alongside the roars of the rushing water was that I did it. I’m here! I made it! I’m completely alone in a new place and I feel great!
This elation greeted me as I entered Salem, then slowly dissipated as I walked up the stairs to my third-floor suite in the charming, historic oceanside townhouse I booked. Many people have anxiety about the act of traveling (whether it be driving or flying) and then feel settled once they’ve reached their destination. Sometimes it’s the opposite for me. I feel fine on the journey, but then the nerves come when it’s over. Because now I would have to do stuff, my day was no longer a predictable lonesome car ride with routine gas stops and drive-through meals. I’d hardly eaten anything that day and now at nearly five o’clock, it was catching up to me.
I felt the panic stir in my stomach. I faced the first of many choices I’d have to make during my trip: do I stay inside and eat the emergency tuna I packed, or do I go out and find dinner? If I had been traveling with friends, this decision would’ve nearly paralyzed me because they’d certainly want to go out; that’s the whole point of vacation. In fact, one time it did. But I reminded myself that I was alone this time. If I wanted to stay in because I felt too anxious or I just needed to get my bearings, no one was there to judge me for it. So I ate the sandwich, laid down for twenty minutes, and then felt good enough to venture out and see the beginnings of what Salem had to offer. I even picked up a takeaway pizza and called my mom before bed. I think that decision was the turning point, and marked the beginning of a trip where I felt at ease despite doing something so unbelievably unlike me.
My first full day in Salem did start with a little bit of anxiety. I woke up early, grabbed a coffee and donut at Ziggy’s around the corner, and ate by the cove. The thought of eating a full meal was unappealing, yet I was also afraid of eating too little. I had a scheduled tour of The House of the Seven Gables in an hour. It was fine, of course. The tour was only an hour so I reminded myself I could dash to a cafe afterwards. Ironically, the impending question of where/what to eat motivated me instead of making me anxious. I had no choice but to eat at some point, so just get it over with and I’ll feel better. But let me backtrack: the tour of the Seven Gables museum was magnificent. Not only did I get to see the house that inspired Nathaniel Hawthorne’s second most famous novel, but I also got to see the house he was born in. During my tour, I noticed I was the only one traveling without a partner or family but it didn’t bother me. I even conversed with my fellow tourists and asked the guides questions. After the tour and a stop in the gift shop, I went to a cafe I had discovered earlier in the morning and inhaled an egg sandwich and chai latte, feeling renewed for the rest of the day’s events.
Those events included treks to local spots connected to the witch trials, another museum (Witch House AKA the home of Jonathon Corwin, one of the judges who oversaw the trials; I sincerely hope he’s looking up at us!), shops, and popular sites such as Charter Street Cemetery and the Salem Witch Trials Memorial. I wanted to push myself to eat at more sit-down restaurants, so I chose Howling Wolf Taqueria and ate a hearty quesadilla with a Mexican Coke. And I even got ice cream afterward! I didn’t understand it. I usually avoided crowded restaurants or if I went, I’d be anxious between bites. I had gotten used to eating out again in recent months thanks to visiting my dad with my aunt and uncle, who always took us out to eat, so maybe that was it. But even so, I still preferred eating inside the comfort of home. I almost felt angry. It was as if my mind had betrayed me. Why wasn’t she acting how she usually does? Was she capable of being this carefree all the time? She could’ve let me know! I walked to my suite, full and satisfied, calling my mom to tell her all about it. But even though my first full day had gone well, the real test would be tomorrow, when I’d be taking the train to Boston.
I made myself eat a real breakfast at Witchside Tavern to ensure I’d be fueled up enough for the day ahead. Whether it was because I was anxious or my stomach wasn’t used to eating a big meal so early, I had to take my time and talk myself into eating occasionally. It was nowhere near as intense as it was in previous years but I felt the familiar panic of not knowing what the day ahead had in store, and therefore not having much appetite, but fearing what would happen if I didn’t eat. If I had been with friends I might have been more anxious, maybe because our plans would have been set for the day, so I’d feel trapped. I told myself I didn’t have to go to Boston if I didn’t want to, but I knew I’d hate myself if I didn’t go. Wasn’t the point of this trip to push myself? How could I come all this way and not see one of the most historic cities in the U.S.? And, shamefully, I thought about the cute Instagram pics I could get. So I ate up, feeling better, and walked to the train station, where I had to ask someone how to get a ticket, explaining that I’m from the Midwest where public transportation is an afterthought. The train ride was a peaceful thirty minutes, a liminal space of my own making as I closed my eyes and thought about how I was on my way to Boston all alone and not really afraid at all.
