VACATION READJUSTMENT

Maybe it was when I hit the snooze button, not once but four times, on Saturday morning, a lingering jet lag as the acceptable excuse. I would end up arriving at Hyde Park twenty minutes late for the gay running group.

Perhaps it was two nights earlier after logging in to Manhunt and changing my location to Kensington only to check back and find no messages. Not even a record of profile views.

I suspect it was earlier, maybe even on the first day as I wandered in and about Harrods, realizing I wasn't registering as the new kid old man in town to, well, anyone.

Hell, the moment may have even come before taking off from YVR as I spotted two gay couples boarding and sensed quite strongly that that wasn't my lot. At least not in the foreseeable future. I tried to swat away any defeatist thinking. Your Stella moment awaits! Get your groove back! Or, if you never had it, then just get it. And, if not a full-on groove, a slight indentation. A back scratch.

Whenever it was, it was blessedly early on. Any notions of finding a prince in this land of palaces, a Mr. Right or Mr. Slightly Left of Centre evaporated along with any sighting of that notorious London fog.

Whether I view it as pessimism or realism (even self-preservation), abandoning any hope of a romantic interlude proved a good thing. Shaking off all expectations, I felt complete freedom. Isn't that how a vacation is supposed to be? No goals, no agendas. Seeing what I see. Not seeing everything else. (Oh, why would I ever want to go to a wax museum?!)  The only man I had a conversation with was a daft Scotsman who'd just witnessed a woman stumble on a raised portion of a sidewalk near Trafalgar Square. As had I. Unfortunately, he needed to debrief this exciting event and chatted me up for two long blocks as I politely nodded--in part, I struggled with his accent--before I got wise and asked for directions to a place I'd just passed. Complete U-turn and I was safely all alone once more.

A vacation for an extreme introvert like me mutes all the people, single and otherwise, and allows a closer pondering of the lone black swan in the pond at Hyde Park, of the utter nonsense of being a boy king and of the lives lost while building the fanciful Tower Bridge. I leave London still single but feeling a greater sense of inner peace.

Bloody hell. Maybe Stella got 'er groove back after all.

 

THE SOLO TRAVELER

Being single isn’t always a bad thing. In fact, I like my independence. I am reminded of the upside as I check my Facebook messages and my friend Susan fires off yet another SOS. She’s traveling for five weeks in Europe with her husband and another friend. It’s the end of week three and it seems like the end of a marriage and the friendship. Following the Tour de France in an RV must have sounded better as an Internet research exercise.

Travel can bring out the worst in people. There’s no set schedule. The setting is unfamiliar. And expectations don’t always jive with reality. My stomach churns as I read her messages. No one likes conflict. I try to acknowledge her feelings and offer encouragement. Selfishly, I sigh in relief, glad that I am the stay-behind housesitter and not another body crammed into that RV nightmare.

My own weekend began with an edge to it. Seems telemarketers from the East Coast forget that 9 a.m. in New York is 6 a.m. in L.A. It’s been that way for, well, let’s go with forever. Subtract three, people. But then, I assume telemarketing applicants aren’t put through a grueling math test as part of the hiring process. Phone? Check. Voice? Check. You’re hired!

It’s always telemarketers on Susan’s landline. I’d have muted the rings with a pillow over my head, but the dogs I am also tending long ago decided the phone’s ring is a cue to howl loud enough to sound like a pack of thirty coyotes. They’re quite convincing. I must not look the neighbors in the eye today.

After showering and walking and feeding the innocent looking dogs, I decided to get in Susan’s ultra-hip station wagon and take in my own travel adventure. Why not head south to Orange County? Anaheim. Not for Disneyland—that’s not the sort of destination for a soloist—but I’d read about a cool writers’ café in some area referred to as a promenade. Such places are always charming, right?

