Do they shoot single people in Illinois?

I eat my free hotel breakfast in my hotel room while the movie Twister plays in the background. The clang of silverware tapping on ceramic dishes and the murmur of robust eaters filters in from the open dining area below. I was shunned from that place, so I eat alone. Ok, I know I'm taking a little dramatic license: the townspeople of the Embassy Suites, Chicago-O'Hare, did not brand me with an ornate and dark letter 'S', nor stand me in front of the omelet station to chuck stale watermelon at me. But, as I searched for table, I felt marked. The single people must be in bed sleeping off their hangovers from Saturday night’s Beer Fest and all the families, from the two weddings, are wolfing free bacon and sausage. I found one person by himself, approached him, and politely asked if I could take one of the three open seats at his table. He looked at me as if I asked for his liver, kidney, and corneas. He paused, and then told me his wife would be joining him. "Oh, thanks anyway," I said, adding that I was from New York and we just snatch any open anything. As I backed away, I spoke words that might have gotten me arrested. I was hungry; I didn’t notice the nuclear family conflagration. There were no signs reading, “Couples and Families,” and “Losers.” Otherwise, “I thought you were alone,” would have remained unsaid. Thankfully, he only gave me an evil eye rather than reveal the egg white omelet with spinach centered on my plate to the room. I contained myself and continued my procession through the large room. Each step echoed high school, when I always sat alone. I made one lap around the tables, refilled my coffee, and carried my plate upstairs.

Inside the hotel room bigger than my apartment I cry. I am not sure why-hormones maybe. I write the book on Alone: eating dinner out, going to movies, snorkeling in Belize, and road tripping to the mountains. It’s not that I hate people, I think this blog proves otherwise, but sometimes my friends can’t go or don’t always like my adrenaline fueled ideas of fun. So, why did his glare and the ensuing stares of others upset me. Feeling homesick for New York as I packed my backpack, I steeled myself to enjoy the day.

The power nap I caught on the forty-minute train ride to the city refreshed me and for the low price of a hot-dog, a homeless man walked me to Michigan Avenue home of Chicago’s famous Magnificent Mile. Did you know that Wood’s American Gothic, Wood’s Nighthawks, and Surat’s Sunday on the Grand Jatte all reside at the Art Institute of Chicago? Neither did I, but that’s not really important to the story.

Ashley, a friend of a friend, met me later in the afternoon and we walked up the mile, over to the shore of Lake Michigan, then back. She points out bastions of urban bliss, eateries and bars, and I retell my faux pas from this morning. She chuckles, explaining the difference between O’Hare and the city. “Out there you’re getting into the burbs,”she says with a lilt of leftover Arkansas, “it’s more of a Midwestern closed-off sensibility.”

That is the crux of it. People in the suburbs say that life in a big city is too fast, too harsh, and too lonely. I lived in the burbs for thirty years and I found the opposite: people are ruder, less accepting, and more insulated. Instead of confronting humanity by walking the streets or riding public transportation, one remains isolated inside a car or single family home. If you are single it’s easier to hole up in your house eating chocolate sauce out of the bottle talking to the cat than braving the looks you might garner sitting alone at a restaurant. In essence it’s okay to be alone, okay to be different and okay to make different choices in a city. At least that’s how I lived it. Yup must have been hormones.


The Art institute of Chicago