Accidental Tourist

No matter how often I do it, walking in to a restaurant and asking for a table for one never gets any easier.

I’ve got no problem traveling by myself. I’ve done it often enough now to not be bothered by it. In fact I quite often enjoy and prefer it. Sometimes its simply necessary if you want to do something if you can’t find anyone else to join you (i.e. two months perfecting a Caribbean tan).

It does have it’s pros and cons. The most obvious pro is that being by yourself means you can go off and do whatever the hell you like, rather then having to go along with the group consensus. This often works out perfectly for my penchant for taking photos, but it’s also a boon if you’re keen to do more strenuous activities others wouldn’t be as keen for.

The major benefit however, is that it both gives you the opportunity to and actually forces you make an effort to be sociable and meet new people, whether they be locals or other travelers. If you don’t have a travel partner to easily chat with, you’ll soon make that extra effort to be outgoing and spark up a conversation with any random stranger who doesn’t look like they want to rip you off (even then I’ve been willing to entertain some scamsters when I’ve been particularly bored or lonely). For those hardcore travel nuts this does naturally mean you’ll get more ‘genuine local experiences’ purely because often enough the only random strangers around will be locals.

One of the flip sides to all this is the Groundhog Day effect. Inevitably when you’re meeting people for the first time you have the same conversation repeated over again. After a while it does get quite tiring running through the same small talk - I’m an Aussie, from Melbourne, I’ve come from…, I’m heading to…, I know my accent is a bit mixed but I’ve been living in London for a while…, etc.

Of course, regardless of how outgoing you try to be, sometimes you just can’t find someone to talk to. If you’re away from a tourist area in a country where you don’t speak the language (read: any non-English speaking country for me) locals to talk to can be few and far between, nor are there always fellow tourists to “bump in to” (read: stalk).

I’ve drunk many a beer sitting at a bar by myself just waiting for someone to sit next to me. In fact, I’ve become so used to it that even when not traveling I’m not adverse to the odd solo beverage as it can be a good chance to think about things and clear your mind.

However, I’ll never feel completely comfortable walking in to a restaurant and asking for that table for one. It doesn’t matter how many times you do it, nor what language you do it in, you know that holding up that solo finger to the waiter leaves him in no doubt that you’re not just awaiting for someone and that quite simply you’re a loser with no friends to dine with.

It doesn’t matter how many times I saw it, I’ve never fully become desensitized to seeing this kind of behavior in a public place. This is but one example that I managed to catch of camera of what is genuinely quite a common site on the dance floor of clubs and bars on English speaking Caribbean islands (that pic was taken at the Cinqo de Mayo street parade in the Cayman Islands).

I’m trying very hard to not sound like an old prude in commenting about this because heaven knows I’m not adverse the odd bit of hip grinding action on the dance floor. I’d be lying if I tried to claim that I’d never participated in odd ‘public display of affection’ on the dance floor of an establishment that purveys alcoholic beverages.

However, I’ve always been a fan of what many people would consider to be the stylish and romantic Latin dances such as the Tango or Rumba (I would love to say that I was more then just a fan but as I discovered in Cuba, white men who grew up in Australia playing sport just look plain bad when placed next to Latin guys who grew up on the dance floor).

What I regularly saw in Reggae and Ska clubs was what, when I was growing up, would have been described as doggy-style dry-rooting. Basically, with the exception of the fact that there were still clothes involved and that we were in a public place, I would have sworn that I was getting a free demonstration of some Caribbean-style love moves. There was certainly no imagination required.

If nothing else, call me an old school romantic, but I’ve always considered that it was only polite to make eye contact with the person that you’re getting up close, personal and physically acquainted with.

I tried to avoid it. I really did.

I know that some people who’ve traveled with me and know my love of a good cliché may not believe me (my most recent favourites being in Ireland and being able to tell a limerick when in Limerick and sing "It’s a long way to Tipperary" on my way to…).

This time was different. This time I felt that it was too much even for me.

I’ve spent the last two months surrounded by cheesy pirate dummies and other cheap "The rum drinking will continue until morale improves" t-shirts and souvenirs. I’ve seen the Pirates of the Caribbean movies at least four times on TV. Due to a lack of other English reading material in Cuba I’ve even read Treasure Island for the first time.

All this time I have managed to control myself.

Finally, after 5 days out on a boat sailing around St Vincent & the Grenadines I succumbed to the temptation.

We’d dropped anchor at a place called Tabago Cays which is an impossibly beautiful set of small uninhabited islands which are the epitome of the stereotype white sand beach and turquoise water Caribbean island. I was excited because I’d finally found my ideal happy place to imagine in times of needing to escape reality. When it was pointed of that this was the location used to film the first Pirates of the Caribbean movie scene where Johnny Depp and Kiera Knightly are stranded on a desert island with a stockpile of rum, I finally let my guard down long enough for it to came out.

In the end it was disappointingly banal comment to my captain about what it would take to piss him off enough that he would make me walk the plank and leave me stranded on this deserted island.

I’m not proud about it, but there it was for all to hear - the cliché that I just couldn’t contain.

More photos - http://www.flickr.com/photos/bc_melbourne/sets/72157600341739604/

Coming up next: The Return to the Real World. Yes, that’s right. I’m sure you’ll all be happy to hear that two months later I’ve pretty much run out of money and have to finally accept the reality of working again sometime soon. I’m in Barbados now. From here I’ll fly to Vancouver in the near future and start the reintegration process.