Table for One

One of my great loves in this world is solo traveling. My “bucket list” is currently comprised of one item: visit* all 50 states alone. So far I’ve crossed off 16 of them.

When I tell people that I’m heading out on a road trip, or a camping trip, or a flight, or a vacation alone, sometimes people who love me will express some concerns. They will tell me with a you’re insane look not-so-well hidden behind their eyes to “be safe” and “have fun?” And both of those are usually questions rather than statements. (Side-note: Interestingly, although I am loved and cared for by people of all genders, I have only ever had these overt expressions of concern for my safety be spoken aloud by women. Unpacking that could be a whole other essay in and of itself.) Sometimes people will express the desire to be the type of person who thrives on solo travel, but regrets that they just aren’t there yet. And my extroverted friends will often ask if I get lonely. But one of the most memorable reactions I’ve ever had with this conversation was someone who, very genuinely, asked “But what do you do about food? Do you just do take-out and snacks in the car?”

I find this memorable because of the strength of their stance with asking it. It seemed so apparent in their words and tone that the idea of eating in a restaurant alone had never entered into their mind as a possibility. Maybe I also find it memorable because, for me, eating alone in restaurants has become one of my absolute favorite parts of these solo travel pilgrimages. So much so that I sometimes will take myself out to dinner alone when I’m home in Philly.

I think my love of these dining experiences arose because something magical and unexplainable happens around tables where people are gathered to eat. It brings out our basic humanity - good and bad - in ways that very few other things do. I try to have as few distractions as possible with me when I’m at these tables, booths, counters, and bars. When the server comes I’ll sometimes ask for their recommendations if I’m especially overwhelmed by the choices.**

In between reviewing the menu and waiting for food to arrive, I settle back in my seat and try to take in the scenery and the nuances of the décor. Because, believe it or not, every single place, from the hole-in-the-wall roadside diners with their not-quite-retro-just-outdated designs to the fine dining restaurants with Michelin Stars and award-winning chefs, has a vibe and an energy and a personality all its own. I sometimes wonder: if these walls could talk, what would they sound like? Would they use only the most proper grammar or the colloquialisms unique to the region? Would the place have an accent? Would swear words be effortlessly peppered into its vocabulary? Would it speak an entirely different language altogether? Who, at its core, is this restaurant, and who is this restaurant for?

Often by the time I get to that last question I’ve already begun to allow my curiosities to transition from the building to the people in it. I listen in on the conversations around me between the other tables, between the staff, between regulars at the breakfast counter and the server who’s clearly been there for decades. Sometimes if the vibe is right and the people invite me in I’ll even join in some of these conversations. They range from mundane small talk to deep and surprising, but all of them are impactful in some way.

There was the time that I was in a little pizza joint back home in Philly. I happened to be seated in a booth by the counter where orders were placed. I was having some really delicious cheese fries, and a family with a couple tweens and teens came in. The one girl, probably early high school age, turned and asked me “Are the cheese fries crispy, or do they get soggy?” A very valid question, as any cheese fry connoisseur can tell you. I told her they were still crispy, and then looked down at the mound of them that I certainly wouldn’t finish. “Do you want to try one?” I asked. “Sure!” She unselfconsciously reached onto my paper plate to help herself and was happy enough with it to order her own. The girl and her parents thanked me as they walked past to their own booth and that was the end of a tiny moment of breaking bread (okay, technically potatoes) with strangers.

Recently on a road trip down through North Carolina, I saw a sign along the way for a local barbecue joint. Obviously I had to stop there. I ignored my GPS’s protestations and followed the signs away from the highway to Skipper’s Forsyth’s Bar-B-Q just off of I-85. When I got to the parking lot my jaw dropped. The building itself, very unimpressive and easy to miss, was an exact replica of the diner my family grew up going to in rural Pennsylvania called the Milky Way. I had never in my life seen a building that looked like the Milky Way, which I had always believed was one-of-a-kind. Until I saw Skipper’s Forsyth’s. Even the parking lot was the exact same layout of mostly pavement, with gravel on one side. And the really wild thing about the timing is that news of the closure of the Milky Way*** had recently started to send pangs of nostalgic grief through the entirety of Franklin County, Pennsylvania. I happened to arrive at Skipper’s Forsyth’s at a time right between their lunch and dinner rushes. The waitress greeted me as “darlin’” and invited me to "go on an' jest sit wherever." The table nearby was filled with fishermen who hadn’t had much luck at the lake that day but were looking forward to going back the following weekend. One of the servers was fretting over college tuition for her son, who was looking further away from home than she’d like. And a family of four were cracking each other up into fits of laughter that I couldn’t help but smile at.

On one of my very first solo road trips through New England, I stopped for obligatory lobster rolls in a little place recommended by a gas station attendant. It was pretty crowded, so I got seated at a lunch counter between two retired couples who were the spitting image of what I’d expected New Englanders to look like. (Seriously, they could have been on a billboard for Nantucket.) The five of us, over the course of the next half hour, got to talking about where we were originally from and what brought us there. None of them were native New Englanders, but all four had settled down there. When I told them I was just passing through on a road trip and was traveling alone, one of the women beamed and said “Good for you, girly!” Then she proceeded to tell me about her amazing adventures hitch-hiking across the country in the 70s. Her husband laughed and said we were kindred spirits and asked jokingly if she had a kid that he didn’t know about.

Most recently, three days ago, I took myself out to a birthday dinner in Stone Harbor, New Jersey to a little seafood shack called Quahog’s. Its Caribbean fusion menu makes for some truly unique dishes unlike anything else. Its popularity means that they have tables tightly packed throughout the interior and the patio. I ended up at a small table between two larger ones, with just enough space between them for the people seated against the wall to slide between the tables sideways if they didn’t mind a tight squeeze. The tables on either side were full of friends gathered for catching-up meals. Small talk was made across the entire row of us about sports and the upcoming Philly mayoral election. None of them questioned why I was there alone, but at the end of their meal one woman came back in from the restroom before leaving just to extend wishes of an enjoyable dinner to me. It was such a small gesture of such big kindness.

I know that for a lot of people the idea of dining alone is one that induces anxiety and fear of awkwardness. I have heard folks talk about taking books or scrolling through their phone during meals they find themselves having alone in public. And perhaps that, in its own way, is life-giving to some people. But I do think many people would be surprised by how delightful it can be to turn off their phones, walk up to the hostess station, and start the nourishing journey that begins by saying, “Table for one, please.”

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*Note: I define “visit” as having at least one meal and one night of sleep in that state. It can’t just be driving through or a layover in an airport.

**Etiquette note from a person who used to work in food service: There's an unspoken rule that if you ask for a recommendation, you are obligated to choose at least one of the options the server gives you. There's nothing that makes you feel more "well, fuck my drag, right?" as a person in the service industry than spending valuable time sharing suggestions only to have the person go with something entirely different. ***The Milky Way has since been “saved,” and is - as of this writing - no longer closing permanently. They are now transitioning to limited hours and a limited menu. If you’re ever passing through Franklin County, Pennsylvania and looking for a good place to get a sandwich, chip-fries, and ice cream, check it out!