When this article recently appeared in the New York Times column Frugal Traveler, it quickly maneuvered its way through the hands of many fellow expats and wanderers, the basic gist being: yes, it's different being a lone female traveler than a male one, but despite what appears to be many setbacks, with a bit of experience, it's quite advantageous being a girl.

When I set out for Istanbul, I was by no means experienced. The only “backpacking” I'd done was six years earlier, when I set off on what was supposed to be a two-week long Eurail excursion from Rome to Amsterdam, via Vienna, Prague, Berlin and Brussels. For those who haven't heard me regale this tale of woe, I'll do so now.

I was doomed from the start. I hopped on a 12.99 euro Easyjet flight to Rome, only to realize, somewhere over eastern France, that I'd left my wallet in my dorm (somehow I managed to get to the airport and even more impressive, through Duty Free without noticing). In tears, I conveyed to the air hostess that I had no money and no way to get into the city. She kindly offered to pay for my bus ticket and at the airport I made a collect call to my parents to wire some money to a Western Union in Rome. The tattooed and pierced hostel receptionist looked even more ferocious when I informed him that I had a room booked but no credit card, but let me stay the night anyway. I made the most of the city with the money my parents had sent over until my wallet arrived three days later. When it did, I found the next train to Vienna, and went down the Roma Termini to catch it. As I curled into my window seat in a sleeper booth for the 14-hour journey, a lady with a snack cart came by. I reached into my bag to retrieve my wallet, but came up empty handed. I looked at her in despair but she shook her head and rolled away unsympathetically. Presumably it was pick-pocketed in the station. And I'd only had it for four hours. I cried myself to sleep in the empty compartment.

Hungry and red-eyed I rolled into Vienna and set off for the nearest payphone to beg of my parents another wire transfer, sheepishly explaining myself, and  found a hostel. I enjoyed Vienna and departed unscathed for Prague, where I'd booked into the Clown and Bard on a recommendation, in the dormitory-style room that harboured 40 or so budget-seeking travelers. In the hostel, I sat down and commiserated with a few kind souls over a beer, and later we set off for the bar, where I managed to drown my sorrows over a few more cheap cocktails, and stumble back to the dorm in the wee hours of the morning. When I awoke and reached for my bag where I'd carelessly left it on the floor by the bed, it was well and truly gone. My passport, camera, mobile phone, iPod, and much of my remaining cash gone with it.

I couldn't ask my parents to bail me out yet again - they'd already done enough. Nor could I confess to them my complete ineptitude. Mortified, I quietly packed up my things, caught a taxi to the airport and fled back to Newcastle with my tail between my legs. The saving grace of this story was that I carry both a US and UK passport, and miraculously (particularly under the circumstances) had thought to leave the British one, as well as a small amount of cash, in the hotel safe so I could actually escape the country.

I told my parents I'd carried on with the journey and made it to Amsterdam. I told my friends at uni I'd decided to return early to "study for my exams". I told Phil, my lovely boyfriend at the time, not to tell a single soul, and he made me laugh at myself through tears of shame.

Even through the disasters of that journey and my evident lack of travel-savvy, I recognized that my position as a female traveler was a benefit. In particular, a small one with big eyes and blonde hair. It's not that I needed to ask for help (though in some cases I did) it was that people reacted to my helplessness positively, where they might be less inclined to lend a hand to a large rugby playing male in the same situation. People offered to buy me drinks, to pay for my food and entry into local tourist attractions, even though I’m sure they were on a budget too. My mistakes made me recognize that people are innately kind. Including, I’m sure, those who steal wallets and handbags.

Six years later, numbed to my past embarrassments, I was ready to put on a backpack try again. I recall the feelings of trepidation as I set off on for the bus from Istanbul to Izmir. But I think it was karma, or my world realigning – through six months of travel I didn’t lose anything more than the occasional pen or friend’s contact details. I didn’t have anything stolen, never had to ask for a bit of spare cash or go hungry. Yes, I had grown up a bit and developed a sense of responsibility and awareness that was lacking during my late teens, but more importantly I found that I was interested in actually understanding the culture; not quite so keen to find the nearest bar in a given city and more intrigued by the opportunity to see how people lived, to interact with the society as a whole. And as a woman in the regions of the world where I was traveling, I was more at liberty to do so.

