Hopelessly Devoted

At least I didn't get a wedgie this time

"Table for two, sir?"

I contemplated my answer. Do I give the hostess the satisfaction of knowing I'll be dining alone again this evening? Maybe I can come up with an extremely elaborate lie about a wife or girlfriend that's up in the room of the hotel where I'm dinnering, then she'll leave me alone.

"Actually, my...," but I took pause. Then I'd have to lie about what room I was staying in. This was far too complicated considering I was already about three deep. "Actually, I'll be dining alone tonight."

Before my trip to Sri Lanka, those words scared the living hell out of me. They conjure up memories of not being able to sit at the cool kids table or getting picked last for kickball. Neither of those things happened to me, I swear, I'm just using them as examples. But I've found that traveling alone changed my perspective on little things like talking to myself, sitting without company in a park and yes, even partnerless feasting. Dining alonesies has become old hat for me by now - frankly the only people that seem to be embarrassed by it anymore are the waitstaff who pay waaaay too much attention to me in some kind of weird overcompensation for my perceived awkwardness.

Last week really tested my limits though. I've already had to suffer through countless tuk tuk drivers and UNESCO World Heritage Site guides asking me why I wasn't married. "Where's your girlfriend? You don't have one? Why not? You're here alone? Why are you alone? Do you think it's related to your fear of rejection? I think this might be rooted in something deeper, you should come visit me at Sigirya twice a week until we straighten this out." It was more of the same when I visited the lush greenscape of Nuwara Eliya a few days ago.

Home to Sri Lanka's vast tea fields, the quaint village affectionately nicknamed "Little England" (by the ruthless English colonizers who brutally carved the settlement into an unsuspecting mountainside) provides ample venues for escape from noisy city life. I picked one of the more remote hotels and marched my petooty right outa town to enjoy a drink on the veranda. I watched the sun drop slowly over the mountains while enjoying a second. Knuckle deep into pouring my third, the kindly barkeep suggested I come inside for dinner, lest I scare off the Dutch tourists milling about out front. I prepared for another evening of asking myself how my day was over a hearty repast.

But then we took it to the next level. I wasn't only eating alone at my table, I was alone in the restaurant. There was me, two waiters and the kitchen staff...and since the allure here was the open-air kitchen, even the chefs could stare at me while I supped a solo. No big deal, another Carlsburg should help steel my nerves to the...wait, is that muzak? My waiter, ever the consummate judge of what I would and would not like while eating alone, had started up the romantic keyboard covers to help set the mood. They opened with the Disney classic Beauty and the Beast. It went downhill for me from there. I kept it together for Berlin's Take my Breath Away, and I hung tough during a twinkly version of Hopelessly Devoted off the Grease soundtrack. But damn it all, they bested me when they dropped The Way We Were on me. Damn you, Barbara, damn your talented soul.

There was nothing left for me to do but resign for the night and head on home. Such evenings only prove what I already suspected, which is that I really prefer traveling with a companion. And despite me constantly inviting him along, Jack Daniels doesn't count.