Lauren Juliff wakes before her phone alarm. Not out of discipline, but because she has trained her internal clock to rise with daylight — and because the first thread of birdsong in Lisbon, the muffled call to prayer in Marrakech, or the gentle slap of waves against a Sri Lankan guesthouse pier is a stronger anchor than any notification. For her, the morning is sacred. She reaches for her travel journal before her phone, writing down a single line about how the light falls in her room. It is a ritual she has kept for over a decade, through long-term solo trips and short city breaks alike, and it sets the tone for everything that follows.
If you follow Lauren's blog or have read her memoir, you know that she champions slow, solo travel not as a glamorous escape but as a conscious practice of presence. A day in her life rarely looks like a packed itinerary. Instead, it is a series of deliberate choices — where to eat, how to move, when to rest — that together create a rhythm unique to the place she is in. Below is a portrait of a typical day from one of her recent journeys, built from her own reflections and my observations after years of following her work. It is a template that any solo traveler can adapt, especially those seeking a richer, less hurried experience.
The Morning Ritual: No Plans, Just Presence
Lauren’s first hour is deliberately unstructured. She makes a cup of tea — often a local blend she picked up at a market the day before — and sits by the window or on a small balcony if her accommodation has one. She does not scroll through social media or check emails. Instead, she reads a few pages of a novel set in the country she is visiting, or simply watches the street wake up. This is her way of anchoring herself before the digital world rushes in.
Only after that quiet hour does she open her phone. She checks for messages from family, but ignores work notifications until she has eaten breakfast. Breakfast itself is a small adventure: she prefers to eat in local cafes rather than her hotel, ordering whatever is typical for the region. In Mexico, that might be chilaquiles with a side of fresh fruit; in Vietnam, a bowl of pho from a street stall. She uses this meal to observe local customs — the way people greet each other, the pace of service, the sounds of a language she is slowly picking up. For Lauren, this is not a distraction but a form of meditation.
Midday Exploration: Intention Over Efficiency
By mid-morning, Lauren has a loose idea of where she might go. She never plans more than one or two specific activities in a day, leaving the rest open to whim. If she is in a city, she might choose a neighbourhood to explore on foot, guided by a landmark or a recommendation from a local shopkeeper. She carries only a small crossbody bag with essentials: a reusable water bottle, a pocket notebook, a scarf for changing weather, and a compact camera she uses sparingly.
One of her practices is to pause in every public square, park, or cathedral courtyard she passes. She sits for at least ten minutes, not photographing, just absorbing. This, she has written, is how you move from being a tourist to being a temporary local. The art of doing nothing in a new place is itself a form of deep travel. It is an approach I have borrowed for my own journeys, similar to my day on the Amalfi Coast, where intention shaped every moment.
“You don’t need to see everything. You need to feel something.” — Lauren Juliff
Lunch and the Art of Solo Dining
Lunch is Lauren’s main meal of the day. She avoids tourist-heavy strips and seeks out places where the menu is handwritten, where the owner greets regulars by name. Solo dining, she says, is one of the greatest gifts of travelling alone — you have the freedom to linger, to order whatever you want, to share a table with a stranger if the moment feels right. She often brings her notebook and writes a few lines about the meal: the texture of a perfectly fried plantain, the hint of cinnamon in a spiced coffee, the way the waiter smiled when she tried to order in broken Spanish.
She rarely takes photos of her food for social media. Instead, she records sensory details in her journal — a practice that trains her to be more present. If you travel with her, you learn that the best conversations often happen over a slow lunch, with no agenda other than curiosity.
Afternoon Deep Dive: Walking, Learning, Resting
The afternoon is for walking. Lauren covers a lot of ground, but never in a rush. She wanders without GPS for the first half, getting lost on purpose, then uses a map to find her way back. This deliberate disorientation, she explains, forces her to notice details — the faded tilework on a corner building, the cat that follows a particular route, the scent of woodsmoke from a bakery. She often ends up in a local market, buying ingredients for a simple dinner or a small souvenir that holds no monetary value but carries a story.
By late afternoon, she honours her need for rest. This might mean a siesta, a visit to a public bathhouse, or simply sitting on a park bench with a book. She is unapologetic about slowing down — she knows that fatigue is the enemy of curiosity. This is also when she answers emails or works on her blog, but she keeps it to a maximum of one hour. She has learned that the most sustainable solo travel is one that respects your own energy cycles.
Evening Rituals: Connection and Reflection
As the sun lowers, Lauren seeks connection. She might join a free walking tour, attend a local cooking class, or strike up a conversation with a fellow traveler at a hostel common room. But she also reserves time for solitude. She chooses one spot to watch the sunset — a beach, a rooftop, a hill — and sits there without headphones, letting the colours and sounds settle into her memory.
Dinner is light, often street food or something she prepares herself. She believes that eating simply frees up mental space for the experience of being somewhere new. Afterwards, she returns to her accommodation and completes her evening journal entry. She writes three things she is grateful for that day, and one thing she learned. This practice, she says, turns a trip into a continuous thread of growth rather than a blur of sights.
Her evening wind-down includes a cup of herbal tea and a few pages of fiction. She avoids screens for at least thirty minutes before sleep. The last thing she does is check the next morning’s weather — not to plan, but to know what to wear when she steps out into the unknown.
What We Can Learn From Her Day
Lauren’s day is not a template to copy exactly, but a reminder that solo travel is at its most rewarding when we trust our instincts, leave room for serendipity, and treat each moment as a choice rather than a checkbox. The next time you plan a solo trip, try this: leave your first morning completely empty. See what the city offers you when you aren’t looking for anything.
Her approach is also a lesson in boundaries — between work and exploration, between solitude and connection, between planning and spontaneity. If you struggle with that balance, consider starting your day with the same quiet hour she does. No phone, no plan, just a cup of tea and a window to the world.