This wasn’t entirely a spur-of-the-moment, hide-from-the-neighbors excursion. I’d Google Mapped the route after reading about the café and a raw vegan restaurant in Sunset magazine. (Aside: Even with the eternal health craze in Southern California, going solo is the only way to go raw vegan. Hard to convince anyone that cooking carrots is just cruel.) I figured a weekend morning would be the best time to check things out. Less traffic while the locals forewent freeways to fit in yoga classes and farmers’ markets. According to Google Maps, it would take me forty minutes, forty-five tops.

But what’s a travel adventure without a few directional challenges? My Google Map directions proved to be faulty. I lost faith in the route when it neglected to mention a freeway in between the I-105 and CA-91. Somehow I guessed right, veering south onto the 605, but when my 40-minute drive exceeded an hour and I still hadn’t come across the exit sign for W. Lincoln Avenue, I pulled over.

Travel setback. Gone too far. Thankfully, there was no one to sound an early alarm and tell me to pull over to ask for directions. No one to silently seethe for being ignored in the passenger seat. No one to ultimately snap at for saying, “I told you you should have pulled over.” I simply pulled into a McDonalds, accessed the free WiFi and switched to Mapquest. I’d gone nine miles astray. I also discovered there is no Lincoln Avenue exit from CA-91. Google Maps had left off another freeway. Easy to do with so many of them in these parts. Nonetheless, dear Google Maps, I’ve deleted you from my Bookmarks. That was the extent of my aggression. No marriage, friendship or other relationship to repair. I am sure Google Maps will do just fine without me.

After ninety minutes, I finally arrived at my precious café. When I first walked in, I was disappointed. The place seemed small. Surely, I would not be able to settle in and write. Had there been a companion, I would have been hit with negative mumblings.

We drove all that way for this?!

I thought it, sure, but I calmly told my inner voice to shut up and wait in the car. And it did! I ordered the cold brew Stumptown coffee, perched myself on a shiny black stool and opened my laptop. You will write. You will soak up the inspiration. You will create something brilliant. Even if it’s only a paragraph. Or a word.

But then something happened. I tasted the cold brew and loved it. Truly! No false, pumped-up deception. I don’t know all the particular descriptors for coffee aromas and subtle hints of flavoring—this is when my brilliant word would come in handy—but it was a memorable drink. As I sucked down the beverage, I soaked in the décor. Open books suspended from the ceiling. Typewriters lining the built-in shelving. A lending library parked out front (on that charming promenade) in, of all things, a silver Airstream trailer. Now this is how to use a recreational vehicle!

The writing flowed. I ordered another coffee, this time an equally satisfying hot brew, called the Hairbender—I’ll spare you the barista’s explanation; it’s not that interesting. I sat contentedly on that teensy stool for nearly two hours. There was no one to say, “Aren’t you done yet?” No one made me shudder with, “Did you see that massive Walmart on the way here? Can we check that out?” And no one tsk-tsked when I decided to reward my writing productivity with disappointing Thai spring rolls at the vegan joint. (No one but that inner voice that apparently got bored in the car and returned with a bang-on “told you so.”)

I

made it back to my temporary home perfectly content with my morning travels. The neighbors hadn’t egged the house and the dogs hadn’t chewed up the phone cord.

I am replenished and ready to show more empathy when Susan fires off her next SOS message. I own this vacation and it feels great.

ISN'T IT ROMANTIC?

Generally, I have ample protection. I have never wandered into a bridal shop. I don’t flip through wedding magazines—even when it’s between that and The Economist at the dentist’s office. I avoid the Valentine’s section at the grocery store. (It will be set up within the week, no doubt. I’ve stocked up on Band-aids and Kleenex already so I have no reason to stroll down that aisle I refer to as the Red Sea.)

But then I went and booked a quick trip to Victoria. As it bears no relevance to me, I completely forgot how romantic the charming little city can be.

Interlocked elbows while meandering and gazing at beautiful old buildings.

Sharing tea and scones at the Empress Hotel.

