The Road Linds Travels

Never do I notice what a romantic I am more than when I’m sitting alone in a booth at a dimly lit, lively restaurant in wine country, listening to a musician play classic Italian tunes on his accordion. I’m staring intently at the paisley upholstery adorning the seat across from me with a slight smirk across my face, a smirk I only notice when I allow myself to feel self-conscious for a split second.

“Why’s that girl smiling?”

“Why is she alone?”

These are the questions I imagine the crowd around me asking themselves or their company, while I gently sway to “That’s Amore.” Then again, they’re probably too wrapped up in their half-full glasses of wine and pasta to even notice.

I’ve never had a problem doing things by myself. In fact, I enjoy being alone, and the older I get, the more I appreciate and crave solitude. I often recommend it to those who’ve never tried it before and those who are too self-conscious to even attempt it.

Once a Romantic, Always a Romantic

There’s something freeing about dining alone, walking alone, traveling alone, drinking alone, shopping alone. There’s something magical, almost therapeutic, about the whole experience. There’s something romantic about doing life yourself by yourself.

Before this past week, it had been almost three years since I’d been on a plane. It’s also been almost five years since I traveled further than the Central Coast of California by myself. This is all to say, book the trip, make the plans, the reservations, and buy the tickets. Fuck what others think. Life is too short to wait for others to be ready or “check their schedule.”

The longer I live, the more I realize how illusionary time really is. Time is a means of organization and punctuality, yes. How else would I know what time my flight departed? But when it comes to living, the only time we have is now.