Alone, adrift, abroad

A personal history of unorthodox holidays

The following is an essay I wrote on Thanksgiving, about not knowing what to do with myself during the holiday season. A few updates: My pamphlet, “You Don’t Need a Smartphone,” is now available for download here. You can also read my latest health essay here (not for the squeamish). Thanks to

Tao Lin

for taking an interest in my gastrointestinal issues – may you all be so open-minded.

Boris Grigoriev, Woman Reading, c. 1922

I had lived abroad for so long that I’d almost stopped worrying about Thanksgiving. My anxiety centered on Christmas, which I planned to spend with my boyfriend. But there was no boyfriend. Every fall, I would pin my hopes on some passing flirtation, then begin planting the seeds of “I’m not close with my family,” “This is a difficult season for me,” etc. Still, December would arrive without an invitation.

The worst Thanksgiving of my life took place in 2017. I was still living my hometown, and I planned to spend the holiday with my then-boyfriend. In mid-November, his family rescinded the invitation—too hectic, let’s get together another time—undoubtedly assuming I had my own family to fall back on. When the day came, I lay in bed until sunset, then forced myself to go on a walk downtown. The street was a corridor of illuminated windows: hell for the lonely. Tables were set, candles lit, dishes passed, glasses held up for toasts. I tried not to watch, and I couldn’t help but watch, and it was cold outside, and I was wearing a winter coat, and due to the miracles of modern HVAC, the others wore no coats, only festive blouses and plaid shirts, their hands and necks bare. I went home and microwaved a potato and ate it like a banana while watching TV.

An old postcard I like

I broke up with my boyfriend and left for Europe. Years went by. Paris, Berlin, London. Some years, Thanksgiving slipped my mind entirely, and the day passed unmarked. One year, I made soup with a friend. One year, I flew home to see my dad. Last year, I was living in London with a group of five men, one of whom I was in love with—let’s call him Thomas. Eager to demonstrate my wifeliness, I put on a plaid skirt, queued up a playlist of mid-century jazz, and cooked an elaborate Thanksgiving meal. There were platters of macaroni, mashed potatoes, and sage stuffing—but to my despair, Thomas worked late that night and didn’t make it to dinner. The rest of my British roommates had no sense of ceremony, they just ate and left, as if this were any regular Thursday evening. I felt stupid for having imagined we might go around in a circle and say what we were thankful for.

When Thomas got back from work, I asked if we could talk. We went into my bedroom. I’d been planning to confess my feelings for him, maybe to outright seduce him, but I ended up crying about my dad. “He’s going to die soon,” I said, and I hoped my tears might induce Thomas to touch me. Instead, Thomas recounted a story about his dead uncle, which was equal parts helpful and irrelevant.

Winter came and went. I finally hooked up with Thomas, then we decided we were better off as friends. My father died in the spring. I returned to America and spent the summer talking to a man who turned out to be married. I blocked his number. I didn’t want to be married, I just wanted somewhere to spend Thanksgiving. I met a lot of interesting people. Someone asked me out and I told him I was celibate. I asked someone out and he said he wanted to “stay in his lane.”

November came and I accepted that I would spend Thanksgiving alone. I made a plan—movie, hike, Thai food—and as the day approached, I began looking forward to it. Maybe it would become a new tradition, one I would uphold even after establishing my own family. “Mom’s going out for a few hours,” my husband would tell the kids, “It’s her Thanksgiving tradition.” He would finish cooking while I drove to the cinema, making it back just in time for dinner.

August Lamm, “Netto at Night,” 2022

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Two days before Thanksgiving, I visit a friend recovering from a spinal operation in a rehab facility. The friend is older, in his seventies, and we joke that he is my surrogate father. Already, I am braced for a second loss, and when I arrive at the facility I expect to find him bedbound, hooked up to tubes, the way my father was in the last few months of his life. But I find my friend upright, unattached. He stands for a hug then turns to show me his scar, all red and stapled. I ask him about his Thanksgiving plans. He says he has none. I suggest we spend the day together. He says yes, we can eat cafeteria turkey and watch Hallmark movies in his room. I drive home relieved that I do not have to invent a new tradition.

The next day, my friend calls to say that his insurance company has refused to cover further care. He is getting discharged and will spend the holiday with his family after all. He apologizes many times over, and I assure him that I am perfectly happy to spend the day alone. I am not sure if I am lying.

The night before Thanksgiving, my friends go out to the local bar to see their old high school acquaintances. I am not from this town, I don’t recognize anyone. The bartender is cute. The problem is that I don’t drink. Things become possible when you drink. How does one seduce a bartender with a clear head and a stomach full of soup? Soon, the room gets drunk enough to reveal its secrets—someone is pining for an ex, someone is getting divorced, someone is struggling to get pregnant. Love, love, love. I am too sober to trust anyone with the truth.

Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, At the Moulin Rouge, 1892–95

The bar empties out before midnight—it’s a small town—and I drive my drunk roommate home. In the car, I talk about love. “Isn’t it interesting that everyone gets their heart broken, and everyone breaks hearts?” My roommate thinks for a moment and then says, “Well, not everyone.” We get in an argument about the meaning of the word “everyone.” As the argument plays out—in the car, the driveway, the house—I keep thinking about my roommate’s family, how his parents are alive and together, how he keeps in touch with his siblings, how he always has somewhere to go. Even if he loses this argument, he will still have that. And even if I win—but this is the mental equivalent of picking at my fingernails. I retreat to my bedroom, which upsets my roommate. “That’s a power move,” he says. “I don’t have any power,” I say. Then I shut the door.

The next morning, I wake to rain. I look up movie showtimes but the only open theaters are too far away. I don’t feel like driving hours just to sit for hours—that’s a whole lot of nothing for a day that’s supposed to be remarkable. My roommate is hungover, afraid he might puke. I drive him to his truck, which is still parked outside the bar. He apologizes for the previous night. “I get contrarian when I’m drunk,” he says. “It’s okay,” I say, “I had an outsized reaction.” Then he drives off to see his family, and I drive home to think.

I drink a cup of tea. I am wearing the same underwear I wore yesterday. My father used to cry during the holiday season, saying, “I have so many regrets.” It’s easy to remember the regrets. For example: I wasn’t there when he died. It’s still raining. It’s 10 a.m. and then it’s noon. I wonder where I will spend Christmas. Am I too fixated on love? Is everyone? “Not everyone,” I think, in my roommate’s voice. It’s sleeting now. This is a regular day. I live in the woods. There are no illuminated windows for me to look at. It’s Thursday. It’s Thanksgiving and I am getting in the car and driving to the gym. I am sitting in the sauna, emerging pink as a sunburn. It’s Thanksgiving and the rain is turning to snow. The roads are getting bad. I am driving slowly, cautiously home. It’s Thanksgiving and I am sitting down to write. ∎

Andrew Wyeth, Wind from the Sea, 1947