THE PRICE OF THE PARTY OF ONE

Living in Paris had been a dream of mine for as long as I can remember. Not visiting - living. And then, I finally did it. For two glorious months, I had an apartment on Rue Montorgueil in the 2nd arrondissement, a routine, a life. I shopped at the marchés, spent afternoons lost in galleries like the fifth floor of the Musée d'Orsay, where the Monets and Matisses feel almost unbearably beautiful, and immersed myself in French fashion exhibits at the Louvre, the Dolce & Gabbana "From the Heart to the Hands" exhibit at the Petit Palais, and the exquisite Galerie Dior. I walked along the Seine, admired the Haussmann facades, and giggled with joy every single time I saw the Eiffel Tower sparkle at night. I sat at terrasse after terrasse for apéros watching the city do what Paris does better than anywhere on earth — make ordinary life feel like an art form.

At Galerie Dior

I had also planned to fully surrender to the food. The bistros, the prix-fixe dinners, the pastries, the whole unhurried ritual of a proper French meal. I had packed my luggage with chic outfits and matching heels specifically for dining out. I had a vision: beautiful rooms, beautiful tables, dressed up in with nowhere more important to be, surrounded by true Parisians I would choose somewhere extraordinary, take my time with the menu, order the wine. I had earned this. I had dreamed of this for years.

And yet Paris — Paris — nearly broke me.

Not the grey skies. Not the famously indifferent waiters. No, it was the simple, staggering impossibility of booking a dinner reservation for one on a Saturday night. Table for one? Non. Minimum: two. Every time. The café on the corner - ok sure, I could grab a table, order a croque-monsieur, watch the street. But the places I wanted, the rooms I had bookmarked for months, the restaurants that warranted actually getting dressed? Impossible. I tried online platforms, called ahead. Always the same gentle, devastating désolée, Madam. The candlelit evenings I had spent years imagining simply evaporated.

TRAVELING SOLO FACES OBSTACLES TO OBTAINING EQUAL SERVICES

The best I could manage was a bar seat at Le Relais Plaza at the Plaza Athénée. Same prices, same kitchen, a fraction of the magic. Despite arriving early to a room of open tables, I was relegated to the bar, alone. So while parties of two entered and were ushered to their tables in that legendary room, I perched awkwardly on a stool facing the wall of bottles, watching drinks being assembled for everyone else.

Spain had a different kind of cruelty. Tapas are meant to be shared. Little plates, communal, joyful. I don't enjoy wasting food, so a balanced meal was an impossible equation. Protein or vegetables. Pick one. I'd leave full but strangely cheated, having eaten like someone on a very specific and joyless diet.

When I was in Mozambique, I wanted to do a day tour to Eswatini, but no companies that would allow me to book one seat. I contacted the companies directly and eventually convinced one to include me in a tour that two people had already booked. I hoped the other participants wouldn't mind my addition (fortunately, they didn't!). In various other destinations, I've found many activities will not accept a minimum booking under two people- effectively making solo travelers excluded.

And don't get me started on grocery shopping while abroad. Since I can only carry so much alone, I must make multiple trips back and forth to the market for the things I couldn't physically lift the first time, because there's simply no one else to take the other bag.

TRAVELING SOLO INCURS A LEGITIMATE EXTRA FINANCIAL COST

That's when it started adding up. Not just the food. All of it.

The solo travel tax is real and relentless. Cruise lines and guided tours slap on a "single supplement", sometimes a staggering percentage of the base fare, simply for the crime of not having a plus-one. No one to split the cost of hotels or Ubers.

And now, the airlines have officially joined the racket. American Airlines, Delta, and United have added fare rules that in some cases require passengers to book at least two tickets to access the cheapest fares — meaning solo travelers can end up paying as much as 70% more for the same flight (reported by Travel and Leisure ). The assumption baked into the algorithm? A solo traveler is probably a business traveler, likely reimbursed by a corporate budget, and therefore less sensitive to price. Never mind that plenty of us are just individuals who prefer to travel alone, with no corporate spending account.

Beyond travel, CNBC has reported that the "singles tax" — maintaining a household solo — can run tens of thousands of dollars more per year in major cities once you factor in rent, utilities, and everything couples split down the middle without thinking twice.

Being single is expensive!

But here's what the spreadsheet doesn't capture.

I have eaten alone and struck up conversations that lasted hours. I have lingered over a solo lunch with a book and a glass of something cold and felt no obligation to be anywhere else. I have met more interesting people traveling solo than I ever have in a group, because solo travelers are approachable in ways that pairs and parties simply aren't. Even at Plaza Athénée. The world opens up differently when you arrive alone.

I have changed plans mid-trip on a whim — rerouted, extended, cancelled, started over — with no one to consult and no one to disappoint. There is a particular kind of freedom in that, and it is not nothing. There is also something quietly luxurious about being alone with your own thoughts. No one to entertain. No one to manage. Just you and wherever you are, fully present to it.

So yes — I have to try harder and I pay more. For the dinner I couldn't book, the supplement on the tour, the flight that costs more because I didn't bring a friend. I pay the tax of living on my own terms.

I say it is immensely unfair. But I'd also say it's worth it.

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