Upsides to the Down Economy/ Table for One

I went to the Key West Literary Seminar alone- "alone, alone, alone"- which, doesn't seem like a big deal but after six years of being married, it was a bit of a jolt to the system. It reminded me of my time as a Flight Attendant for Air Florida, when, on certain trips and in certain towns I would find myself eating or sightseeing alone. As I ducked into a Chinese restaurant on a wet, cold night on the way back to my hotel, I fell into the old pattern quite easily. Hot tea, won ton soup, a corner booth and me engrossed in my book (actually the booklet from the seminar) with a Key West sushi roll for one. Traveling alone is at times scary (the drunk guy who wanted to be friends on Duval Street) and at times exhilarating; it is rarely dull. Doing things outside of our comfort zone keeps life interesting and has been shown to help with Alzheimer's. It's so easy to get in a rut- same mystery novels, same TV shows, same restaurants, even the same meals at same restaurants. I ate last night at a Haitian restaurant for the first time in my life. Although I didn't know what to order, I got lots of advice from the patrons (all Haitian) and had the most lovely, flavorful grilled chicken, (couldn't do the goat) maybe of my life. And when you open yourself up to possibilities, you never know what might happen. As for the exhilarating part of my story, I met US Poet Laureate Billy Collins, who signed my book. Then, as fate would have it, I ended up sitting at his table for a conch chowder lunch. This couldn't have happened at home. Here's one of his poems from Ballistics which he read at the seminar.

Old Man Eating Alone in a Chinese Restaurant

I am glad I resisted the temptation,

if it was a temptation when I was young,

to write a poem about an old man

eating alone at a corner table in a Chinese restaurant.

I would have gotten it all wrong

thinking; the poor bastard, not a friend in the world

and with only a book for a companion.

He'll probably pay the bill out of a change purse.

So glad I waited all these decades

to record how hot and sour the hot and sour soup is

here at Chang's this afternoon

and how cold the Chinese beer in a frosted glass.

And my book- Jose Saramango's Blindness

as it turns out- is so absorbing that I look up

from its escalating horrors only

when I am stunned by one of his arresting sentences.

And I should mention the light

which falls through the big windows this time of day

italicizing every thing it touches-

the plates and teapots, the immaculate tablecloths,

as well as the soft brown hair of the waitress

in the white blouse and short black skirt,

the one who is smiling now as she bears a cup of rice

and shredded beef with garlic to my favorite table in the

corner.