Table For One: Sicilian Sunsets And Self-worth

Photo by Elevae Visuals

Sunset was falling in Taormina, just a noodle’s throw from where Season 2 of The White Lotus was filmed, and my first evening in Sicily was even better than I imagined it. A minute walk from my hotel had landed me at the restaurant I’d made a reservation for a month before. It was pretty much as I had imagined it, colorful and worthy of an entire carousel on Instagram. And my table was on the terrace with a stunning view of the cliffside with a hint of the Ionian Sea down below. 

The hostess left me with a menu and shortly after, a man asked if I’d like still or sparkling water. Sparkling. Always sparkling. Couples lined the tables to my right, and they all collectively looked over at me and then at the empty seat in front of me. Maybe, it was because I was on the side where all the men were, and their catalog-looking wives could only look at me with what I assume was pity. Yes, I’m in one of the most beautiful places in the world all by myself. 

And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I’ve been waiting for this moment for about ten months since I found out my friend Marla was getting married here. A solo trip to Europe had been on my bucket list for years, and I knew this was the trip for it. My friend was gracious enough to give me a plus one, but I didn’t even try to find someone to go with me. This was my adventure. 

Seven years before this meal, I was in Italy with my mom. It was our first time in Europe. Give us rooftops in Florence and Positano with a side of being part of the papal mass, we instantly became those annoying people who believed we knew it all. That trip is also where I met Marla, who was on vacation with her parents and sister. We happened to live in the same city and forged a friendship that felt like we’d always known each other.

One of my biggest regrets from that trip was sitting out on our day to Capri. My mom had found a local guide to take us on a private boat tour around the island. He was also dutiful in letting us know that he was from Anacapri, which, by his tone, made me believe that it’s the superior Capri—and not just because it’s literally higher than the town of Capri. 

Our sweet guide made us a picnic lunch with prosciutto, cheese, tomatoes from his garden, and wine from his father-in-law’s vineyard. We went in and out of grottos with the glittery water begging for us to get in. I wish that I could say that I jumped in with my arms outstretched and that that day was my highlight. But it wasn’t. 

Something hit me that morning, and I became wildly insecure about my body in a bathing suit. In my head, I had a different picture of what it would look like for me to be swimming in the Tyrrhenian Sea. I knew I was never going to see those people again, but something stopped me from enjoying the moment in front of me. My punishment was a shin-tan line from my pants that lasted the entire summer. 

That day had haunted me ever since, and I swore I’d never let it happen again. Because opportunities may not always look like what I imagined they would be, but life is too short to let chances pass by. And I’m not worthy of a moment because I look good in a bathing suit, or because I have a plus one at dinner. 

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t imagine that the next time I was in Italy, that I’d be with a handsome man who had a band on his ring finger, just like me. But it didn’t happen by then, as most of our dreams don’t happen on our timeline.

And I had become captivated by solo trips, especially romanticizing your life through solo fancy dinners or even “memoons”—your single honeymoon because why wait for someone else before you indulge in what the world has waiting for you?

I’ve gone plenty of places by myself—concerts, the movies, art galleries, picnics, hiking, traveling, and even moving across the country—but never sitting alone at a table eating an entire meal. It was a version of myself I wanted to be a reality, but every time there was a possibility, I’d chicken out and sit at the bar. If I did make it to a table, I’d often have a book or a notepad or sit by a window to people watch. Something to take up the space, make it seem like I’m not just eating by myself. But I’d never made a reservation for one at a “real” restaurant, where the only company I had was myself. 

Dining alone is also something a lot of people fear. It’s a choice to sit at a table in front of others and take up space with your party of one. There’s this unspoken sadness that people seem to feel for others when they see them eating alone. Strangers may ask to sit with them or if they want company. But what if they were content with the company of themselves? Why do we feel the need to rescue others or ourselves from moments of solitude?

That ended with this trip.

Because the American in me runs deep, Sicily couldn’t be my only stop. I thought I’d throw in a few days in Paris on either side of my stay. The City of Lights had always been a dream of mine since I was 16. It was also the perfect place to fly in and out of Sicily, so I had to go.

My first evening, I scheduled a food walking tour, which is a classic move for me in a new place. It gives you something to do with your hands, and also, allows you to see a city through a lens you wouldn’t have otherwise. Plus, you make tour friends, who you immediately ditch the moment the tour is over, but it’s not awkward because you all knew it was coming to an end. My favorite kind of good-bye. 

The next couple of days, I didn’t step foot into an actual restaurant. Maybe, it’s because I was terrified of having to pretend I spoke French. From the flight attendants to the woman who ran the breakfast at my hotel, everyone thought I was French. My French ancenstors did settle in Louisiana and Alabama in the 1700’s, but that meant nothing there. But you can get far with a smile and a good bonjour/ bonsoir. It could also be that Paris can take it out of you. 

