Nothing gave me more anxiety and pause prior to my trip than the idea of dining alone in public. Like I’ve mentioned before, although I am not a stranger to having the occasional meal alone, typically it was circumstantial — a work trip, usually.

But a month in Spain was going to mean A LOT of dining alone. After all, a girl’s got to eat, and Barcelona has countless renowned restaurants to try.

My first few times, I found myself falling into my usual habits. Although I did venture out, I sought out local places — 500 meters or less local — that offered bar seating or didn’t require reservations. Familiar territory.

I made sure I had my book, a single woman’s armor. The very idea of being caught without it conjured images of the Sex and the City episode when Samantha unexpectedly finds herself dining alone with no magazine to give her purpose — or iPhone.

I would order a gin and tonic, put my meal in almost immediately after receiving the cocktail, and read my book. I’d occasionally make conversation with the bar staff, something else that felt familiar to me.

My meals were short, about 45 minutes, and more pragmatic than a culinary or cultural experience.

Within the first week, I quickly realized that most of the restaurants I wanted to try would require reservations. If I wanted to truly experience Barcelona’s food scene and the culture surrounding dining, I was going to have to get over my anxiety.

I felt awkward and uncomfortable making a formal reservation for just me — a table for one. It felt unnecessary to make such a fuss for one person.

The first reservation I made was at El Jardí de l’Ateneu, and it was for lunch. I made it at 1:30 p.m. for a 2:00 p.m. reservation, quickly packed my crossbody with my trusty sidekick, a book — this time an Elin Hilderbrand novel I was deeply invested in — and headed out before I could chicken out.

El Jardí is the definition of a hidden place. It’s located at the Ateneu cultural center on a second-floor terrace. When I arrived, I even had to tell the security guard I had a reservation to be granted entry.

This was where I discovered my first menú del día. I also experienced my first slight moment of panic when the menu was only in Spanish. But that moment dissipated when I remembered I pay for ChatGPT Plus and it can easily translate this.

The menu of the day included a starter, entrée and dessert, and after relaying my choices to the waiter, I settled in for what would be my longest meal in Barcelona yet.

As I read my book, I noticed quite a few solo diners: a gentleman reading a newspaper, a woman enjoying a glass of cava with an unopened book on the table, and another gentleman drinking an espresso, presumably after his own long lunch.

The first course arrived and after I had fully finished it, the waiter asked if I was ready for the second. A short while later, it arrived. When it was finally time for the last course, dessert, I hadn’t even realized that an hour and a half had passed.

I walked back to my apartment feeling like I had gotten a small glimpse into what lunch culture meant and had taken a slightly bigger step outside my comfort zone.

The real test came when I tried to book my top-priority restaurant: Berbena. To be transparent, this wasn’t meant to be a solo adventure.

Prior to Camerina’s arrival, I looked for a table for two and discovered that not only were there no tables available during her stay, there were none during my other friend’s stay either.

So I shifted my focus to a reservation for one.

I quickly hit a roadblock using the online reservation system. It looked like there were tables available, but not a single one for one person at ANY point in September.

I was about ready to give up but instead did something I despise doing: I contacted the restaurant and asked. To be fair, it’s not just restaurants I hate contacting. I also hate phoning banks, insurance companies, utility companies, Verizon — the list goes on.

A staff member informed me that reservations for one were available, but solo diners were seated at the chef’s counter. I was instructed to put myself on the waitlist and told the restaurant would contact me to confirm availability.

Sure enough, within 15 minutes, I was booked for a Friday lunch.

The reservation time slot was for two hours and fifteen minutes, and I remember thinking on my way there, how could I possibly take that long to have lunch?

Upon arrival, I was seated at the chef’s counter, where there was just one other solo diner. From my stool, I not only had a clear view into the kitchen, but I was so close I could practically grab a ladle and start stirring.

The waiter provided a rundown of how their menu worked, informing us that they put the entire order in at the same time and offered quarter and half portions of many of their dishes.

Finally, an accommodating tapas experience for one! At other places, I typically restricted myself to ordering two or three things max, depending on the size.

I selected five items, mixing half and quarter portions, and at the suggestion of the waiter, added a couple more.

Then I settled in with a glass of wine and the intention of reading the book I had pulled out of my bag when I sat down and had since wedged under my thigh.

Which is exactly where it stayed.

As it turned out, sitting at the chef’s counter was exciting.

It was like having a front-row seat with a backstage pass to an orchestrated show. From my stool, I watched the kitchen move through its rhythm — plates assembled, dishes passed down the line, staff weaving around one another with practiced ease.

Throughout the meal, the waiter shared facts about the restaurant, including pointing out some Easter eggs hidden in the menu — mainly related to their love for LCD Soundsystem.

At the end, the chef even came over to say hello after completing what appeared to be well over 100 plates.

It’s funny that the reservation I initially viewed as a consolation prize was actually the most coveted.

As I walked to the metro station after spending two and a half hours at Berbena, I thought about how, despite arriving alone, I hadn’t felt alone for a single moment.

I never even reached for my book once.

Since then, dining solo has stopped requiring so much thought.

I no longer look at a busy restaurant and convince myself they probably don’t have space for me. I walk in and ask if they have a table for one. I don’t automatically look for the bar either nor do I feel the need to get my order in quickly. And my book is no longer an indispensable item.

Sure, I still read sometimes. I actually love reading. But the book is no longer armor.

Somewhere along the way, I discovered how to sit with myself for a long period of time — eating slowly, observing what’s happening around me, or simply doing nothing at all. Now, being alone doesn’t mean I need something to make me look occupied.

I’ve learned that I can be my own company.

You know what? I’m a pretty good date.