Last month, a GoodTimes reader responded to a column I’d written about solo dining at home with a challenge: it’s one thing to eat alone in your kitchen, but what about going out to a real restaurant? The kind with candles, cloth napkins, and a host to remind you, “just one”?

My version of dining out solo is a veggie burger at the airport bar in a pinch. Being alone in a restaurant filled with good friends, first dates and soulmates was the last thing I planned to sign up for.  

Fast forward to a week ago, when I found myself locked out of an apartment in Lagos, Portugal wearing flip-flops, shorts and a t-shirt, facing the dawning realization that I might be sleeping in my rental car.

This was not the empowering solo travel moment I had envisioned.

This last half of the trip came after a week spent traveling with a single friend. It was during one of the many long conversations we shared that the subject of dining alone came up. I mentioned the recent Good Times column and a reader who suggested I follow up with a piece about taking yourself out to dinner, not at the food court or the airport, but deliberately walking into an upscale restaurant and asking for a table for one.

My friend, a seasoned solo traveler, shrugged. “Sit at the bar. Put your phone down. Be open. It’s easier than you think.” I nodded confidently. Of course. I would absolutely do that when hell freezes over.

Cut to a few days later. I was alone in Lagos, a postcard-perfect port town of cobblestone streets and tiled buildings. My daughter and I had mismatched schedules, and I suddenly had two days to myself.

Few residents of the small town spoke English, and even though my Portuguese is hopeless, lunch was easy. I’ve never minded eating alone on the go. It’s the intentional act of dining solo that feels oddly vulnerable. There’s something about candlelight and linen napkins that seems to require a companion.

Back at my apartment, I realized I’d left my phone charger in the rental car parked just outside. No big deal. I stepped out with the door unlocked, never expecting it to lock behind me. There I stood: no phone, no purse, no keys. Just a car key and a charger, both of which were useless without a phone.

The street was quiet. The sun was setting. I briefly imagined explaining to friends back home how my first night in Portugal was spent reclining in the driver’s seat at 55 degrees Fahrenheit.

Not knowing what else to do, I attempted to communicate my predicament to some customers mingling at a nearby café using expressive gestures and the words “Rui? Maria?” (the apartment owners). The bartender shook her head and shrugged at my insistent appeals. I darted across the street when I say an older woman unlocking the door to the neighboring apartment. When I realized there was a language barrier, I pointed and mimed. She responded with what appeared to be a suggestion that I break the window. Creative but not ideal.

Increasingly flustered, I knocked on another nearby door. A man answered in English. I almost hugged him. I explained my dilemma to a wary Canadian who eventually let down his guard when I held up my phone charger. I convinced his to text the number for the property manager I noticed printed on the apartment door, presumably for occasions like this one.

Then I sat to wait on the doorstep as darkness settled in. Twenty long minutes later, Maria arrived with a key, and I was back inside. Crisis averted. But something had shifted.

After contemplating an unplanned night in a rental car, walking into a restaurant alone no longer felt particularly daunting. It was past dinnertime. I looked across the street at the upscale spot the apartment owner had recommended. Why not? I thought. Inside, I realized there was no bar to slouch behind. “I got this” I thought. “Table for one,” I said boldly.

The restaurant was full. I was the only solo diner on a busy Saturday night. For a moment, I felt conspicuous. Was it my imagination, or were people looking? A woman dining alone can feel faintly subversive for reasons as old as the sun. Suddenly, my phone dinged. My traveler friend texted to ask how I was doing. “Feeling ballsy,” I responded.

Then I put the phone down. I looked around. I noticed the glow of warm light against old stone walls, the rhythm of servers gliding between tables, the laughter rising from shared bottles of wine. I ordered exactly what I wanted. No negotiations. No polite compromises. The food was exquisite. I ate slowly, giving the experience my full attention.

And somewhere between the first bite and the last sip, I realized the discomfort I’d anticipated simply wasn’t there. And that even when you’re in silent conversation with yourself, it’s still okay to laugh out loud, which I did, at the ridiculousness of my first world saga. How lucky was I to even be there?

We often frame solo dining as something to endure, a placeholder until the “right” person occupies the chair across from us. But why? There’s a subtle power in not waiting. In not shrinking. In not apologizing to a host for taking up a table that could be for two.

And here’s the irony: once you stop worrying about how it looks, it stops feeling like a statement and more like the privilege that it is.

I still love sharing meals with friends. I love the long conversations, the passing of plates, the overlapping stories. But it’s reassuring to know that if life locks the door behind you, literally or metaphorically, you can still walk into a restaurant, lift your chin, and feel grateful to be there.

Table for one.

No explanation required.