The Optimistic Traveller

I’ve been fairly self-sufficient all my life, having been raised by parents who at times were laissez-faire, at others had too many of their own problems to worry about mine. It made me into an adventurer.

When I was 15, I went off in the summer about three hours away to an arts camp for gifted students. It was held at a university, so we stayed in dorms and may have had a curfew, I don’t remember. But I was mostly alone for those two weeks, and I must say I didn’t hate it. The following summer, again I left to another university camp in another direction, also about three hours away, this time to study communications. There were shenanigans, people making out and sneaking off. I didn’t have a beau, as we say in the South, but I could’ve. My closest friends were the not-out gay boys. (shout out to Tim, who died, and where are you, Tate?) The following summer was a biggie. I spent a month as a Congressional page in Washington and then another three weeks at a university gifted camp for public affairs. I did my own laundry, got a side gig helping at a party, walked around DC with boys, stayed up late, and snuck out into the wild nights of Fayetteville, Arkansas.

It all set the stage for the confidence I developed to do things by myself and enjoy them. I found I had wanderlust quite early on in my career. As I began travelling for work – curatorial and advance trips to Boston, Austin, Warsaw, India, Papua New Guinea, and a couple of countries in Africa — I tacked on side trips to nearby or on-the-way cities and countries. In the days before smart phones, one needed to call ahead long distance using phone cards to find an apartment to rent that was near a train (Prague) or from the airport to find a tiny hotel room only large enough for a bed (Amsterdam). I somehow managed, in the latter city, to connect with friends and, via them, meet new ones at their house for dinner. In Tanzania, I asked a Maasai acquaintance if I could pay him to take me on a private safari. He did, and then I joined his entire family in their tiny home for an authentic homecooked meal. I visited an orphanage I’d heard about in Nairobi by taking a miniscule, dilapidated, overcrowded (and possibly dangerous) bus over dirt roads from Arusha. There was no air conditioning or English. In Prague I found transport to Terezin and visited the children’s concentration camp I’d been in a play about in college. In Budapest I got rubbed down naked in a bathhouse; it seemed like a factory line setup, with one hideous naked person after another scrubbed with a hard bar of soap and lukewarm water on the same hosed off slab of rock. In Sydney I stayed with a former colleague and enjoyed dinner with his dear and welcoming friends, then went off by myself to play poker in the giant casino there. In each spot I challenge myself out of my comfort zone; though now, I think my comfort zone may be discomfort.

After my divorce, suddenly being alone felt less of a choice, more of a necessity – which may take the fun of it away for some people. After a fleeting pity party (which I think lasted just long enough to get a poem or two out of it) and an actual divorce party, I began to walk New York City at all hours, exploring bars and restaurants, and yes, even hotels as I loved ‘em and left ‘em. It was almost always pretty magical, right down to the 4 am fried chicken or dollar pizza slice near my apartment in Harlem. Once, after a painful breakup (the first of many with the same person and the only I didn’t initiate), I decided to try a Turkish restaurant on the Upper West Side for a late lunch. It was nearly empty. I settled in at a sunlit table and ordered a glass of wine and some light food and reflected. That poignant moment led to a sad poem, but in fact — creative license — the experience wasn’t sad; it was liberating.  It was the beginning, in a way, of a journey of solitary meals in strange restaurants, none of which I’ve not enjoyed, even relished since. Mmm, relish.

Years of living in Rome make for good meals regardless of who your dining partner is or if there is one at all. As Mike was travelling, I’d dine alone in Parioli sometimes for a treat, or if I went with him, I’d pick a restaurant and dine alone in that foreign city. I had osso bucco in Sienna as the horses stormed the piazza, later driving back to the villa by the light of the moon since the car’s headlights weren’t working. I had breakfast in Abu Dhabi, selecting the juiciest, most bizarre fruits to go with tzatziki and heavenly breads. In Jerusalem I ate slabs of halva. In Sardinia I had immaculate fresh pasta overlooking the sea. The list goes on, and usually includes red wine.

A Frances Mayes book I recently read includes a character that advises never to bring a book to read alone at a restaurant. Why not? It’s more productive than scrolling. If the room is lit enough, I do that in between courses, setting the book down and putting my glasses on to appreciate the nuances of the meal. As I get older, I suppose that will create a more pathetic, less cute look. Or perhaps it will forever look as it does in my mind’s eye, like a confident, well-dressed woman enjoying a meal and a book by herself, taking her time.

I am well suited to advance work, arriving before a principal candidate or politician and handling all logistics and event planning for a rally, a speech, a small meeting, or just a down-time visit to grab barbecue. One of the best experiences I have ever had was working on the last presidential campaign, visiting swing states and odd towns in them, traveling for hours in rental cars and planes, making beautiful backdrops out of barns and nondescript offices. At 53 I am grateful to still have a ton of energy left to meet new people and like them enough to want to see them again.

Recently I was supposed to be on a cruise by myself for a week. I had reserved a balcony room and was heading to stops I’d never been before. The sliding door to the balcony was going to remain open at night, and waves were to crash me to sleep. And I would wake late or take naps or play in the casino or lay in the sun whenever I wanted.

My mother-in-law passed away while I was on my flight to Ft. Lauderdale to catch the ship, so I turned right around and went back for the wake, funeral, tears, and laughter, supporting my son and husband while simultaneously enveloped in my own terrible grief, ironically, the lonely kind – because no one really expects the daughter-in-law to be heartbroken. I keep thinking I’ll get one of her check-in calls, or she’ll be in the room when I enter it. I won’t erase her old voicemails.

By the way, she would’ve worried about me alone on the boat.