was driving through Massachusetts when I decided to visit Emily Dickinson's house in Amherst. I couldn't afford some $10 entrance fee, but at least I'd get to see the place. When I got there, the building was obscured by scaffolding and all the tours were sold out. I bought a postcard and used the bathroom. The soul selects her own society.
Afterward I returned to my parking space across the street and, singing loudly to whatever CD was playing, drove right over a curb. Well, not a curb. You know those slabs of gray concrete placed at the head of parking spaces? Okay, I drove over one of those. It happened so quickly - the slab of concrete was slanted on one side, almost as though it had a ramp - and then I landed on the other side. Couldn't go forward, couldn't go back. Stuck, like a beached whale.
I walked into the nearby bike shop and told them what I did. The clerk, a cute kid with round glasses and curly hair, laughed.
"I know," I said. "It's stupid."
"No that's not it. You're the third person who's done that this month."
That made me feel a little better. He came out and tried to help. And then another guy came out and tried to help. And soon enough it was me and a bunch of bike enthusiasts, taking turns scooting underneath my car and measuring the situation from different angles. Eventually, I called a towing truck, which lifted me back up and over the thing while I sat inside the car, like it was a children's ride, and the clerk rode his bicycle around the parking lot popping wheelies.
I don't think this story would have gone any differently had I been male. Maybe I wouldn't have yelled the phrase "My hero! Whoo-hoo! Go on, Daddy" as the tow truck lifted the car and put me back in place. Maybe I wouldn't have wondered just how old the bike clerk was. But I just felt so female in that moment. Or maybe this: I really needed men.

It was the first time on this trip that had happened. Sure, I love men as much as the next guy, but I hadn't needed them. More often, I've tried to stay clear of them - in big cities, in bars or clubs, where it's so easy to make stupid mistakes in very little time. I've had to learn a few hard lessons that way.
Recently, I received an email from a woman with the sentence, "Write about what it's like to travel as a single woman." Hmm. I thought I did. But I hadn't told the story above. And I hadn't told the story about the time I took a ride from a guy in Portland, Maine, and we wound up lost, and I was on the phone with a friend trying to find our way back and my friend was saying "Get out of that car now!" and I was saying "So why don't I just stay on the phone with you until I get to your place?" and the guy driving was saying, "What am I, a fucking criminal? Don't treat me like a goddamned rapist!"
When I tell people I'm traveling alone, they often fixate on the camping. "You camp alone? Oh my God, that's so scary!" What they don't realize is that camping is so safe. Camp sites are full of families and retired couples. Sure there's always the chance someone will wander by and slit my throat, but statistically, I'd have to be extraordinary unlucky. On the other hand, big cities are full of nasty trapdoors, and unfortunately, sometimes the best way for a woman alone to be safe in the city is not to really be in the city at all. Last night, I spoke with a friend of mine working in Baltimore for a few weeks. She's a beautiful woman, not at all bitchy, with a boyfriend in New York whom she misses. She was putzing around her hotel, bored and wanting to maybe, I don't know, go hear some jazz at a club. But you know what? She can't. Well, she could but she doesn't feel comfortable and I don't blame her. It sucks, it sucks, it sucks. It's the great dilemma of life, brought into relief: Enjoy the company of the world and expose yourself to pain, or stay at home and be safe. Emily Dickinson knew all about that.

One nice thing I have found is that when you are a woman traveling alone, people look out for you. I know the bike clerk was popping wheelies in the parking lot to make sure I was okay. I like to think it was to impress me too, although I haven't been impressed by wheelies since, umm, seventh grade. I have a thousand stories of how great it is to travel alone, how strangers will come to your aid, how strangers can become friends, how all these things and places open up to you. But it wouldn't be a trip without the tough parts. These were some of them.

written in New York, New York