I look back now on my experience at Saleha’s brother’s wedding in Ahmedabad. I was exposed to some of the less affluent and more conservative Muslims who lived in the city. At the time I didn’t realize how privileged I was to have access to the women's quarters. I spent hours sitting and gesticulating with the women in the community, who would arrive at the house in their burkhas and once in the safety of the home reveal themselves, not just by taking off their black robes, but by opening up their hearts, talking and story-telling. 

But in addition to the women, I was also allowed to interact with the men. Saleha’s father brought me to his work in a small car repair shop to introduce me to his friends. They usually had more of a grasp of English than the women so it was a relief to be able to exchange a few words. During the wedding party I spoke and sat with many, and they were generally warm and interesting, though perhaps a little skeptical of the lone female traveler. To be honest, I wasn’t entirely surprised when one of them followed me upstairs and forcibly made a pass at me. I realized at that point it was in my best interest to disentangle myself from the whole event. I left Saleha’s the following day to sojourn with a high school acquaintance who was studying medicine at the local university.

This was not the only source of unwanted attention. In Tiberius, Israel while I was waiting for a friend to arrive at the hotel, the receptionist tried to ply me with wine and take me to his  "penthouse suite".  In Palolem, India, I stayed in a seedy hostel where the young man I met in the restaurant came banging on the flimsy wooden door of my beach hut at 2 in the morning, shouting at me to come out. Men stared, hissed, cat-called, whistled, from Istanbul to Aswan, and from Delhi to Chennai. While it was a little frightening, it never deterred me from staying in a truly budget hostel, or walking down a street alone. Much of the attention I attracted in these regions was out of pure curiosity and I admired those who had the gumption to come and speak to me. While I felt there was a camera phone in my face every time I turned a corner, it wasn't aggressive or perverse. Families and groups of intrepid youngsters would come to ask whether I would pose in a picture with them. Children would turn around to gape at the girl with yellow hair, and when I smiled at them they would scamper for their parents. I remember in particular a journey where I fell asleep on the top bunk of a second class sleeper train. I awoke in broad daylight several hours later to find a group of ten teenage cricket players gawking at me. Two on the opposite bunk, two below, three peering through the metal bars on the bunk adjacent to mine, and three nearby. I sat up, blinking as my eyes adjusted to the light, “Hermione Granger has woken up” they cheered, and refused to leave me alone for the remaining six hours of the journey.

Without trying to sound like a complete narcissist, it was hard not to enjoy the attention, to be admired, and to be taken care of. Women so enthusiastically offered their home-cooked food on bus journeys it was impossible to refuse, no matter what it might do to the digestive system. When I asked for directions, people would offer to escort me. Men would produce tea and biscuits if I walked into their shop in the bazaar. I was often invited into peoples homes, presented with gifts, or just simply smiled at. I learned to read people, to observe the surroundings and gauge whether it was safe. Just as the Frugal Traveler's article states, it was important to be aware of the situation and to rely on cues. But equally important, in my opinion, was following my gut instinct. If something didn't feel right, it usually wasn't, and I took that as indication that it was time to leave.

To be sure, there are probably plenty of women who might find that the way I traveled far out of their comfort zone. But like the contributors to the Frugal Traveler's article pointed out, I felt more safe in the Middle East and India than I did in much of Europe. Stealing really isn't part of their nature. And most of the time, men only treat women badly if they are deviating from the social norm in a way that might seem inappropriate to the local culture, for example, by dressing provocatively. When I first left town, my friend Darren told me I ought to dye my hair brown, so as to fit in more readily with the locals. I refused and as a result I got more attention. But It was something I was willing to put up with for the simple sake of vanity. And I didn't mind. Each of us have a different comfort threshold, different concerns about new and unfamiliar places, cultures, and people. It's about finding your limits and hopefully about pushing them.

That being said, I think I'm just about ready for another (frugal?) adventure.

Africa, anyone?*

*I'm serious.