Table For One

The first time I traveled by myself I was nineteen. A friend of mine invited me to stay with her and her family in Jerusalem and to use their apartment as home base.

“I have to work,” she told me, referring to her summer waitressing gig. “There’s a lot to see, though. Go without me. You’ll love it.”

Maybe I only half believed her when I set out, or I chose not to believe her — which is a thing I do when facts don’t fit my desires. I arrived in the history soaked desert and fell in love with Israel’s dusty hills and ancient stones, its contradictions and its unpredictable weather. My friend and I took three days together and headed to its southern tip, where the Red Sea was as nourishing as the long hours of jet-lagged sleep it took me to adjust to the time.

We beach bummed during the day and let boys we had no intention of spending too much time with, buy us drinks at night while the cool breeze came in from the water and lights twinkled along deceptively peaceful looking shores.

When we made our way back through the desert and into the heart of the holy city, she went back to work. I was on my own.

Then I got married. One of best things about my husband is his ability to plan a trip, no matter where. Oh, he’ll change and rechange and come at it again, but the happy accidents have piled up. Over miles. And continents. And years.

I have reached the next travel portion of my show, the one that isn’t with kids, but occasionally to see them. Traveling while children are off somewhere else, is a luxury I’d nearly forgotten. Last year I went to see a friend in Atlanta and made the pilgrimage to see my old crew in Los Angeles. Yes, I went to see people, but I also wanted an opportunity to explore on my own, pop into a coffee shop and walk past the pizza place. The only good spot for the sacred pizza pie is the tristate area, and I’m not interested in seeing which liberties a particular locality is taking with it now. On the other hand, every other member of my traveling circus is. Pineapple, honey, hemp seeds, my ass.

I started thinking about this as my twenty-one-year old was trekking through Europe on his own. I heard in his stories, pictures, and pace, that he, too, found a certain freedom in isolated exploration. I bet he stopped in every so-called pizza place he saw without his mother bitching at him, and that it tasted like a slice of liberty.

A few weeks ago, a bunch of girlfriends and I decided to have a quick trip to Charleston, SC. It served as a much appreciated break from the tyranny of my mostly beloved New England winters and an in person meeting with this group, long overdue. We had a fabulous time at the rooftop bar of our boutique hotel, content to enjoy the wine and cheese happy hour while figuring out the next day’s itinerary.

We took a horse drawn carriage through the colonial city and I almost believed the charming, older gentleman guide when he said the horses came from Amish farms, and ferrying my fat ass over the absolutely charming Charleston cobblestone was some sort of retirement reward. Then, he casually dropped a mention of the “war of northern aggression” and I understood. His denial knew no bounds.

The other ladies left for early morning departures, and I got a chance to wander the largely unchanged rows of stately mansions. I snapped photos as I went without having to do the mad scramble to catch up I’m so well versed in.

Around a corner, I found myself face to face with the South Carolina’s self proclaimed, “Most Historic Building,” which they used before and during the Revolutionary War as an armory, a meeting place, and a dungeon where they ratified the Constitution. It’s a spot I don’t think anyone of my brood would have picked from a must see list. A surprise right up my alley — architecturally and historically, and I explored it for as long as I wanted without my kids bitching it was cold and damp and time for ice cream.

I love traveling with my family and my friends, but for a moment I remembered the magic of that long ago time in Israel, where my adventures were my own and anything was possible. An hour or two later, I came out into the bright street. I missed my guys a little when I decided to forgo the ice cream reward for a day well spent. Like pizza, a cone is a must have. Unlike pizza, it is darn good no matter where you go.

I called an Uber instead, hopped in and headed for the airport. My watch said I was early, but I’d feel better when I got there. I wouldn’t have to wait because someone forgot to take the change out of their pockets or the magic, traveling water bottle that only showed up on the security line, made its appearance.

I might have missed the ice cream, I thought as I strolled on through, but I had enough time for an overpriced glass of cabernet in the airport bar. I people watched and sipped before I had to board and loved all of it.

Plus one, plus a family, plus friends, or absolutely solo are all good, and a bit of each are the canvas of happy accidents a lifetime gets painted on.

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