Traveling Alone

The hardest part of traveling alone as a young woman, for me, is eating dinner. Breakfast isn't too badÐ'--it's okay if you read the newspaper or peruse brochures for what you're going to do that day. Lunch is usually spent on the go anyway, so no one notices if you grab a wrap, pasty, or wűrst to go. People notice, though, especially when you're a self-declared foodie like me that enjoys well-prepared cuisine and fine wines, when you are eating dinner alone.

I just finished a tasty mealÐ'--sitting at a long bare wooden table, set for eight people underneath two bright lights with a view of the waiter station all alone. I avoided the couples peeking at me, sitting at their smaller private tables, covered with light blue tablecloths and rose petals along the wide window looking out over the Bavarian AlpsÐ'--lit by candlelight, of course.

There was no one to share a dessert with, no one to taste my creamy rich garlic soup, no one to confer with over how much to tipÐ'--just me, my three glasses of wine (there's no way a single person could order a whole bottle), and the fly that won't leave me alone.

When you first enter a restaurant and ask for a table for one, you usually get an odd somewhat shocked look from the waiter. Then, as the evening progresses, it becomes a look of pity. They shower you with attention and continually ask you how you are doing, offer you more drinks (most assume you're going to at least get drunk if you're going to eat alone), and try to provide a little bit of conversation while you dine. The attention and conversation, is appreciated, but I know pity when I see itÐ'--and I don't need it.

I've traveled alone several times and enjoy itÐ'--I like the freedom of choosing my own schedule, my own restaurants, and my own tourist sites. I like sitting in my hotel room eating both chocolates left on the bed without any clothes on and watching European MTV, stopping to enjoy some ice cream when I want to, and spending time reading the museum's information signs without anyone hurrying me on.

Dinner, though, is when I realize that I truly am a single woman in a foreign place. London wasn't too badÐ'--I was so busy with plays and tours at nighttime that all of my dinners were pizza or to-go Thai food in my hotel room. I spent another solo dinner in Germany next to a peaceful lake trying to avoid the intent gaze of a drunk man who wanted to "help me feel welcome." In Italy, it's the waiters who won't leave you alone: "Ahh, yes, you must