After embarrassing myself because I didn’t know you needed to use your ticket to exit the turnstiles at North Station, I wandered the streets of Boston with nothing but determination, comfortable shoes, and Maps. My first stop was the Boston Public Library on Boylston Street. It was around a thirty-minute walk and I cut across several neighborhoods and a local park to get there, in awe of such history, beautiful architecture, and good city planning. When I finally made it to the library, I checked how long it would take me to walk to my next destination and was quickly humbled. It would be forty minutes from the library to the Museum of Fine Arts, it was already approaching one o’clock, and I needed to find something to eat in between. Luckily for me, the library had the News Cafe, a popular spot where you can grab coffee or lunch and watch live shows on Boston Public Radio being filmed and broadcast. I ate a chicken salad sandwich and silently bonded with the radio hosts and other patrons over the continued downfall of our country–this was the day after the U.S. election. As I ate and then dashed to the museum, I thought about how comfortable I was. I wouldn’t say I felt like a local but, aside from taking photos, I didn’t exactly feel like a tourist either. I just walked and observed, trying to blend in as much as possible and smile at people when the occasion called for it (at one point a scrub in his car told me to smile and I glared and picked up my pace).
I could’ve taken the T, Boston’s subway, to save time but I wanted to see as much of the city as possible. And if I hadn’t walked, I wouldn’t have met the nicest women. When I reached the Museum of Fine Arts, a woman outside was trying to locate the entrance and asked if I’d walk with her. I agreed and she told me about how she’s meeting her best friend of seventy years to grab coffee and see the Georgia O’Keefe and Henry Moore exhibit. I told her about myself and that I was traveling alone, which she applauded, and we met up with her friend. At the ticket booth, I was prepared to buy my ticket and part ways with the women, until one of them pulled me aside and said she could get me in for free because she was a museum member. Tickets were $27 so I was immediately grateful. In the blink of an eye, my plans went from wandering the museum alone to viewing an exhibit with two women, talking and laughing as if we hadn’t met just thirty minutes ago. I learned about their lives, their kids and grandkids, what they did for a living, etc., and I returned the same information about myself in earnest. I couldn’t remember the last time I had a true conversation with a stranger that wasn’t online.
After the exhibit we grabbed coffee and I innocently perused the museum map, thinking that if the women wanted to explore then great, but if not, at least I got to see a small part of the museum, and for free at that. Noticing my curiosity, however, the woman who got me in asked me what exhibits I wanted to see and then surprised me with, “Well you better hurry and see them before they close!” I had planned to stay with the women for two reasons: I thought it would be rude to leave them after getting me in for free and the anxious rule-abiding child in me thought if I wandered the museum alone without a ticket to prove I’d been allowed in, I’d get in trouble. They assured me this wouldn’t happen and sent me on my way. There was so much to see that you need a whole day to view everything and appreciate it but I was thankful for my little taste, vowing to go back one day.
After a quick fifteen-minute walk to Fenway Park to snap a picture for my baseball fan father, it was time to head back to North Station. I thought I could walk back but one look at Maps quickly humbled me. The darkness of the evening didn’t really bother me because enough people were out that I felt safe. It was more so that the day had caught up to me and my feet were killing me. If I wanted to make it back to Salem in time for dinner without falling over, I’d need a faster mode of transportation. I could’ve taken this opportunity to try the T but I was too tired to deal with the logistics and called a Lyft instead. Ironically the wait for my Lyft was probably when I felt the most anxious, wondering if I’d be getting in the car with a normal person or a creep (or worse). I sent the ride details to my friend and spent a twenty-five-minute car ride of Ginuwine’s greatest hits. Catching the train from Salem was one thing–there was only one–but catching it back was another. I arrived at North Station right as a Celtics game was starting, the entrance to TD Garden right above, filling the station with a sea of green. I’m pretty sure I only got on the right train because I had Maps to guide me.
