It’s my final night in Croatia, final night on the mainland of Europe, and final night as summer turns to autumn and as winter turns to spring. It’s my final night of eating alone on this trip before my days and evenings fill with time spent with friends back in London.
I should be used to it by now, I think. Used to the rhythm of finding somewhere that suits my tempo and suits the act of solo dining. Used to finding a table in the corner or towards the edges, half hidden so as to not take up space that could be used for a couple or a family or group of friends eating together. Used to the looks made in my direction as I eat alone, sometimes with a book in hand, sometimes without.
It always takes a few days to fall into the pattern of travelling alone and of resting, more generally. A few days for my body to become still, and my mind to follow suit. A few days to shake off the discomfort of solo travel and fully relish the freedom it allows.
It’s been almost a decade now of travelling alone. For the most part, I’ve grown accustomed to it, become comfortable with how it feels upon my skin.