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Ringing loudly in my 100 square foot hotel room ten stories above the streets of Hong Kong, my alarm jolts me awake. It’s 4am and still pitch black out. I sit up and glare at myself in the mirror with a look somewhere between inquisitiveness and interrogation. I put on my meanest face. “You’re not really going to go through with this, are you?” I stare back at myself defiantly. “Hell yes I am.” I slip on my clothes, throw my hair up in a ponytail, pack up my tripod and camera, and head out the door. If I hesitate for even a second, I’ll back down, but the time to think is over. I know this is something I have to do. The streets are surprisingly empty, even for an early morning. I wait for a taxi, fear seeping in with every passing minute I stand alone on the dark street corner. “You’re going to die here.” Great, my anxiety’s awake. With some effort, I ignore it. Finally, a small man in an old taxi pulls up and looks at me questioningly. “Can you take me to Victoria Peak?” A puzzled look flashes across his face-- he clearly has no idea what I’m saying--he doesn’t speak English. I repeat my destination slower, and eventually, he nods. I get in the taxi, and we begin winding through the still sleeping city until we turn onto a steep street and begin our ascent. I realize in a panic that I don’t even know what the entrance looks like. I quietly curse myself for not doing more research, but it’s too late for regrets. Suddenly, the taxi driver stops, indicating that this is as far as he can go. We’re in an abandoned residential neighborhood. I pay the man and watch him descend into darkness. There isn’t a soul around. My ever-loyal anxiety whispers again, “Oh okay, so this is where you die.” I grumble at myself to please shut up. I hear the sound of tires on pavement and see a road biker making his way up the hill. We meet eyes and I ask, “Hi, do you know where Victoria Peak is?” He pauses for a moment, gaping at me with a mixture of bewilderment and pity, as if watching a car hit an unsuspecting deer. “I think it’s up this hill, but it might not even be open yet.” He adds apprehensively, “Is anyone else with you?” I respond politely, “No, just me. Thanks.” He pauses as if to warn me of the dangers ahead, but instead mutters a quick “Good luck,” mounts his bike and rides into the distance. I begin my climb on foot. After what feels like an eternity, I see a sign reading “Victoria Peak Lookout.” This is it. I walk through the large concrete entranceway and all my breath seems to escape at once. The Hong Kong cityscape spans vastly in all directions below, bathing in the warm morning sunlight, which casts its pinkish-golden hue on all the buildings, trees, and ocean below. Hong Kong’s population is well over 7 million people. Up here, however, I feel a moment of quiet solitude. I look around and realize I’m surrounded by a few tourists. I ask a mother to take my photo in front of the city. “Just you, alone?” Her eyes hint confusion. “Yeah, just me, alone.” I smile but offer no further details. As I stand beaming at the camera, I realize that my future is unknown. For the next two months, I’ll be traveling to countries where I don’t know anyone and don’t speak the local language. A scary prospect for anyone, especially someone suffering from anxiety. Up on this hill, however, I feel something quite divorced from anxiety: something warm and comforting, like an old friend. I feel triumph. Today’s small victory feels special, precisely because I don’t have to share it with anyone. It’s mine, alone. In a flash, I realize that this is what’s so great about solo travel: on this trip, everything I do is for me. And as it turns out, I’m all I need.