That’s at least what the woman at the front desk of my hotel told me after a bike tour from hell that left me bruised, inside and out. I holed up in my hotel room, eating beef jerky and hot honey cashews that night. The next day, I took the hop-on-hop-off bus, which I thought was lame, until I did it. Seeing most of the city in two hours without having to limp from place to place? Stellar. Minus the part of sitting next to a ten year-old booger-eater who wouldn’t stop screaming that every arch was the Arc de Triomphe. 

For the rest of the day, I just needed easy and comfortable. So, I had a couple of glasses of rosé in my hotel lobby, made friends in a tiny gin bar in St. Germain, and horror of all horrors, before all of that, I took my morning coffee and croissant to go. Creature comforts were creeping in mostly because I was tired and just needed to do what was easy—like eating fries and “Japanese fried chicken” at the bar, which was basically a chicken tender, but I couldn’t tell my sweet bartender that.

I’d spend so much time dreaming and romanticizing this trip, and so far, it was not what was in the brochure. But it never is. To be honest, I had high expectations for Paris, and even with the constant rain and my brand new bruises, I savored just being there. 

But I could feel the ache to share it with someone—a friend, family member, or romantic partner. I had to snap out of that though. This couldn’t be a repeat of Capri. Sicily was waiting, and in some ways, I felt a new version of me waiting too. This would not be like the times before.

Once the plane hit the tarmac in Catania, the salt air slapped me into a fresh story. The sun probably helped too. In about an hour, my driver gave me almost a complete history of the island and almost too my hand with him as I tried to slip into my hotel. Sorry sir, you’re not the kind of Italian man I’d like to run off with. You’re about 40 years old too old for me. 

My balcony overlooked the street with friends and lovers laughing and drinking below, and in the distance, the ocean glittered with an invitation to join in on the fun. I found the excitement of my solo adventure again. So, I showered, put a new dress on and walked myself to dinner.

The streets of Taormina feel like something out of a romance novel with bougainvillea draped down the walls, lightly touching the cobblestone streets. It took me two minutes to get to the restaurant door, which was a step away from the road. No sidewalk, just a sudden drop to a very sharp curve. 

As I walked in, the host greeted me like she’d been expecting me and led me to the terrace, to a table of my own with a view of the sunset. No bar, no lame table to get shoved into to make room for other people. The row of couples to my right made the empty space across the table from me seem very large. But this was my moment.

And just because I don’t have a companion on the other side of the table, doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy a meal on my own or that I’m not worthy of this stunning meal. I found myself sipping slower, relishing each bite of branzino and crispy potatoes in a way I wouldn’t if someone was across from me. Chatting longer with my server, who was very generous with additional offerings, bar creations, and dessert recommendation (pistachio semifreddo with strawberry and white chocolate—perfetto). And none of the conversations to my right were making me envious. In fact, I was grateful to be alone.

Some couples were sitting in an uncomfortable silence, and others were pulling teeth to get their person to talk to them. If that’s what being on a romantic holiday is like, I’m good. It also reminded me of how freeing it is to be able to hold a table on your own. There are many times in life when we may be at a table for one. We may be the only ones who believe in a creative choice, and no one else wants to show up. Friends or family may not support something we’re doing, or there may be an opportunity that you have to take without waiting for someone else to sign on. 

The funny thing about food is that we often talk about sharing it with others, but we rarely talk about what it means to share it with ourselves. To give ourselves the dignity and respect of a solo meal, that we would give to others joining us at the table. 

In the words of Hunter S. Thompson: 

We are all alone, born alone, die alone, and—in spite of True Romance magazines—we shall all someday look back on our lives and see that, in spite of our company, we were alone the whole way. I do not say lonely—at least, not all the time—but essentially, and finally, alone. This is what makes your self-respect so important, and I don't see how you can respect yourself if you must look in the hearts and minds of others for your happiness.

That first meal in Taormina set off a chain reaction of meals in which I was a table of one, and the more I did it, the more I knew it was something to be relished. I ate more, sat longer, and always ordered another glass of wine. Yes, there are times when you are excited to share a table with someone else. But if you can’t have a meal alone and sit with the person who you’re with more than anyone else, do you even know how to be with other people fully? 

If you’re always trying to fill the void with conversation and shoving food down your throat, I’m afraid you’ve missed out on what this is all about. Because sharing meals isn’t just about filling seats, so other people think you’re important. Whatever seat you fill, alone or otherwise, you’re worthy of occupying. It took me a little while to realize that for myself, but I hope you find that for yourself sooner rather than later. Sicily or no Sicily.