Mesa For One
One day before Valentines’ Day. I’m in a Coach store staring at a rack of palm-sized pocketbooks that cost far more money than you could possibly fit into them. But, I’m not here buying, I’m returning. Returning a larger, equally overpriced bag I’d purchased for my as-of-last night-ex girlfriend two days ago, before I learned that she engaged in, let’s say, extracurricular activities with a clerk at the Apple Store.
“Is there a problem with the bag?”, the cashier asks. “No”, I say, “the bag is fine. It’s the recipient that’s damaged.”
The recipient’s name was Randi. It probably still is. I’d given Randi the bag as an early Valentine’s Day gift in advance of what was to be a romantic trip for two to Mexico. We were to fly out tomorrow, Valentine’s Day, landing in time for a day at the beach, followed by a romantic meal.
We had one of those whirlwind romances where you think you’ve fallen in love within a few weeks. Which is exactly why they should not call it falling in love. Falling is one-directional. Love is not. Love is more a parabola. A roller coaster. Love climbs upward, giving you a splendid view of everything below before hurtling down to earth. But unlike the top of a roller coaster, you don’t know when the down is coming. You forget Newton, you forget logic, and you think only, “it’s beautiful up here!”
So, it was the age-old story: Boy meets girl, boy falls for girl, girl has a fling or 5 with the clerk from the Apple store.
Randi tried to apologize, in a way: she admitted it had been going on for a few weeks, said she was sorry, and offered what was apparently to be her Valentines’ Day gift to me, a pack of Hostess Sno-balls. Green. Not even the pink or white ones. Green. Maybe a St Patrick’s Day version.
When someone cheats on you it speaks volumes about the health of the relationship. When someone cheats on you and apologizes with synthetic snack cakes, it’s time to move on.
The Coach bag was returnable. The plane tickets and room deposit for Mexico, not so much. So it’s off to Rivera Maya for a romantic vacation for two, for one.
I’ve traveled solo before and found nothing lacking. There’s freedom in choosing your own schedule, meals and activities without worrying if a companion is enjoying themselves. Want to hike that trail twice, no problem! Want to stay a bit longer at the beach, who’s to say no?
I’d also dined alone, in dives and five-star restaurants alike, and there is something nice about that, too. I’d people watch, enjoy a good book, or just concentrate on savoring each bite of a delicious meal.
But Valentines’ Day dining is different. Turning a romantic Valentine’s Day trip for two to a Valentine’s Day trip for one is different. But, I thought, the money’s spent anyway, so I may as well give it a go. So I boarded the plan and set out on for my Valentine in paradise for one.
Our, well, my, room was not ready when I checked in to the hotel, so I dropped my bags with the front desk, strolled the grounds, and immediately felt at ease: Outside, in a palm-sheltered courtyard, stood a piano, there for anyone to play. Not part of a stage grouped with guitar stands or a place for a singer, just an upright piano, standing solo in the shade. There’s something about a piano standing alone that says it’s okay to play solo.
The piano was brightly decorated, covered in sequins and fake gems — a piano clearly made for either a Bedazzler commercial, or for Liberace. I could have played Beethoven or Billy Joel, but somehow the Bedazzle’d piano begged for Elton John, so played I Candle in the Wind, Bennie and the Jets, and a few others.
After a few songs, I felt relaxed and headed up to our-now-my room.
I’d booked a junior suite with a balcony complete with Jacuzzi and a view of the ocean. The all-inclusive package came with an in-room bar. Although I was sure the rest of the week would be fine dining on my own, Valentine’s dinner solo at a restaurant did not seem fun. But, if dinner for one with a book works back at home, room service for one with plentiful whiskey and a view of the ocean works better. Rather than the romantic strawberry mimosa offered on their Valentines’ menu, I opted for the house — made bacon infused vodka. “I’ll have a vodka martini, I told the desk, “bacon, not stirred.”
Later in the week, I was fine dining solo at the resort’s restaurants. The restaurants’ menus were still set up for couples, but that did not stop me. I am talented pianist, but my real talent is eating. I once took a vacation in Chicago just to eat. I went to the Tastes of Chicago Festival and dined at one of those molecular gastronomy places that had a 26-course tasting menu. I topped it off with a stuffed pizza chaser. It works for those guys on TV. What’s my prize?
So, an all-inclusive, all-you-can-eat resort was right up my alley. The wait staff soon got to know me, and learned that “mesa par una, senior” did not mean bring half the food,. In fact, plan on seconds. Sushi for two became sushi for two for one. Chocolate soufflé for two became “well, twice the chocolate for me!” They had a glorious homemade pasta, flambéed tableside in a giant wheel of cheese, served, of course, for two. You say “gluttony”, I say “challenge.”
My last day in Mexico, I climbed an Aztec pyramid in Chichin-Itza. I stood solo at the peak, and enjoyed the wonderful view below. Climbing back down, I turned back towards the pyramid in awe, seeing how far I’d come.
On my final night in Mexico, the waiter asked “where does the weight go?” I replied “if there’s a G-d, to my ex’s waist, like a gluttonous Dorian Gray.” If I gain weight at the end of the story, at least I’d have enjoyed it until then.
So, Valentines’ Day solo was not too bad after all. I saw wonderful sites, and ate so much chocolate I’d never miss stale drug-store candies.
If you’re out there, Randi, I bear you no ill will. I hope you are married, and that you and the man you’re cheating on him with are very happy together. May you remember that love comes and goes, but Sno-Balls last forever.