And how about getting cozy on a horse-drawn carriage ride?

I tried to tune out the romance. I don’t need a companion to admire the architecture. And I am more of a coffee guy anyway. Still, I conjured up a dreadful image of me paying for a carriage ride for one. I imagined the sad looks, the hushed whispers and the likelihood of becoming a YouTube sensation—2014’s version of Grumpy Cat. Definitely had to steer clear of horses. The risks were too great.

It didn’t help that I traveled to Victoria with two dates lined up. Two chances to click. There was a chance for that carriage ride or maybe even a midnight harbor walk, keeping warm against Date #1 (or Date #2) while oohing and aahing at all the structures tastefully silhouetted in glowing lights. And I saw potential in BOTH dates. Trouble is neither of them did.

Cue Gershwin.

And so that made being alone in that darned charming little city a tad harder. As I ventured about, there seemed to be fewer families taking up all the sidewalk space. Perhaps that is more of a summertime phenomenon. This made the glut of couples even more obvious. To be fair, despite walking many miles during my stay, I saw no lesbian couples and only one gay pairing. Perhaps Victoria is too Victorian.

Luckily, I’ve also come to know Victoria as a recreational city and a place to sate my shopping desires. I didn’t need a mate to enjoy a scenic jog along the water or to load up on shirts and shoes. And I didn’t hesitate to go out to eat with an empty chair across from me—I got used to that long ago. (I had plenty to read.) I decided to satisfy any hankering for horses when I got home, figuring I could pet a couple of alpacas through a fence on the way into town. Close enough.

So I managed to dodge Cupid’s arrow. (Damn.) Must have been a trick arrow because I certainly tried to get hit. I’ll make it back to Victoria, hopefully sooner rather than later. Romantic or not, it is a lovely setting.

THE WHISTLER SOLOIST

Okay, so I had a good time in Whistler last week.  I want to make that clear.  I also want to make clear that I like traveling alone.  Sure, a trip with a boyfriend would be nice, but that’s not an option.  And, it’s not always, in fact, nice. 

I have a few wonderful destinations in mind that I cannot imagine going to without a partner.  A romantic holiday for one is just pathetic.

I’ve never felt I needed a companion to go to Whistler.  But I kept getting surprised looks when people realized I’d shown up solo.  Oh, there are plenty of singles in the village.  They’re all twentysomethings and they travel in packs, talking about how drunk they got last night and how drunk they’re going to get tonight.  I know,..it’s a phase.  Have fun, kiddos.

Single gay man in his mid (er, late) forties?  A true novelty.  Uh, excuse me, sir.  Gay Ski Week was, like, so six months ago.  And the bird watching tour biz went bust.  Seems the old, single gay man contingent never materialized.  Have you tried Palm Springs?     

Now I will admit that I may be a wee bit touchy on this issue.  Let’s do a quick math review.  I have been single for all of my forties.  Yep.  I broke up with my last partner in March, 2004.  Since then, I have had plenty of coffee with gay single men, but there hasn’t been a Love Connection, not even a Strongly Like Connection.  (Point of clarification:  a “connection” means the feeling must be mutual.)  Sigh.  I would like to believe it is perfectly fine to be on my own.  In fact, most of the time, I feel that way.  I don’t blog about it.  “Perfectly fine” makes for a boring read.

“Traveling on your own, sir?” the hotel clerk asked as he confirmed my reservation.  Yes.  I only asked for one room key card.  (It’s a weird prudish quirk of mine.  If I say I need two, I get the idea that they think I am a slut or an unrealistic optimist, expecting to pick up some single wanderer.)  The clerk gave me two cards anyway.  Seems he couldn’t figure out what to do with the spare.  Whatever. 

