How I Traveled Solo to a Music Festival in Croatia

And why everyone should try going to a festival solo once.

I stood still on a stool, holding my wooden pipe as a French man named Marcus drew my portrait. 

“This is new for me,” I told him. “Usually when I pose, I’m not wearing clothes.” 

He nodded, not skipping a beat as he continued to draw. “You can take off your clothes if you wish.” 

Although I enjoyed being a nude art model when I was in New York, I was happy to stay clothed this time. I was at an experimental art house party in Paris. My friend Pauline had invited me, with just the brief explanation that it would be a little weird, with people splayed out naked or covered in paint, and some music. Without asking more questions, I told her I’d be there. 

Pauline and I had met at La Boule D’or, where I completed my writing residency for two weeks. She was an artist in residence the previous summer- she played piano and was a wonderful singer. She had been visiting for a weekend while I was there. But now my residency was done, and my book proposal was finished!

When I told my grandmother it was ready for me to send to my book agent, she grabbed my arm and started taking me to the post office so I could mail it. I smiled and stopped her, reminding her I could just e-mail it. Although mailing it from France would be a lot cooler and more dramatic. Now that the residency was over, I was back in Paris to figure out where I’d go next.

On Sunday, I attended the party and brought along my friend Oriane who also lived in Paris. When we entered the loft, there was already a large circle of people gathered. In the center stood a man with gauze covering his entire head and long needles poking out of it. His body was painted white and he was wearing a trash bag as a skirt. He flailed his arms and moaned as a woman in a velvet burgundy blazer fed him wine from a chalice. Below them at their feet, splayed on the floor, were people lying limp with their eyes closed. Some were naked, some had red paint over them. None moved.

Sporadically, different performers walked into the circle and started reading poetry. “Europe is not based in politics,” one man declared in French. “It is based in art.” Downstairs, on the bottom floor of the loft, a man shouted at the audience while clutching a blow-up doll. Later on in the night, a man dressed in ten inch heels and giant wings pushed around a shopping cart.

It was technically my first house party I was invited to in Paris, and I was thrilled to be there. After the performances, I stood outside with Oriane, still processing what we had just witnessed. We met Pauline’s friends and spoke to other guests at the party. When they asked what my plans were now that my residency was done, I told them I would be going to Croatia in two days for a music festival, called Gates of Agartha.

This was, in fact, not the first time I’d go to a festival alone. When I was living in LA a few years ago, I was determined to see Tame Impala play at Desert Daze. It was in Lake Perris, hours from LA, but I didn’t drive or know anyone who wanted to go. So, I joined some strangers through a ride share group I found on Facebook and made it there, with no idea how I’d get home. Two minutes into Tame Impala’s set, there was a giant thunderstorm with dangerous lightning and they yelled at everyone to run for cover. It was absolute chaos and I never even saw them play more than a single song, but met such amazing people and had the best time. It was a good reminder that I’ve gone to a festival before alone and it turned out great. It’s just about going in with a good attitude. 

While I didn’t know anyone going to the festival in Croatia, my friend Abby told me about it a few days earlier and thought I’d love it. I met Abby at an ecstatic dance in New York this past January. She had moved from California and just from dancing together all night we hit it off instantly. The magic of dance! 

She had also gone to La Boule D’or in France last summer— She was the one who told me about the artist residency in the first place. At this point, her recommendations had been spot on, so I was willing to give it a shot. I decided to go for it because when else would I have the chance to dance in a roman quarry?! Apparently the stones in the quarry were used to construct the Pula arena, which is the only remaining Roman amphitheater in the world to have four side towers still entirely preserved. Also, it was only two hours away from Paris, so a few days before the festival, I got a ticket. 

I wandered through the house party mingling with the guests. I was really enjoying speaking French, which had considerably improved after being there for three weeks. One of the musicians there asked to see my portrait, which was rolled up in my hand. I carefully opened it up for him.

“Very beautiful,” he said. “But why do you not smile? That is your defining feature.” I explained that in all serious portraits, they are never smiling. But I appreciated the sentiment.

I spoke with a tall Italian man who had startlingly green eyes and wore beautiful silver rings on all his fingers that he made himself. I told him I wanted one and he said he would come visit me in New York with a ring. Even with the language barrier, he insisted he only liked Leonard Cohen and Charles Bukowski and nothing else and I knew we didn’t have much of a future. Still, when I left the party he kissed me and told me he would come find me with a ring one day. 

