lonely
I miss eating out. I miss meeting strangers. I miss sitting at the bar with a book and a glass of wine, hearing snippets of conversation, making small talk with the bartender. Everything has changed. Zoom happy hours, video catch-ups with friends, long phone conversations – it’s starting to feel like they’re not enough anymore. There was an unpredictability to life when we could all still be around each other; the decision to stay for another drink, to meet a friend even though you’ve already changed into sweatpants, or to cancel all your plans to stay inside for just one night – because you wouldn’t have to stay inside for the next 300 nights, too.
It is February. We are nearly eleven months into this pandemic, here in the US. And I think I’m reaching my breaking point. I have been diligent about quarantining, washing my hands, and wearing a mask – but it’s maddening to see that not everyone else can be bothered. That some people are viewing this as THEIR time to adventure, to take cheap flights, to eat out in places that are usually booked solid, all at the risk of so many others. I know it is in large part a failing on the part of our government (federal, state, local), especially when looking at other countries; but sometimes it’s easier to blame the person whose Instagram shows pictures of them in a different place every week. I begin to wonder why I’m working so hard to follow the rules; don’t I deserve a break, too?
I have lived alone for the last seven years, and I love it. Living alone in a city that is always alive is a privilege. It provides a safe haven, a retreat for when you want to get away from everyone (mostly…you can still hear people outside when you live on the fourth floor). Many people, usually those who have never really been alone, confuse being alone with being lonely; I, and many others, can attest to the fact that these are two very different things. This pandemic is the first time living alone has felt lonely. Don’t get me wrong; I’ve appreciated and enjoyed a lot of this time. I read more than I had in years; I reconnected with old friends; I finally completed some long overdue home projects. And after spending two-week quarantine safe chunks of time with my family, I’m very grateful to come home and be alone. But I have also come to resent it at times, too. I didn’t realize how balanced my life was, before; if it felt too quiet at home, there was always somewhere to go, someone to meet, something to do.
I went to college here, too. During the spring semester of my senior year, I had a light class load and I was working part-time. My friends and I had found a new tapas bar right around my 21st birthday. It was a small place, a few steps down from the street on 2nd Ave. We quickly became regulars there. It was just two blocks from my apartment. I’d often stop there on my way home after class or work and sit at the long bar, usually empty in those early days. The owner, who was usually bartending back then, became a friend. I would pull some reading from class out of my bag, and sip a glass of sangria (or three) while doing my homework. He and I would chat between customers and reading, and eventually my attention would shift entirely from my work to the people in the bar. It was a nice alternative to going home to our (very cold) apartment in the winter, especially if my roommate wasn’t home yet. And once it became spring, well – who wanted to be stuck inside? The bar was a dark, cool reprieve on hot summer days; there was only one window, making it easy to escape from the sun.
Reading at the bar became a habit. If I needed somewhere to go, or a place to kill time while waiting for a friend, I would find a bar to sit at, with a book – because I almost always had a book. My friends have often teased me for how heavy my purse always is; reading material can weigh you down. Restaurant bars are – were – perfect for this. It’s never so loud that you can’t concentrate, but if you want to people-watch and gently eavesdrop, that’s also an option.
When I moved back to New York in 2014, it felt foreign. It had been nearly three years; I had never lived here as a post-college adult, and I was no longer downtown, with my old haunts. I felt unsteady, like I was trying to find my city legs again. I didn’t always want to go straight back to my temporary sublet, so instead, I would stop in at the bar that was a block away. It was a small, cozy bar with a bearded giant of a bartender. We became friendly quickly, though I suspect that was his way with everyone. Some nights it wasn’t busy, and we would chat and I would read, but other nights the bar was packed and I would weasel my way into a seat and people-watch. He always had some new experiment happening; one night, there was jalapeño-infused vodka, on another, a hand-held smoker to infuse drinks. He kept a little black book, where he jotted down ideas for drinks; there was one afternoon I spent there telling him about a spritz I had in Vienna. He tried replicating it right there and then, and wrote it down. He made room for me at the bar if he could, and always had a smile and a hug if it was too busy. I remember it vividly as a safe place while I readjusted to the city. For those first five months, there was someone who knew me, a place to go.
Pre-pandemic, it had been a little while since I’d been a regular anywhere. I had meant to make more of an effort in 2020 to visit new restaurants and try new foods – and to revisit my bar and a book habit, which had fallen by the wayside. It was a great way to disconnect from work, to remind myself to read, and to create the possibility of interesting conversation. I squeezed a fair amount of fun into the first two and a half months of last year, despite my ignorance about what was coming – a vacation, a wedding, weekends with friends and family and good food – but I didn’t take a day for myself, a day to savor being alone in my city. I thought there would be more time.
I miss seeing life happen all around me. I miss being alone, but not lonely. I am eagerly awaiting the day that we can go back to living together again. I miss being seen.
