Plane Tickets and Platonic Love

There’s a unique intimacy that comes with traveling with someone—the shared exhaustion of a red-eye, the indecision over where to eat, the quiet awe of pausing together to take in something beautiful. For many, those moments are reserved for romantic partners. But over the past few years, I’ve shared them most often with my closest friends—a subtle lesson in how connection, at its most genuine, doesn’t always look like romance.

I moved to Colorado from New York at 38—no partner, no ring, no big plan. Just me, ready to start fresh and figure it out as I went. I didn’t know exactly what this chapter would look like, but over time, it’s taken shape around friendship. Around the people who’ve consistently shown up for me in ways that matter. Especially when we travel together—the kind of trips that involve passports, loose plans, and the kind of camaraderie that makes everything feel a little lighter. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve come to see just how much those friendships have shaped this season of my life.

 Take, for example, my trip to Mexico City with my friend Brett. It started the way so many of the best plans do: over texts and wishful thinking. Suddenly, we had plane tickets and dinner reservations. We wandered through museums and art galleries, climbed to the top of Chapultepec Castle, and lingered over coffee in Condesa. We ate tacos from street vendors at midnight, browsed bookstores in La Roma, and sipped mezcal on rooftops as the city lit up around us. Brett is the kind of friend who finds the best coffee shop within five minutes of landing and never makes you feel bad for ordering a second pastry. We moved through the city like co-stars—comfortable, in sync, and at ease just being ourselves.

Then there’s Amy—one of my closest friends and my go-to Hawaii date. We’ve been three times now, twice to Kauai and once to Waikiki, and each trip feels like a deep exhale. In Kauai, we hiked the lush trails of Waimea Canyon, dodged chickens in parking lots, and pulled over constantly to snap photos of waterfalls we hadn’t planned to find. In Waikiki, we wandered barefoot for açai bowls, watched hula dancers at sunset, and stayed up late, letting the sound of the waves carry our conversation.

We napped without apology, swam in every shade of blue, and talked about everything and nothing—on beach towels, in the car, over poke. We didn’t care how we looked in swimsuits or whether we had dinner reservations. There was no itinerary, no pressure to “make the most of it.” It wasn’t curated or content-worthy—it was real rest. No performance, no pretense. Just friendship, softened by sunshine and rinsed clean by the sea.

This May, my friend and I will head to Barcelona to attend a wedding, then hop over to Portugal for a few days in Porto. It’ll be my first time back in Europe in years, and we’re already daydreaming about wine at golden hour, quiet bookstores, and slow mornings in cities we’ve never seen but somehow already love. We’re planning the trip entirely on our terms—no overthinking, no expectations. Just the freedom to explore, wander, and enjoy. That kind of ease—that shared rhythm—is what makes traveling with friends feel so special.

There’s this cultural script we’ve all been handed that says romantic partners are the ultimate travel companions. The couple on the Vespa. The honeymooners in Greece. The “exploring the world with my person” captions. But I’ve done both—traveled with a boyfriend, and traveled with friends, the other loves of my life. My friends have known me for years. They don’t mind when I get quiet in museums or want to stop for the third snack of the day. They’ve been beside me through delayed flights, lost luggage, and unexpected magic. They’ve made me laugh in customs lines and feel completely seen while watching sunsets on the beach.

Traveling with friends has given me something I didn’t realize I was craving: space. Space to be fully myself—no expectations, no roles to play. There’s no pressure to make the trip romantic or perfect or worthy of a post. Instead, it’s about ease. It’s measured in laughter that lingers, inside jokes that resurface months later, and a kind of companionship that asks nothing of you but your presence. It doesn’t need to be explained or dressed up. It just exists—steady and true.

There are days when I wonder if I’ve missed something by not having a partner to split plane tickets or hotel rooms with. But then I think about how Brett found the perfect quiet café in Mexico City after I said I needed a break from crowds, or how he flagged down a taxi when I couldn’t find the words in Spanish. I think about the way Amy and I sat side by side on a beach in Kauai, wrapped in towels, watching the sky turn pink without saying a word. I think about the deep comfort of being known and seen exactly as I am—and how these, too, are loving relationships. In fact, they are my favorite type.

One day, I hope to travel with a romantic partner again—to share headphones on a long train ride through Italy or split a pastry on a quiet morning in Lisbon. But I’m not waiting for that to explore the world. I’m not pressing pause on joy. I’ve danced through the streets of Mexico City. I’ve watched the sun set over the Pacific with Amy. This spring, I’ll sip vinho verde in Porto with a friend who makes me laugh until I cry.

That, to me, is love—just not the kind we’re always taught to look for.