One of my vacation indulgences is ice cream.  Not frozen yogurt.  Not sorbet.  Not low fat.  Definitely not ice milk.  It was a hot evening so the line at Cows meandered out of the store.  I tuned out the kids running wild, begging for cow magnets, cow shirts and cow stuffies.  I squinted and focused on the flavor board.  Must choose the perfect two-scoop combo.  At last, I reached the counter where I could gaze at all the tubs of frozen wonder.  The moment neared.  When it was my turn to order, the girl behind the counter didn’t know what to do with me.  Motioning to the family ahead of me, she asked, “Are you with them?”  No.  Naturally, she concluded I was with the woman behind me.  I had to spell it out for her:  “No, it’s just me.” 

That’s right.  I am a big boy now.  I can go to the ice cream store all by myself.

The next night I went to the movie theater.  This is another treat for me.  The single-screen theater in the town near me typically shows only action movies and family movies.  Not my fare.  I chose a mature movie with no special effects, “Hope Springs” starring acting marvel Meryl and the equally able Tommy Lee Jones (and featuring a too brief scene with the lovely Elisabeth Shue—Please, get this woman a starring role again).  Three older people lined up ahead of me to pay.  The cashier mistakenly charged them for four people.  “No,” the gentleman explained.  “He’s not with us.”  My face reddened and I confirmed:  “Just one.”  The movie didn’t exactly boost my spirits.  A long-married couple that hasn’t had sex in years.  All too relatable.  ‘Nuf said. 

I was most aware of my Lonesome Traveler designation on the last evening when I showed up for ziplining.  There were two tour guides and nine participants.  Odd number.  Figure it out.  One guide tried to lump me with others as he geared us up.  “No.  It’s just me,” I said.  Maybe I should have a t-shirt made.  Still, he inquired further.  “Someone else chicken out?”  No.  He sort of backpedaled, saying, “I traveled on my own here from England.  But I’ve got a girlfriend now.” 

In truth, I was not the only soloist.  The other guide noted to the photographer.  “We have three going alone.”  She said it like it was a rarity.  Like a sasquatch sighting.  Turns out one woman’s husband had a fear of heights.  And then there was the other veritable single person.  I’d noticed her strolling the village half an hour before the start of our tour.  She stood out.  About my age, she appeared twenty years older, looking totally out of place amongst the grungy mountain bikers with her wide-brimmed sun hat, frumpy blouse with its lace collar, khaki shorts and sensible shoes.

Sun Hat Lady—she kept the hat on under her helmet—made her presence known.  As we waited for the group ahead of us at the first zipline, she asked about the contents of the guide’s first aid kit.  “Is there bug spray in there.  I just got bit.”  She offered an audible “tsk” when the kit didn’t measure up.  What’s more, she tried to instruct the guides:  “It looks like that group is done.  Shouldn’t we get going?”  She continued to correct and direct the guides during the entire adventure.

 Yes, this is the type of person who vacations alone.

 Is this how I come across?!  Suddenly, “Hope Springs” seemed cheery by comparison.

Aware that I am not the most social individual, I decided I had nothing to lose on vacation.  What happens in Whistler... I chatted with everyone in our group during the first half hour.  They guardedly replied.  No one attempted to extend the conversation.  The couples (boyfriend/girlfriend, father/daughter and mother/son) stuck closely to one another, speaking in whispers.  I didn’t take the social shutdown personally.  I don’t think anyone could have broken through with these people.

During our five zipline runs, the couples remained inseparable.  Even though only one person can go at a time, the couples had to follow one another every single time.  God forbid that they should be more than five minutes apart.  I assumed my place as the last person for each run since it didn’t matter to me.  We all went up the mountain.  We were all going down the mountain.  Let the others jockey for whatever sense of order they needed.  I pulled back and enjoyed the silence, peacefully feeling the breeze and gazing up and down at the massive firs.

My trip wound down the next morning with a solo lengths swim in the pool, coffee for one in the village and a scrumptious bakery haul that didn’t need to be shared.  Just me.  And, really, just fine.