When I boarded my flight to Rome in September 2023, I thought I knew exactly what was waiting for me.

For months, I had been planning my first solo trip and my first experience as a digital nomad. Rome would be my home for three and a half weeks before I continued to Barcelona, Valencia, Lisbon and finally London, where I would celebrate my 30th birthday. My Pinterest boards were full of charming cafés, beautiful streets and women working on their laptops with a cappuccino beside them. That was the version of digital nomad life I had imagined for myself.

Reality had other plans.

The journey itself started well. It was my first time flying with Emirates, and I remember being excited about every little detail. After a six-hour layover in Dubai, I finally landed in Rome feeling exhausted but happy. I had made it. Months of planning had finally led to this moment.

That excitement lasted until I reached immigration.

The officer looked through my passport and asked why I planned to stay in Europe for ninety days. As a Mauritian citizen, I’m allowed to stay in the Schengen Area for up to ninety days without a visa, so I calmly explained my itinerary. Rome was only the beginning of my trip. I showed him my return flight, my accommodation booking and explained that I would be working remotely while travelling.

Nothing seemed to convince him.

He asked for proof that I had paid for my accommodation. I had the booking confirmation, but apparently that wasn’t enough. Normally I would have simply opened my email and shown him the payment receipt. The only problem was that the airport Wi-Fi refused to work, and I couldn’t access anything. WhatsApp wasn’t connecting, my emails wouldn’t load properly and I felt myself becoming more stressed with every passing minute.

Eventually, he asked me to follow him into another room.

I remember sitting there in complete silence while two officers discussed my case in Italian. I couldn’t understand a single word they were saying, which somehow made the whole situation even more intimidating. At the same time, my taxi driver kept messaging me to say he had already been waiting for over an hour and would eventually have to leave if I didn’t come soon.

That was the moment panic truly set in.

My accommodation wasn’t in the city centre, I didn’t have a SIM card, I had no mobile data and absolutely no idea how to reach the place on my own. If the taxi driver left, I genuinely didn’t know what I was going to do.

Thankfully, the owners of the co-living space quickly sent me an official confirmation letter after I explained what was happening. Nobody had mentioned that I would need such a document, but it ended up making all the difference. A supervisor reviewed everything, asked me a few questions about my trip and, within a few minutes, stamped my passport and welcomed me into Italy.

Relief washed over me almost instantly.

By the time I reached baggage claim, my backpack had already been removed from the conveyor belt and left on the floor with the other unclaimed luggage. I picked it up, apologised profusely to the taxi driver for keeping him waiting and climbed into the van, feeling emotionally drained before my trip had even begun.

The drive from the airport felt surprisingly long.

I kept looking out of the window, expecting the streets of Rome to appear at any moment. Instead, we continued driving further and further away from the airport. After around an hour and a half, we finally met one of the managers from the co-living space, who drove me the rest of the way.

When we eventually arrived, I remember looking around and feeling confused.

The house itself was lovely. It was surrounded by greenery, peaceful and quiet. If I had been looking for a countryside retreat, I probably would have loved it. The problem was that I wasn’t looking for a countryside retreat. I had booked what I believed was a co-living space close to Rome’s city centre.

Standing outside with my suitcase, one question kept repeating itself in my head.

What have I booked?

The manager showed me around the house before introducing me to the other guests. There was a girl from Australia and another traveller whose name and hometown I can no longer remember. They were both working when I arrived, so we exchanged a quick hello before I settled into my room.

My room was simple but comfortable enough. I had my own private space with a desk, while the bathroom and kitchen were shared with everyone else. After showering, the manager invited me downstairs for dinner and cooked a meal for all of us.

I remember sitting around that table telling myself not to judge the experience too quickly.

“It’s only the first day,” I kept thinking. “Give it a chance.”

Jet lag had completely caught up with me by then, so I headed upstairs early, hoping to get a full night’s sleep.

Sleep never came.

The others stayed downstairs talking, laughing and playing music long after I had explained that I desperately needed to rest. Nobody was intentionally being unkind, but in that moment, lying awake after travelling for almost an entire day, I couldn’t help feeling invisible. The house finally became quiet around 10 p.m., and I fell asleep almost immediately.

The following morning was when reality truly began to sink in.

I went downstairs planning to buy breakfast, groceries and a SIM card before starting work. During my calls with the owners before booking, they had reassured me several times that the co-living space was close to Rome and that everything would be easily accessible. 

