At 45, I’m the solo traveller I once admired—but it's not all I expected.

In this swanky, quiet Ottawa hotel restaurant, it doesn’t seem to matter that I’ve ordered three courses of food. It’s irrelevant that I picked my way through a bloated wine list, unassisted, and paired each course perfectly. I’m here to have a good night but right now I’m feeling like I might as well be at home.

I’m nearly 45 years old, and the world talks to me rather than with me—when it bothers to engage at all. This is what it’s like to be a forty-something woman dining alone, travelling alone.

Indifferent service, of course, exists everywhere and standards for what qualifies as good service are subjective. And, of course, anyone can have a bad day. Who hasn’t gone without a water refill or been ignored by the staff? As such, the first few times a waitress, hotel clerk, or tour guide looked through me instead of at me, I easily brushed it off as bad service and a stressful industry.

But before long, a pattern emerged. It was one which I never experienced in my twenties or thirties. This restaurant was hardly the first establishment to make me feel taken for granted. I saw the same treatment at tiny cafes, on free tours, and in a wide range of tourist attractions. Something felt different after I turned forty and the first streaks of grey hair appeared. This kind of casual ageism is obviously a small problem compared to the many kinds of hurts and hates which exist, but it's still a bitter pill to swallow.

When I was 21 years old, I backpacked solo around Europe and I often wished I was invisible. I didn’t want to attract any attention when my train pulled into the tiny station in Menton, France, and I faced a dark, late-night walk to my hilltop hostel. I wished no one would glance twice when I hauled my bags through Amsterdam’s bustling weekend streets, worrying about leers and jeers from bachelor parties headed to the Red Light District. After a long day of hiking in the rain in Ireland, I almost convinced myself that my imaginary fiancé was real as I had told so many stories about him to reinforce the message that I was neither available nor defenceless. Then, I would have done anything to be a middle-aged woman with enough disposable income to afford a taxi, an elegant suitcase, and a hot meal in a quiet bistro. I glimpsed these women as I strolled through the nicer parts of town, eager for the day when I’d enjoy the perks and privilege that a bit of income and experience affords a person.

Now I’m her, a version of the women I once admired. I am confident, independent, and resourceful. I can ask for coffee in seven languages. I love birds, dogs, stumbling upon secret gardens and cozy shops, and wandering along tiny streets.

Yet, when I travel, it often doesn’t feel so good.

People treat me like I’m a ghost, an idiot, an escapee from the local senior citizen’s centre. Checking into a hotel in Montana, the tap feature on the credit card machine doesn’t work. The clerk, young enough to be my child, talks to me as if I’m old enough to be his great-grandmother, patiently explaining how computers work. In the end, I’m the one who helpfully points out that the machine’s low-power light is blinking. I don’t mention that I’ve been coding since before he was born.

I don’t just notice a difference with accommodations and restaurants. I get the feelinng that tour operators don’t seem to know what to make of me. I’m younger and older than their target demographics. I see them glancing around to determine I’m alone and I’m often asked where my kids or parents are. I’m neither a lithe backpacker flush with youth nor part of a fun, funky elderly couple. Travel often feels lonelier than ever. No one is ever rude. No one is ever mean. I’m never denied service. But I’m denied consideration. It sometimes feels like they’re not interested in me at all.

In many ways, travelling in my forties is more rewarding than ever. I know myself so much better than I did in my twenties. Back then, I was afraid to make mistakes, somehow terrified that I’d fall apart if I mispronounced a word, didn’t know where to go, or made a small faux-pas. Now I know better. Most of all, I don’t care.

That allows me to feel more deeply and engage on a powerful level. I have a much greater appreciation for what ignites my spirit. Twenty-something Vanessa would never have had the confidence to compliment a stranger but forty-something Vanessa is not only admiring their handbag but asking how I can find one of my own. I’m overjoyed with my own company and my own choices, happy to break unwritten travel rules (yep, I have indulged in American fast food while in Paris), pair things that don’t seem to go together (I’ve done a rugged hike in the morning followed by a chic fashion museum in the afternoon), and even opt out of tourism altogether in favour of just sitting and reading (who needs a New York City food tour when you have Grand Central Station and a good murder mystery?)

I’m glad I’m seeing the world in a way that makes sense to me but something is still missing. It hurts more deeply than I could have imagined to have that sinking sensation that someone is just going through the motions of conversing with me, a feeling I never had at 21 or 29 or 36. Isn’t it ironic that by the time I’m at an age where I’m finally confident to connect and converse, the conversation feels rather one-sided? It’s a weird little reminder that society still isn’t exactly sure what to do with a woman who is too old to be an ingénue and too young to be an elderly eccentric. I’m reminded of the Goldie Hawn-delivered line in First Wives Club. “There are only three ages for women: Babe, District Attorney, and Driving Miss Daisy.” Is that me? Am I now the district attorney?

District attorney or not, I’ve decided to assert myself a little more and find my place. I’ve found an unexpected source of enjoyment by joining niche tours. Where I often feel overlooked during general tours of any given city, I find that participants in a walking tour dedicated to the French Resistance in Paris don’t care how old you are, nor does the team leading the beach clean-up in Oahu. Likewise, I’ve learned that cooking classes in Bangkok, museum hopping in Labrador, and camping in Botswana isn’t everyone’s cup of tea. However, those who like it like it, like it a lot.

These adventures are some of the best I’ve had and wouldn’t even have been on my radar ten or twenty years ago. These days though, I’ve discovered communities that are eager to embrace anyone who shares their interests. It’s been a rewarding way to connect with travellers of all ages and backgrounds and feel like they see me as much as I see them. They have their own stories to share about societal indifference and it’s here that I often find deep, meaningful connections.

I’ve often wished I had travel hindsight. If only forty-something me could go back in time and tell my twenty-something self that I should have packed blister pads instead of high heels! But lately I find myself wondering what my twenty-something self would say to me today…

Would she tell me I’m foolish to worry about such trivial things like being overlooked in a restaurant? If she saw me travelling alone and eating at that Ottawa restaurant, would she tell me to order a second dessert or to march right out and find some pizza instead? Would she laugh with glee at her good fortune or would she feel small, unwelcomed, uncomfortable? I often find myself doing things that I know would have delighted my younger self (hello, Broadway shows and jazz bars!) but I have a sneaking suspicion that twenty-something gal would be encouraging me to do things for who I am now, to live in the present.

What the current and past versions of myself seem to have in common is that we have no idea what the future holds. Presumably, my relationship with travel and age will continue to evolve with each decade and I realize that this is what I want. You don’t travel just to discover new places. You travel to discover yourself and that’s an experience I want for myself at every age.