When I turned 49, I decided to give myself a gift: a solo trip to Hawaii.
By then, I had worn many titles—divorced woman, single mom, head of household. I was used to being “solo” at home. I’d traveled the world alone for work, sat in countless departure lounges with a laptop and an agenda. I liked the freedom. I had taken plenty of vacations with just the kids, discovering new cities, navigating foreign countries—me and two little passports in tow. I never felt out of place without a man beside me.
But somehow, I had never traveled alone for pleasure. Not once. Not just for me.
Until Hawaii.
Honolulu was beautiful. The hotel had a breezy terrace restaurant by the pool. That evening, I wore the turquoise dress I bought in Greece a few summers ago. It felt like a good-luck charm. I brought a book with me, though I wasn’t sure I’d read it.
The hostess greeted me.
“Table for how many, ma’am?”
“Just one,” I said, smiling.
She hesitated. “Just for one?”
“Yes, just for myself.”
“Okay… don’t worry, I’ll find you a good one.”
I wasn’t worried. Should I have been?
She led me to a lovely table tucked in the corner, with a view of the pool and the horizon where the sun would soon set. She pulled out my chair with care.
“Here you go,” she said gently. “We’ll take good care of you.”
Her kindness was warm, but there was something else in it—a tone I couldn’t quite place. Was it pity? Concern? Or was I just reading too much into it?
A few minutes later, the waitress arrived—closer to my age this time.
“Would you like a cocktail, or maybe a glass of wine to start?”
Now this felt normal.
“A glass of Pinot Gris, please.”
The restaurant was still quiet. A few couples, some families. The air was soft, warm with the scent of the ocean. I leaned back in my chair, soaking it all in. I hadn’t even opened my book yet.
The wine came quickly.
“Here you go, ma’am,” the waitress said, setting it down with a smile.
I smiled back.
“Are you all right?” she asked. “Is there anything we can do to make you more comfortable?”
I blinked. “I’m fine, thank you. I’d like to order, actually.”
But the feeling lingered—like something unspoken was hovering just beneath the surface.
Later, when she brought the food, she touched my shoulder lightly. “If you need anything at all, just let me know. I’ll be checking on you often.”
I thanked her again. “Really, I’m fine. It’s a lovely evening, and everything looks delicious.”
As she walked away, I finally opened my book. I caught her glancing back. She saw the book, smiled, and nodded—as if I’d passed some sort of unspoken test.
By the end of the trip, I’d figured it out: a single woman, of my age, dining alone in Hawaii? It was unusual. But the book made me socially acceptable. The book meant I had purpose. I wasn’t waiting for someone. I wasn’t sad. I was reading.
Back in Seattle, I went out to dinner at a little Italian place near home. I didn’t bring a book. No one cared.
Thank God.
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