The manager smiled and said, “You can’t walk into town. It’s too far. I’ll drive you.”

That wasn’t what I expected to hear.

He then explained that we couldn’t go anywhere that day because the car wasn’t available.

“What should I do about food?” I asked.

“I’ll cook lunch and dinner,” he replied.

I thanked him, although inside I felt something shift.

The independence I had been so excited about suddenly disappeared. I hadn’t travelled across the world to depend on someone else’s schedule just to know when I would eat. Looking back, that might sound like a small inconvenience, but at the time it made me realise how little control I actually had over my own situation.

As the day went on, I started noticing more things that hadn’t matched the description I had been given.

There were no community events. No organised activities. No group dinners exploring Rome together. No vibrant community of remote workers exchanging travel stories.

Four people were living in a house.

The manager even handed each of us a cleaning schedule showing which part of the house we were responsible for. Nobody had mentioned that before either.

I tried chatting with the Australian girl, but we simply didn’t click. She naturally gravitated towards the others, while I spent most of the day sitting alone in my room. There wasn’t anywhere I could walk to, there were no cafés nearby and I still couldn’t buy a SIM card without someone driving me into town.

Loneliness arrived much sooner than I expected.

I called my parents.

I cried.

I called one of my closest friends.

I cried again.

Every conversation ended with the same thought.

“I want to come home.”

One of my clients noticed something was wrong during a work call. After I explained everything, he quietly said something that stayed with me.

“You need to leave.”

Until then, I had kept trying to convince myself that maybe I was simply overreacting. Hearing someone else validate how unusual the situation was made me realise that my instincts had been right all along.

Fear slowly replaced disappointment.

I found myself thinking about the fact that I was living in an isolated house with people I barely knew, without a SIM card or any reliable way of leaving on my own. Those thoughts probably sound dramatic now, but they felt very real in the moment. I made an effort to stay polite and friendly with everyone, while privately wondering how I had ended up in a situation that felt so different from what had been advertised.

Then came another surprise.

The manager casually announced that everyone would be leaving for the weekend. He was visiting friends, the Australian girl already had plans and the other guest would also be away.

He looked at me and said I couldn’t stay there on my own because the house would be closed.

I was speechless.

I had paid to stay there.

Where exactly was I supposed to go? 

That afternoon, I spent hours searching online for somewhere to stay in Rome itself. Eventually, I found a bed at YellowSquare Rome. It wasn’t part of my original plan, although it quickly became my only plan.

The manager agreed to drive everyone into the city that Friday evening, so I told him I needed to be dropped at Trastevere Station because I was meeting a friend.

There was no friend.

Earlier that day, I had secretly contacted the taxi driver who had picked me up from the airport. I explained everything that had happened and asked if he could help me one more time. He gave me his personal phone number and told me to find Wi-Fi as soon as I reached Rome. Once I sent him my location, he would arrange a taxi to take me to the hostel.

Even that plan almost fell apart.

Halfway through the drive, the manager told me he wasn’t going anywhere near the station after all. Instead, he dropped me somewhere else in Rome at around eight o’clock in the evening.

I still didn’t have mobile data.

I still didn’t know the city.

I borrowed a hotspot from one of the others for a few minutes and pretended I was messaging my friend, when in reality I was sending my location to the taxi driver. Once the message went through, I quietly walked to another street so nobody would know where I was really going.

A few minutes later, the taxi arrived.

The driver spoke English, listened patiently while I explained everything that had happened and drove me safely to YellowSquare.

The moment I walked through the hostel doors, everything changed.

The reception staff welcomed me with genuine warmth. One of them asked how my day had been, and before I knew it, I was crying in front of complete strangers.

They didn’t make me feel embarrassed.

They didn’t rush me.

They simply listened.

Before handing me my room key, they even gave me a small welcome bag. It was such a simple gesture, yet after the previous forty-eight hours, it felt like someone had finally wrapped me in a warm hug.

Looking back now, I don’t think Rome failed me.

My expectations did.

The city hadn’t even had the chance to introduce itself yet. My first experience simply reminded me that travel rarely unfolds the way we imagine it will. Sometimes the adventure begins with tears, disappointment and a desperate search for a safe place to sleep.

Ironically, those difficult first two days became one of the most important lessons of my entire solo travel journey. Without them, I don’t think I would have appreciated everything that came next.