Living single: Why alone is enough

In the years since my mother died, my father had traveled many times with groups. On one trip he went to the Galapagos Islands, which he called, “The Gapapagos,” and which he described as, “Fine. It was nice trip. It was a bunch of birds.” This was only his second vacation without my mother, and at the time, I remember wondering how she would have described the same adventure. She was a woman who would call and say, “I was walking down Lexington Avenue today and I happened to look up and I saw the most unusual and creative fire escape!” And now I could only imagine how she might have described the Galapagos Islands. “The Tortoises have these voluptuous shells, and thick, lumpy ankles that looked exactly like mine!” I imagined her laughing at her own joke. Then knowing her, she would have added some peculiar detail like, ”And today I bought a banana from a toothless woman with the most exquisite feet!”

Looking through the brochure of my bicycle trip, my father told me what to expect when traveling with couples. “After dinner, these people don’t want to sit around and fumfernick with you,” he said. “They might act like they want to talk to you, but that’s only because they’re polite. What they really want to do is go to their tent and relax, spend time with each other, so bring a good book.”

On his first trip as a widower, my father had gone on Safari with a company known for its ability to deliver luxury in even the most remote locations. A friend of mine went on a similar tour and said during dinner there were several men in sheer, white robes whose sole job was to shoo away all the monkeys. When my father returned, he was eager to show me his photographs, proud not only that he had gone all the way to Kenya, but that he had finally learned how to use his point and shoot, insta-matic camera. We sat at his dining room table, surrounded by sleeves of photographs, as he took me through his whole trip.

“Here’s a zebra drinking,” he said, pointing to a what looked like a faint, marble rye in the middle of some tall grass. “Here’s a lion sleeping. Here’s an elephant by a tree. Here’s another elephant by a tree. And there’s me with the rest of the group. All couples except for that one lady I told you about.”

He moved on to the next roll.

“Here’s me with the Masai tribe,” he said, showing a picture of himself surrounded by African women wearing layered cotton shawls in various shades of mustard and stocky brass neck rings that saddled their clavicles. “They’re no dummies, the Masai,” he explained. “For years they had all these tourists bothering them all day, so they got smart and decided to start charging five dollars per picture.” He flipped through the remaining roll. “Five bucks,” he said. “Another five bucks. Another five dollars and this one’s blurry!”

He slipped the photos back in their envelope.

“I liked the trip,” my father shrugged. “But after awhile an elephant is an elephant.”

On the plane to Calgary, I sat next to a woman in a Mandarin collared business suit with pale, chubby hands she couldn’t keep still. She fiddled with several different ways to roll her blanket into a bolster that might support her lower back, which she rubbed while groaning loudly. She went through a dozen sleeves of sugarless gum. She fluffed and poked at the manic, black curls that rose out of her head like flames.

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The pilot introduced himself in a round southern accent as “Cap’n Dave.” He said that we should consider the flight crew our family in the sky. Then, in what was clearly an effort to put everyone on board at ease, he launched into a rousing version of “Oh Susanna” on the harmonica. The entire cabin erupted in lingering, grateful applause.

Smiling, I said to the woman next to me, “That was so great, wasn’t it?”

She shrugged. “Yeah. I guess so. I just hope he’s not drunk. You know, a lot of pilots are alcoholics.”

She confessed that it was her first time flying since September 11 and she was very nervous.

“Usually I really, really, don’t mind flying,” she said. “But today I feel a little jittery? You know what I mean? I’m sure part of this has to do with the media and how susceptible I am to the images they dictate? But I just feel-” Her voice trailed off. She put her index finger into her mouth and bit off the nail and then, with the tip still glistening with spit, held out her hand to shake. “I’m Gail, by the way,” she said, swiveling her body so that she faced me. “Can I use your pillow? I just can’t seem to get comfortable.”

She went on to describe the many health problems she had endured over the past year. They were minor things, she said: a tipped uterus, persistent disc problems, an allergy to pigeons. This was when I realized that as bad as it is to sit next to someone who wants to chat the whole flight, it’s even worse to sit next to someone who, it seems, wants a hug. This poor woman, I thought, that is until she said: “Are you traveling alone, too?”

And there it was: the word “too.” As in “also,” as in “look what we have in common!” I wanted to say, ”no, no, no, please don’t lump us together. My compassion for you is based on pity, not camaraderie.”

“Sort of.” I explained that I was beginning a bike trip with a group the next morning.

“You didn’t want to bring a friend?” She said, sharply.

“I wanted to go on a bike trip, and none of my friends could go. I didn’t want to wait.”

She fluttered her eyes. “I’m sure you get this all the time too, but everybody tells me they can’t understand it. They say, `What is wrong with this world? How can you be single? You’re a beautiful, smart, intelligent, vivacious, sensual woman.’ And I say it’s not me, it’s the men out there. Do you get that all the time too?” She pointed at me and then back at herself. “I mean, you and I aren’t super models, but so what? We’re in the top...like, twenty percent, right? And that should mean something.”

At that moment, had the cockpit door not been so tightly locked, I’m fairly sure I would have jumped.

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I got to Banff late in the afternoon. The July weather was perfect; a warm and windless day turning into a crisp, gentle evening. As a kid who grew up around concrete, once saying, “nature’s fine for some people, but it’s just not my thing,” it was hard not to be awed by the sublime beauty of Banff. It is a remarkably scenic little town, surrounded by tall, grassy peaks tipped with snow.

For dinner, I chose a restaurant with a lively outdoor balcony, which overlooked the Main street below, with its peppy, Swiss chalet architecture and rugged couples strolling in matching ponytails. In the right mood, anything can make you feel more alone, and this night was no exception. I was nervous about my motel room, with its flimsy door, perfect for someone who didn’t want to fiddle with a lock when he could be hacking me to death with an axe. I was nervous about eating dinner in a place I didn’t know. Perhaps this was why when the hostess asked, “Are you just one?”, it got to me. Just one. This is when you realize that “just” put with anything is never good. “Just” belittles anything it touches. Just friends. Just looking. Even “just a million dollars” suggests you were hoping for more.

“Yes,” I said. “Just one.”

The hostess was probably twenty-two, tall, with a jagged, bleached, pixie cut and wispy legs that were spaced so far apart I wondered if each knew the other existed. She lead me past the crowded dining area to what was essentially the single room occupancy section of the restaurant, a group of lone adults positioned far away from the families with jumpy, small children.

A man with blonde dreadlocks jogged after his little boy, who was running with a chopstick held above his head like a spear.

“Come back Montana,” he called, catching the boy by the waistband of his dungarees, just before he entered our territory. “Those people didn’t ask to eat with you.”

Those people. There it was again.

My friend Ray once told me that the first few times he ate dinner alone he always felt he needed to bring a prop, a book or a pad of paper and pens so that he could jot down very important things and look ensconced in his rich, inner life. I had forgotten my book in my room — a Dorothy Parker anthology, which included the story “Big Blonde”, about a desperately lonely woman who’s passed from man to man until she ultimately tries to end her life with pills — and only had my cell phone, which I placed on he table as if to announce, “Look, everyone, I have friends. Somewhere.”

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