On Tuesday, I left for Zagreb. I arrived late at night and took a taxi to where I was staying. I was told to get dropped off at the Stone Gate because the b&b was not accessible by car. “The stone gate is very scary. And holy,” the driver told me. I asked him what made it holy and he shrugged. “I don’t know. Nothing I believe in. It’s very old.” I nodded. Being old can be holy in itself.

The next morning, I got a quick breakfast before catching my bus to Pula. As I sat at the cafe, Billy Joel’s Vienna was playing. That was the thing that always struck me when traveling. I could be so far away from home, but then hear a song by Billy Joel. It was an odd feeling, hearing something so deeply familiar in such a foreign place. There’s probably a German word for that. 

A few hours later I arrived in Pula, and got to my hostel, as I thought that would be the best way to meet people. When I arrived, I met a group of friends from Australia, New Zealand and Ireland all traveling together. They had no idea there was a festival going on this weekend and started brainstorming ways to sneak in. I joined them at the beach and then later that night met my roommate, an Australian man from Sydney who was here for the festival. He was traveling for the next few months, and looking for a new direction in his life. I understood. Traveling was always a good way to rethink what you wanted. 

Over the next few days, I met so many incredible people who had traveled from all over the world to be at this festival, most of them solo. There was Seyma, a Turkish flight attendant, and her friend Ramina from Germany. They had met while solo traveling years earlier in Colombia and now stayed close friends.

There was Ali from Atlanta who went to festivals solo all over the world. He had rented a car and drove us around to nearby beaches to explore. There was Savannah, originally from Hawaii, who came solo from Barcelona. There was also Patrick, who came from Germany. He was riding his Harley throughout Europe for several weeks, and this was one of his stops along the way. 

The day before the festival, I learned a very important piece of information. I thought it was a normal festival that started at maybe 2 or 3 pm, but instead it went from 10pm to 10am. And so, I danced non stop until sunrise and then swam in the clear turquoise waters during the day. It was a very magical time even though I was delirious from not sleeping for two days straight.

One night, while I was dancing, a man from London approached me. “You know what was the first thing I noticed about you?” he asked me. I shook my head. “Your eyes,” he said. “They are so beautiful and full of life.”

When strangers spoke to me unsolicited about my eyes, it was always a toss up. They would either tell me how much they loved my eyes, or ask me what was wrong with them and why they were so red. I was always trying to figure out which one it was, but maybe it could be both. They could still be beautiful, scars and all.

I probably danced about 30k steps every night until I didn’t think I could stand any longer by the end of it. But it only made me feel even more immensely grateful for my feet for carrying me through.

In fact, I was grateful for all of it. The weekend was a combination of everything I love: dancing, swimming, meeting new people. It was a reminder that every day can be a joyous celebration of being alive. Every breath is a tiny joy! I even had a little romance with the German motorcyclist, even though the directness of Germans still astounds me.

We’d be out at dinner and he’d ask exactly how much money I make each month. When I told him most people don’t speak like that, he just shrugged. “People like when I am direct.” 

At some point while I was dancing, I had a bit of a revelation. I’ve written before about how I can often feel afraid to make the wrong decision and get paralyzed with doubt. But at some point, I just realized that there is never going to be a “right” decision for me. Whatever decision I make, if I just go into it with the right attitude, it will always turn out okay. It’s proven true in the past, but I guess I never recognized how much control I have to make any decision work for me. It felt very freeing to finally realize this. 

I also thought about how despite all the pain my eye condition has caused me, I am ultimately grateful for it. Because maybe if it all hadn’t happened to me, I wouldn’t be as excited every day to enjoy life as fully as possible. And what a gift that is, to feel as if a day should never be wasted.

On Sunday, the festival ended and we left the grounds around 10am. But there was still more dancing to be had. Apparently, Dua Lipa was playing in Pula that night. Even though we were all beyond exhausted, we decided to try and go. It turned out it wouldn’t be so easy, since all of Pula was going to this concert. The show has sold out apparently in minutes once they were released. An hour before the concert, Seyma, Ramina and I walked through the crowd lining up to go in, asking if anyone was selling three tickets. Everyone stared in silence. We went to the box office and the attendant explained how there was no chance we could go. And then, twenty minutes before, it turned out someone was selling three tickets. The last ones available. The attendant was in shock and kept repeating how lucky we were. We made it into the Pula arena, the very colosseum that was created from the stones in the quarry we were dancing in all weekend.

It had all come full circle. I looked around at the stunning colosseum, in awe of the history of this beautiful place. Happy to be a part of it, if only for a little dance. 

Love, 

Julia