Solo Travel
I hate it. Always have. I feel like the naïve young woman who got on a train and traveled solo across the country from Spokane, Washington, to Dallas, Texas. I had to navigate changing trains, ordering meals, and getting my luggage.
But there was my handsome fiancé at the end of the trip. Not so anymore. There is no handsome fiancé at the end or the beginning of the journey. It is just me. I am my own company.
Most of my solo trips have been with tour groups. Not entirely so alone, and there were guides to make sure I didn’t get lost. Yes, I was a big girl who made it to the airport and took a plane to join the tour. I always made friends. Some would last. Most would not. One of my complaints is that the tour guide would say, “OK, you’re on your own late in the afternoon.” And, just like that, the space was empty. That’s when I learned you can always make friends with the bartender.
I have met bartenders from Ireland, Bosnia, and primarily middle European countries. They are friendly and act like I am interesting—it’s their job. Later this year, I will be joining a different tour group. I am going with people I know. We will be our own group. I am sure I will find an exciting bartender somewhere.
So here I am on the last day of a solo retreat. I have ten minutes to vacate the room, but I felt I would have time to make notes about a solo retreat and offer some advice. First of all, you will not meet people. Most of the people at the resort are honeymooners. The bartender is too busy to entertain me, and the single lady does not get the table by the window.
However, that is made up for by a room with a view and the sound of a waterfall.
A fireplace. A balcony with comfortable chairs and sunshine.
Champagne is in the mini-fridge. (I brought it from home).
There is a television, but this retreat means no tv. I tried to resist email and Facebook, but I failed at that. Relaxing is the order of the day. Move from the balcony to the chair in front of the fireplace and, occasionally, the bed. I have a stack of New Yorkers that usually become a coffee table ornament.
I actually read most of them. It is long-form journalism. Very long.
I read a biography of Justice Samuel Alito. I like him less than I did, which is problematic. The article about Joe Biden’s father and grandfather showed a very complex story and perhaps different shading than we hear in his speeches. Not untruths, just shadings. Now I found another long article about my favorite writer, Nora Ephron. I hope it is not too disparaging. She wanted to be Dorothy Parker, as did many women of her time. I want to be Nora Ephron. Is it too late?
The best part of the solo retreat was the spa. A great massage. (He said I really needed it). Then 50 minutes of private time in the hot tubs, sauna, and steam room. It seemed a little eerie to be all alone, but it fit the theme of the solo retreat. I found I actually liked the alone time. No reading, no devices. Time to think – or not.
Eating is the challenge. I tried room service, the dining room, and the bar. Each was a different experience, but I didn’t feel as lonely as I thought. While I never got the window seat, the service was friendly, and the food was good. (And expensive). I don’t think I would have preferred bringing my own food. Eating out is part of the experience.
Since I gave myself every indulgence, I probably spent as much as a cruise. I haven’t seen the bill yet, but I will not be shocked —or sorry. So there is my soliloquy, channeling Nora Ephron.
The Oldest Person in The Room
How did it happen? It wasn’t always so. The Air Force Officer was with his young wife (that would be me). The pretty new teacher. Once, an organization needed to nominate someone for “Man of The Year,” and I was selected because the nominee had to be under 35. I was the only one they knew.
Guess that changed the “Man…” part.
Then it started to happen.
There is a medical term for a pregnant “older mother” I can’t remember, but I was shocked to find that at 28, it applied to me! It was beginning to happen—the oldest person in the room.
At the ripe old age of 40, I was hired as an “account executive” at a time when major corporations had to start hiring women for such roles. I was amazed I was hired and felt invigorated—then it happened. I was the oldest person in the room. My classmates in the training program were all young MBAs with superb academic records. I was a Suburban housewife with a teaching degree and a young child.
One of the instructors lectured me that I was not as “bright” as the other students. (Oh, how I wish I could find him now and show him what bright means…)
Then at 50, I was the oldest person in the room as I started law school. Funny, no one made me feel like the oldest person in the room.
My fellow students gathered on the porch of my beach cottage to study. I never felt “older.” Perhaps that is why many of my friends are my daughter’s age because we became friends while going through the same rigorous program. After I passed the California bar and attended a swearing-in, I hoped to truly be the oldest person in the room and receive an award.
I didn’t win. A man who had taken the bar exam for 20 years had finally passed.
He definitely was older than me.
Being older is definitely an asset in the practice of law. Folks give you credit for much more experience than you really have. That was fun.
Then the years kept creeping up until I was always the oldest person in the room. Whenever I received a compliment, I would add, “for your age .” As in, you look pretty good — for your age. I started a blog called “Not Your Grandmother’s 70– living your best life at any age” at age seventy. Was I denying the inevitable? I devoured articles on “it’s never too late to begin again.” Is it really true? I was starting to have my doubts.
Then—the inevitable — I was no longer 70. Could I keep writing, not your grandmother’s 70? It was a lie. So again, I sought the counsel of my close inspirational groups (all younger than me), and we came up with the new title: A Quirky life.
Yes, it truly is, and I can own that.
I have always been drawn to groups of writers or writing classes and have participated in many.
Recently I began a creative writing class through the local college. The group bonded, and we never talked about age. Then one day, I had to ask. Guess what? Over half the class was older than me—including the instructor. While I enjoy hanging with my younger friends, it is fun being in a group that offers me inspiration and hope.
It is OK being the oldest person in the room.
It is also fun not to be the oldest person in the room.
What I Hoped to See
I have a concert ticket.
What is it I hope to see? I feel that I have seen all the concerts on my bucket list. One of my earliest was one I didn’t know was a big deal until much later in life. I wish I had paid more attention. I was in a tiny jazz club in Seattle. The performer was (gasp) Miles Davis. Oh, I wish I had been a more “with it” young woman.
There was Harry Bellefonte. It was a sad concert as he mourned the recent deaths of his friends, but it was still fantastic. I’ve seen Robert Kennedy and Martin Luther King. “I have been to too many funerals,” I remember him saying.
Concerts were not part of my entertainment during my Bellevue Housewife period. I cannot remember a single concert, although there must have been something other than children’s Christmas concerts.
I had to make up for it later, and I implored my daughter and son-in-law to take me to see the Rolling Stones. A friend took me to see Eric Clapton. I never made it to see the Beatles. Also high on the bucket list was Jimmy Buffet (Margaritaville). The newer performers do not interest me much.
Having not been much of a concertgoer all those years, I now find myself on the board of the Kirkland Performance Center. There have been many highlights for me. Music of my youth—Kingston Trio, Beach Boys, Judy Collins. My favorite idol now is Mavis Staples. She is 80-plus years old and still rocking it. Last year she opened for Dave Matthews at the Gorge (concert venue in Grant County, Washington) on Labor Day. Then she took the stage and sang with Dave. I have the same t-shirt she wore!
The pandemic has stopped most concerts. I am told the prominent performers will be back this fall. I sure hope so.
My family took me to Grateful Dead, Phish, and for almost 20 years to see Dave Matthew’s at the Gorge on Labor Day. This was always a wonderful family outing.
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Karin Quirk