Travelling Solo, Dreaming Big: Darshila’s Solo Trip to the USA
"Sometimes, dreams don’t expire, they just take the long route home."
When I was 17, I sat in a small living room corner, clutching my father’s old camcorder and dreaming of the neon-lit streets of New York. I wanted to study filmmaking—that was my New York. But life, as it often does, took a turn I wasn’t ready for.
College became less about cinema and more about “what pays the bills.” The closest I came to New York City was through movie montages—Breakfast at Tiffany's, When Harry Met Sally, The Devil Wears Prada, Gossip Girls or Jay-Z’s Empire State of Mind. I had promised myself though: Someday.
Fast forward to now: 23, independent, with a first paycheck that didn’t just buy coffee and bills but a ticket to my dream. It wasn’t easy convincing everyone why I wanted to go to the USA, solo, of all things. My mother made a list of "just-in-case" calls to the Thrillophilia’s POC Manjiri.
Friends said, “Won’t it get lonely?”
But in my heart, I knew where I belonged—even if it was just for a few weeks. And so, with a packed suitcase, a little nervousness, and my Thrillophilia itinerary in hand, I boarded my first international flight.
"Where You Belong—Even If You’ve Never Been There"
New York greeted me not like a stranger, but like an old friend I hadn’t seen in years. The city buzzed—screeched, even. Yellow cabs sped past me, hot dog vendors screamed, and above it all loomed the skyscrapers I’d imagined in my teenage years. Standing near Times Square that night, bathed in so much light you couldn’t tell if it was still evening, I realized something: I was finally here.
You know, there’s a feeling of belonging to a place you’ve never been to like you should’ve been born there because you’d fit right in. Well, that’s New York for me.
Central Park was my morning muse. Watching locals jog past me with their golden retrievers, I felt like a quiet observer of their stories. I bought a coffee from a cart (they call it “regular” if it’s with milk and sugar; I learned the hard way) and found a bench where a saxophonist played Frank Sinatra’s New York, New York.
A woman feeding pigeons next to me turned and smiled, “You know, I’ve been doing this for 20 years. The birds don’t even fly away anymore.”
I don’t know why, but that moment—just a stranger telling me about pigeons—felt more like New York than the Empire State Building I visited the next day.
Sure, the view from the top was surreal, the lights spreading across the city like a million golden wishes, but it was the tiny human exchanges that got me. Like the time I asked for directions in a crowded subway station and an old man said, “Oh honey, you’re already lost. Might as well go where the train takes you.”
My days were filled with eating pepperoni pizzas, dollar pretzels bigger than my face, and hearty meals of clam chowder at small diners where waitresses called me “sweetie” without ever knowing my name. I also walked a lot—my feet carried me through cobbled streets in Brooklyn where street artists painted entire walls, and through Chinatown where shopkeepers smiled kindly even when I tried to haggle for a keychain.
In Washington, D.C., I visited museums that held history in their silence, towering monuments that whispered stories of leaders gone by. I strolled through the National Mall as cherry blossom petals floated like confetti, painting the ground pink and soft, and for a moment, I forgot the time.
Then came Chicago, a city where the skyline seemed to dance with Lake Michigan’s waves. I stumbled upon a tiny jazz club where the air smelled of whiskey and music. A saxophonist—this time playing Miles Davis—made my heart ache in the best way.
I sipped a drink I couldn’t pronounce, listened to the music, and realized how comforting it was to be a stranger in a room full of strangers. Maybe solo travel wasn’t lonely at all. Maybe it was about the company, just in a different form.
The Little Things That Make a Big Trip
Traveling solo does something magical to you. It’s not the grand things—the Statue of Liberty or The Bean in Chicago—that linger in your memory. It’s the little ones. The hot dog I ate near Central Park where ketchup dripped down my chin, the homeless man who painted vibrant street art on torn cardboard, or the cab driver who asked where I was from and proudly said, “You know, my cousin’s in India too—Bangalore!”
One evening in D.C., I sat on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, looking out at the reflecting pool bathed in twilight. Beside me, a group of kids giggled as they rolled down the steps. A mother, exasperated and smiling, called after them. I sat there alone, yet somehow not. Because travel teaches you that you’re never really alone.
The USA—big, loud, busy, and breathtaking—became a series of these moments for me. It wasn’t just about “seeing places” but about being part of them.
A Note for the Dreamers
If you’ve ever put your dreams on hold—don’t worry, they’ll wait for you. Mine waited for six years until I finally walked into New York, camera slung around my neck and eyes full of wonder.
To anyone hesitant about solo travel, here’s my advice: do it. Go to that jazz club alone, eat at a restaurant alone, and ride the subway even if you get lost. Because solo doesn’t mean lonely—it means freedom.
Oh, and before I forget: If you’re headed to New York, grab a bagel with schmear from that little shop near Central Park, and don’t miss Chicago’s deep-dish pizza (trust me, you’ll need to sit after). Washington, D.C.? Walk through the museums at your own pace and let history wrap you in its quiet embrace.
This trip was more than a vacation; it was me meeting myself in cities I’d only dreamed of. And as my flight took off from JFK Airport that final evening, I looked out the window at the glittering skyline and thought: This is where my story started. But it’s far from over.
Thank you, Thrillophilia, for helping me turn my someday into today.
Read more: Thrillophilia USA Reviews