Table For One

"Will Madame be dining alone?"

When I first began business travel, these words made me quickly scan the restaurant to see who was staring at the big "L" on my forehead. I just knew they were thinking: "Pity, she has no friends." "What, can't get a date?" "Huh, looks like she's been stood up." "Loser!" I would eat dinner at my little table feeling the heat of the million watt spot light over my head. (Yes, my ego was that big!)

Now I know better. I might still suspect people are thinking those pitiful thoughts, but I don't give a shit. One of the few advantages of aging is getting over yourself. So that dining alone on a business trip is not torture, it is a treat. An hour or so of blissful peace. Courtesy demands that my cell phone be turned off. Smiling people bring me artfully prepared food and drink, and clean up after me. I read the local paper. Issues and events that matter to people in different places can be fascinating, enlightening, or hilarious. I bring a book for back up. And, best of all, my employer pays for it.

Last night, as the waitress put a plate of PEI mussels in front of me, (steamed in Guiness and garlic, yummy,) I felt a twinge of guilt for my Beloved at home. He is dealing with the houshold grind and chaos while my whims are catered to.

The guilt fades with every succulent mussel. By dessert time, guilt shmilt. This is bliss. Sorry Sweetie.

Today's dream travel destination: Where I am, but do not have time to explore. Prince Edward Island, Canada.

On the Road Again

Hell is a 5 hour, fully loaded, red-eye flight from Vancouver to Toronto. Stuck in a window seat next to a large snoring man. Oh to hell with correctness, he's a lard ass, overflowing the middle seat. Don't people his size have to buy two seats? And he's a smoker. He reeks of the last nine or ten cigarettes he must have desperately chain smoked before boarding.

It is past midnight, but I cannot sleep, and the movie sucks. This is a work trip, it's not even anywhere fun like our approaching adventure. I read the in-flight magazine. Then the French Version. I. Am. So. Bored.

Wise fliers avoid alcohol and drink lots of water. Screw that. I order a beer, hoping it will make me sleepy. It doesn't. I have another. Not totally ignoring flying wisdom, I have been sucking back my bottled water too. Now I desperately have to pee. To do that I have to get past my two sleeping seatmates. I wake them, and they graciously get up. By the time I come back, lard ass is asleep again. God I hate the window seat, but it was all I could get. I am claustrophobic, and get antsy any time I am not in an aisle seat; at football games, movies, the bus, whatever. At a funeral I would wrestle the grieving widow if she tried to move me down the pew. "So sorry for your terrible loss, but you will only get me to move by prying my cold dead hands off this seat." Oooops, bad analogy.

The beer and water was a very poor idea, requiring 2 more trips to the toilet. By the third trip, my seat mates are ready to throw me out the door. I am tempted to let them. I still cannot sleep. The crummy movie has been replaced by a business report. SWEET MOTHER OF GOD, GET ME OFF THIS AIRPLANE!

Finally, I fall into blissful slumber. Ten minutes later we land. I stumble into Pearson International airport transit area. The time is a quarter to too fucking early. I have two more flights and six hours of travel before I reach my destination: Prince Edward Island. That's O.K. From now on I have aisle seats.

Today's dream travel destination: Anywhere in this airplane: