The View from a Table for One
On learning to enjoy my own company—from cinema seats to corner cafés, and the pages that made it feel less lonely.
I have always felt safest around books. The smell of ink on paper, the sentimentality of stories, well-worn bindings battered by journeys in backpacks. Growing up, whenever I felt anxious or alone, I would find solace in places with books: the library at lunchtime, bookstores on solo walks.
When I first moved to New York, I was fresh out of college and ready to explore. But most of my friends were scattered in other cities, and I wasn’t used to doing things alone. I had always been someone who planned outings for a group, someone who preferred a plus-one.
I still am that person, if we’re being honest. But New York really throws you headfirst into the deep end. I kept coming across events and activities I wanted to go to… but hesitated. What if I was the only one there alone? What would people think? What if I had to sit with my own thoughts too long? (Cue the soundtrack of overthinking.)
I had a choice: stay home, or go anyway.
To try to mitigate the onslaught of anxious thoughts, I decided to throw a book in my bag. If I didn’t have someone to talk to, at least I could look like I was reading (even if my mind was spiraling into an overthinking wormhole).
One thing I had tried before moving here was going to a museum alone. The Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in Boston was one of my favorites, and with an audio guide to lead the way, wandering alone felt easy, almost meditative.
So when I moved to New York, I decided to try again. My first solo museum visit in New York was to the Neue Galerie, a small, intimate museum tucked away on Fifth Avenue with dark wood-paneled walls and soft, warm lighting. It felt like the perfect place to try my hand at tackling a NYC museum alone, with my paperback and a +1 of as much confidence as I could muster. Once I was inside, I noticed something: I wasn’t the only one.
Little did I know how much I’d grow to love museums solo. I could take my time with the pieces that drew me in and skip the ones that didn’t. It’s where I can go to recenter, to feel present, to listen to myself.
I vividly remember the first time I went to the movies by myself. Movies are something I would always go to with family, or watch on my couch at home. And while I obviously couldn’t read during the film, my safety blanket book was in my bag anyway, perhaps to read on the subway ride home.
I was petrified. I bought my solo ticket and settled in, surrounded by couples and groups, certain I’d be the only one there alone. I wasn’t. In fact, most people in the theater were by themselves. And as the lights dimmed, I noticed something else: I was fully immersed in the film. Just me, the screen, and a rare stillness.
There are very few places in New York where silence is expected, welcomed, even. Movie theaters are sanctuaries: pockets of quiet in a city that never stops humming.
Dining alone was the final frontier. I couldn’t imagine sitting through an entire meal without someone to talk to. What would I do? What would people think? I didn’t want to scroll through my phone, so I brought a book.
I stopped by a restaurant before an author event in Brooklyn. I sat at the bar, reading Glengarry Glen Ross, with a burger and a martini. A man sat down nearby, also alone, and pulled a script from his bag. Immediately I knew: if he was reading a play and I was reading a play, he was going to talk to me. I was quietly terrified.
But when he did, it was… nice. He asked thoughtful questions. Our conversation bounced from the pilot he was producing for Netflix to our shared excitement about Shakespeare in the Park to what it means to build a life here. We’d both come to be alone, and found unexpected company.
At some point in that conversation, I realized: my book was closed beside me.
What began as my pocket of protection had slowly become something else entirely. A quiet invitation. A gentle bridge. These moments that look solitary from the outside are acts of agency. In a city that rarely hands you a quiet moment, solitude is something you have to choose.
But those quiet moments can also make space for connection:
A shared smile with a stranger while admiring a painting.
A casual conversation with a bookseller while browsing the shelves.
Exchanging thoughts with your seat neighbor at an event, someone you may never see again.
Or maybe you will. And maybe next time, you’ll invite them to join you.
Now, when something catches my eye—an event, a show, a new exhibit—I send it to friends to see who’s interested. But if no one’s free? I’ll go anyway: a dog-eared paperback in tow, and the version of myself brave enough to do it alone. I still get to go. I still get to live here.
Whether it’s a museum bench, a movie seat in the dark, or a spot at the bar, your next favorite companion might just be… you.
Table for one, please.
well lived Sophia ✨