Welcome to The Good Life. *smile* I’m residing this week on a private island in the GBR, off of the coast of Queensland, Australia (north of New South Wales, which houses Sydney). It is, as you might imagine, no joke.

The island is covered heavily in lush rainforest, giving it a tropical jungle feel, with walking trails and sparse, simple beaches. Because a resort operates here, there are also loads of activities — horseback riding, snorkeling, spa treatments, bingo — all the usual suspects. I have little to no interest in the planned program, though. This, instead, is a reflective place for me, removed from any urban sprawl whatsoever (by which I’m so easily, and happily, distracted).

I spend my mornings and early afternoons on the most deserted stretch of coastline I’ve found, about a 20-minute walk through the forest from the main beach. A small clearing and tiny sign marks the spot. There are no beach chairs, no menus, no restrooms, and usually no people other than me. The sandbank is rocky and raw, unadulterated and unassuming. It is eternally calm.

My afternoons are for reading, writing, walking, picture-taking, and yoga. In the evenings, I join other travelers in the main restaurant for dinner. I eat alone, which puzzles people. I enjoy eating alone, which seems to puzzle them more.

Sidebar: The thing is, friends, I am quite possibly the only single-girl-solo-traveler within a 200-mile radius, surrounded by honeymooners and familes and retirees. I understand that this might freak some people out. To me, though, there is something delicious about this kind of solitude. It invites an observation of oneself and others that might otherwise go unexplored. In a way, it’s like closing your eyes when you’re listening to music, or tasting something wonderful. Without a travel partner, romantic or platonic, a stimulus is withdrawn and your other senses heighten, become more keen and open up new doors: sights that may have blended into the background, conversations you may not have started. It is my hope that more people have this kind of experience, whether on a trip or in their own town, and that it feels more like solitary contentment than, let’s face it, solitary confinement.

Okay, back to business. After dinner, the transition of dusk to dark is marked by a lovely sunset over the ocean, illuminating the island’s sole pier. Night is black, and peaceful. Everyone retires early, which seems a shame to me, to forgo this kind of serenity for air conditioning and television, but to each his own. As you might image, I don’t stay put.

Once everyone is asleep, I sneak out of my nice but overpriced room, grab a blanket and my bottle of wine, head towards the water, and sleep underneath the stars. My short walk back to the shore is a fun one, filled with nocturnal friends — little, fat tree frogs, still as statues, birds calling in succession, insects humming…

Settled into my loungechair, a few feet from the waves, the sky is literally bejeweled with glimmering, pulsing with pinpricks of light, like tiny specs of glass. Breeze brushes through palm tree leaves and, eventually, everything falls silent until sunset.

It’s moments like these that I sort of can’t believe I’m here; moreover, that I’m here simply because, one day not so long ago, I made a decision to be.