"Where is your husband?" and other questions that ruin your poolside peace

Travelling solo in a world that still assumes everyone needs a twin share

I’ve recently returned from another solo holiday, because I need to have holidays like my coupled friends and I’m not waiting around until I stumble across or swipe on a partner.  

I ventured down to reception for some matter when I was drawn into polite small talk after correcting the “Mrs” assumption. The small talk drifted into a seemingly innocuous question that revealed way too much and led to an afternoon of overthinking. 

“Where is your husband?”

At that moment, I didn’t know exactly what to say, paralysed by what indeed the best answer would be, and wanting to minimise the disappointment, both to the person who asked me and to myself.

I heard myself say, 

“I don’t know.”

 Which, technically, is true.

Because, philosophically, I haven’t met him yet. And practically, I barely speak to my ex-husband, and wouldn’t have a clue where he was.

Later with overthinking applied I realised that this response may have left way more questions than the question intended.

Did I come across as having a memory problem?

Did it look like we had argued and he’d left?

Did it look like he had been murdered and they hadn’t found the body yet?

In an attempt to fit in with the norm, I became the outlier. The weird guest nobody could work out. The person who takes two deck chairs and sits on one. Who orders two cocktails at happy hour and double parks them. Who takes their book to dinner rather than someone to take photos of them. 

What should I have said?

Of course I should have said, 

“I don’t have one of those, I’m single”. 

However, I know if I had done that, my afternoon by the pool would have been spent spiralling, recognising his facial expression as conveying a mixture of pity and concern about what was indeed wrong with me, and trying to positive self-talk my way out of my response.  

Focusing on my book, ignoring all the couples in the pool and trying to appreciate the solitude. 

Failing desperately until happy hour rolled around again, or it would be dark enough to head to bed. 

Because here’s the thing — the world is still built for pairs.  Two towels. Two glasses. Two keycards. Even the hotel slippers arrive in twos, just to remind you that you’re the odd one out.

You can be competent, solvent, and serenely self-contained, but there’s still that quiet societal glitch — as if a woman alone must be the result of a malfunction.

I’d like to put a spin on it, but I’ll leave that for others who take to social media when travelling solo, posting photos every 10 minutes and waiting for likes and comments because they are craving connection too.  

Just like this solo traveller.