The New York Times has an article (which Ann Althouse and her commenters are also discussing) on women dining alone. Should they be pitied? Should they be joined? So should they be ignored entirely?
The article posits that they should not be pitied, and any invitations to have them join you should be conveyed through the wait staff. Sounds ok to me. Personally I might not mind a direct inquiry, but I guess it would depend on the surrounding circumstances whether I might feel uncomfortable about it. Ordinarily if I'm traveling alone I'm very open to meeting new people, and as long as I had not brought along something to read or work on - or sometimes even if I have - I wouldn't mind the opportunity to share a conversation with someone new.
I've done this from time to time, having spontaneous dining conversations with previously complete strangers. It happened most recently in Poland. At the hotel I was staying at in Suwalki, dinner was included in the dining room downstairs. I was joined midway through by two German men I'd started chatting with on line to check in. They were both train enthusiasts out visiting the area to see a nearby narrow-gauge railroad. We had a nice conversation, and they let me practice my German.
I also remember one of my final meals in France before I moved back to the US. My apartment was over a Mexican restaurant ("El Chuncho"), which was run by a very friendly, barrel-chested Mexican man, who was married to a Frenchwoman and had 14 children, including some sons he liked to try to set me up with... Because it was so close, and because it was relatively affordable (I could get a strip steak, salad, and potatoes for 60 francs, which was probably one of the few balanced meals I could properly afford) I used to go there about once a month. Sometimes he offered me free tequila to shoot after dinner, and I have an amusing picture of me, my mom, and my sister attempting it on one occasion…
As I was packing to move home I decided to go one last time. It was crowded (this place was one of the few in France where people could get halfway decent fajitas), but there were two two-person tables out front. I was sat at one, leaving a vacant seat, and another man was sat at another, leaving another vacant seat. This arrangement wasn't going to work for the restaurant, however, so they unilaterally resat the man with me.
Thus, thrust together by destiny, we decided to make the most of it and talk to each other. I actually still remember much of what was said. He was very open in talking about his life, and he was unlike anyone I'd ever met before. I remember him telling me about how he (too) had moved countries, how his career had gotten started, and how the risks he'd taken had led to his success. I think he was someone I needed to meet at that point in my life, someone who could show me that there were other ways to live than conservatively.
But I kind of ignored what he said, because I was about to leave France to go live conservatively. I was about to move in with my boyfriend and set forth on the path of a husband, a mortgage, two kids, and a cat. And that's what I wanted, so I thought.
After dinner we walked around for a bit and he treated me for ice cream at the Haagen Daas on Boulevard St. German des Pres. Then we said good-night and good-bye, and we went our separate ways.
I do think about him from time to time, though. I remember his field was paper-technology, and every time I read about advances in this field I think about him. I also think about him every time I log in to check my email, for there, at the top of my messages, is one from him inviting me to write back.
I never did. I never could. I was so absorbed in my own life, a life I was so determined to lead in exactly the way I'd set out, that I could never find the moment to tear myself away from it to maintain the connection. Instead I relegated him to a memory, a memory I haven't thought so much about until the New York Times article reminded me.
I think I made a mistake in not maintaining the connection. Yes, sure it's awkward to know how to handle these things, knowing how to navigate people's expectations and such. Maybe I was afraid, and it seemed safer to just run back to California and pretend we'd never met. But that was a cowardly way to live, and if there's anything I remember him communicating to me it was that life shouldn't be lived that way. Seven years later I can look back on it and realize he was right. But then, I think in some way I always knew that.