Once back in Salem, I grabbed dinner and a bright green Beetlejuice-themed cocktail at Rockafella’s, sitting awkwardly at the bar and watching Spongebob on one of their several giant flatscreens. One of the other flatscreens was tuned in to a sports channel and I saw the Cincinnati Bengals. I could not give less of a fuck about sports or the Bengals but seeing a small bit of my hometown in a place so far away made me feel comfortable and oddly proud. I walked back to my suite, forced myself to at least take off my makeup before collapsing in bed, and gaped at my phone when it notified me that I had taken 22,000 steps and walked 9 miles. Falling into a blissful, exhausted dream state, I don’t think it hit me yet all that I accomplished that day, yet at the same time I was bursting to tell everyone about it.
On my last full day in Salem, I spent the morning at a cafe then walked around historic neighborhoods with a silly little coffee, in awe of the fact that people got to live here and walk by these buildings every day. I made conversation with a local woman walking her dog; she recommended a great cafe to me that was already on my list but now received top priority since learning it’s local-approved. The main event of the day was the Peabody Essex Museum to see their exhibit on the witch trials. I also learned a lot about the general history of Salem, including lots of local Indigenous history, and saw a cool exhibit about the birth and evolution of Spiritualism from the Victorian era to today. My body was punishing me for the day before, however. My feet were so sore that I had to sit down periodically. It was all incredibly worth it, though. Oh, to be so lucky as to have sore feet from exploring too much.
After the museum, I went to Gulu-Gulu Cafe and had the tastiest bowl of goulash. Sitting at the bar once again, I had a perfect view of this wall full of cute, cartoonish dog paintings. I think the cafe was themed after the owners’ dog or something. It was a popular spot among tourists and locals alike and I almost didn’t try it because I was running out of time. If I hadn’t talked to that woman earlier while walking, I might have never stepped foot inside. I didn’t want to leave, and not just because it was a vacation but because I felt like I had been renewed. Who was this girl who walked everywhere, didn’t spend all hours of the day sleeping or scrolling, felt minimal anxiety about public places, and explored every nook and cranny of a place without a second thought? I feared this girl would return to her locked tower as I re-entered my city limits.
When I returned from Salem, two things were on my mind.
Comparing this trip to the last time I traveled with friends, I wondered if my ease this time around was because my anxiety had gotten better or because I was alone. What does that mean for me? I’ve realized that I really do love spending time alone. I’ve always known that but I think I was afraid of how true it was. Sometimes I want to be alone because I’m anxious and am more comfortable by myself, and other times I want to be alone because I truly enjoy my own company. I think that bothered me for so long because I was hearing the voices of ex-friends who didn’t understand, who would take it personally when I spent time alone instead of with them. But I’ll say it with my full chest: I fucking love being alone and traveling alone is one of the best things I’ve ever experienced. Some people really just travel better that way, and maybe I’m one of them. That being said, I don’t want to use that as an excuse to hold myself back from traveling with friends again. Like I said in a previous post, what are the wonders of the world there for if not to see them with the ones you love?
Unfortunately, I have now caught the travel bug and realized that if I want to do this more often, I need to start taking my career seriously so that I have money to do it. Not only that but at 28, I feel like I need to make up for lost time. I spent so much of my twenties afraid to leave my little bubble, content to dream and say one day. Why had I denied myself of this experience for so long? I want so much more for myself than the track I’m currently on can realistically provide. I need to make some serious changes so that I don’t spend another decade asking myself why I’m content with not wanting more.
mary’s list of solo travel tips and observations
you’ll be seated at the bar more often than not, just go with it
a portable phone charger is a wise purchase
Maps are your best friend
you’ll severely underestimate how much there is to do and overestimate how much time you’ll have to do it
only ask other tourists to take your photo; you’ll be able to spot them because they will also be taking photos; offer to take their photo first and they’ll usually return the favor
Thanks for reading! I’ve been anxious lately about not having anything “profound” to write about, but sometimes I like to make silly little posts updating you guys on my silly little life. This is one of them. Do you have any travel plans or have traveled recently? Do you like to travel alone or with friends/family? Top places you want to see?
In the meantime…
If you liked this post, please consider leaving a like, sharing, and subscribing to my newsletter for free.
To see all the photos from my trip (and what I get up to when I’m not writing) you can follow me on Instagram at mjewrites.
Loved this! Thank you for sharing! 💛
omg don’t feel embarrassed about not know you need to scan your ticket at North Station, I’ve lived here for 5 years and didn’t realize that until the other day. I wandered around for like 6 minutes before figuring that out