The waiters walk past you, glancing slightly and then continuing on to the next table. They ignore you, but not consciously or even maliciously – they think you’re waiting for your guest. The other people around me are being served coffee and juice, some have bread baskets and other tables are dining on hot eggs and omelettes. “They” are a couple, I am at a table for one.

I watch the room and trace the pattern of the waiters going from table to table, and I’m getting a little annoyed as I wait for someone to come over. The woman who seated me at the restaurant knows I’m only one person – she seated me for one person – surely, she told the other people I was only one person. Then I realize: I’m sitting at a table for one waiting for something to happen. Why? I don’t wait when it comes to my career, why am I waiting to be served eggs?

Now would be the most appropriate time to transition the story into the metaphor the eggs symbolize – being single, and ‘unfertilized’ – but that’s too cliche for me. In fact, the point isn’t about the missing huevos rancheros, or the fact that Mr. Huevo hasn’t galloped down my street to whisk me away to his ranchero. The point is, as single women, unconsciously we wait, but for what?

Beach dining

Sitting alone at Cocotal (one of the resort’s restaurants open for breakfast) I’m admittedly a little teary – maybe it’s because I feel like the cubic zirconia in a sea of diamond rings, or maybe it’s because I’ve been awake for almost two hours without caffeine. Whatever the case, my patience has ended and my single-woman-superhero-psycho-independence is taking over. I’m done waiting.

I stood up, walked over to the waiters station and poured myself cup of hot coffee. I asked one of the servers to place an order of huevos rancheros and, just for added effect, I took the pot of coffee and gracefully walked back to my table for one.

Edgartown Lighthouse, Martha's Vineyard

There are few things as pleasant as Martha’s Vineyard in the off-season. Rain boots, sweatshirts and fall hats serve a purpose that only a true New Englander can appreciate.

Gone are the tank tops and flip-flops, and in their place are fleece cover-ups and cotton scarves.

New to the off-season is the Martha’s Vineyard Food & Wine festival, which is now in its third year. The ferry left at 6:15 pm Friday night and just made it — there was a storm coming in and the seas were getting rough. We arrived in Vineyard Haven 45 minutes later and made our way to Edgartown. Navigating Martha’s Vineyard in the dark isn’t easy, but thankfully, the rain had held off long enough for us to reach the Harbor View Hotel.

The hotel is perfectly placed on the harbor with amazing views of the Edgartown Lighthouse. The wrap-around porch is welcoming with bright blue rocking chairs and an inviting restaurant. Each room is decorated in blue and brown tones and my favorite part: instead of bottled water in the room, the hotel provides its guests with water bottles (free of charge) to fill up on their way in and out for the day. A great green effort!

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My new favorite thing about hotels: rooftop bars. On a recent trip to New York City, I happened to stay at two different hotels, each with a rooftop bar. This wasn’t a requirement for my booking, but it was a nice amenity to my stay.

Rooftop bars have grown up over the years. Plastic chairs and table covers have been replaced with cushioned-lounge chairs and clear plastic tables. Twinkle lights and flowing drapes provide the ambiance for the evening. In New York City, the rooftop bars provide some of the best views of Manhattan (hint: skip the line at the Empire State Building and head to a rooftop bar for a cocktail and the same views).

What I love most about these rooftop bars is the design – they are inviting, enticing and alluring, and posses a certain boudoir-style that not only makes you feel comfortable, but also a little sexy.

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What’s a girl to do when she can’t fit into her skinny jeans? She goes on a diet. But this time I decided to dial up the diet a notch and really diet – and by diet, I mean cleanse. The Blue Print Cleanse.

The premise is simple: for 1, 3 or 5 days, you drink only the juices The Cleanse sends you. The purpose is to rid your body of the impurities that have built up over time thanks to pasturized foods, alcohol, salt and sugar — all substances I’m guilty of digesting on a regular basis. The juices are all natural pure juices made of vegetables and fruits — nothing fake or unordinary. They show up on your doorstep in pre-packed boxes ready to drink and labeled so you don’t have to figure out what’s what or when. It couldn’t be simpler, and so, I cleansed.

Day 1 was disastrous. Everything looked like food. The pencils on my desk resembled hot dogs, the people on the street looked liked different colored candy. I was hungry, but I drank and I drank until I wasn’t hungry any more. The good news is that the hunger didn’t last – after the second juice I was full and feeling good. The bad news is that part of the Cleanse is giving up caffeine, so withdrawal was setting in. That night, I fell asleep at 8 p.m. and got easily the best sleep I’ve had in months.

Day 2 I cheated. I woke up with a splitting headache and immediately brewed myself a cup of coffee. The result was fabulous – euphoria fell over me and soon, I was thinking clear again. Headache gone, juice 1 down for the day, and I was off to get my errands run. Mid-afternoon I caved and bought a bag of almonds. The sensation of chewing was starting to have a hallucinogenic effect on me — I needed to chew something, so I opted for something healthy. I don’t regret my choice.

Day 3 I felt great. Full of energy, able to work and function without the craving for food. I met a friend in the afternoon for jeans shopping and walked out of the store with a new pair of jeans that fit just a little better than I had expected.

The day ended, and I celebrated with a glass of white wine. No, it’s not recommended, but I felt it was OK to reward myself. The BPC was a great way to rid yourself of the crap we eat on a daily basis.

Did I cheat? Yes.

Did I survive? Yes.

Would I do it again? Absolutely.

Boston in the summer is a force to be reconed with. The students have moved out, but the tourists have moved in. It’s hot in the city, and the narrow streets of Boston’s North End get smaller as the feasts get larger.

The North End feasts are a tradition. Starting in July, the every-weekend feasts honor one of the patron Saints. The streets are decorated with red, white and green lights and booths offering everything from pizza slices to cannoli and gelato are set up for all to ‘feast.’  As the summer gets longer, so do the feasts.

A procession through Boston's North End for the Feast

No longer a peaceful spectactor sport, the feasts have grown in the 12 years I’ve lived in the neighborhood from simple age-old traditions to sponsorships and carnival games. Next to the Lady Madonna sits a booth with faux Louis Vitton bags and fake rolex watches. The banners that welcome tourists to the North End are sponsored by local banks or restaurants. I wonder if these ‘additions’ to what once was a religious ritual is really helping the local economy or just providing a commercial distraction.

Every summer I sit on my front step and watch the hundreds of people go by. I wonder if they know the signifcance of the North End feasts, or if they just find the scene exciting and entertaining – like something out of a movie. No matter, really. I know the look in the eyes of the 80+ year-old men who remember the days of feasts long ago… when the courted their wives, played bocce in the streets and drank lemon ice from a paper cup. It’s those memories that will last a lifetime.

One of the side effects of being a travel writer is that sometimes you wake up and forget where you are, or more likely, what time zone you’re in. Some days you wake up and you’re just too overwhelmed by the sights and the sounds of a new place that it’s almost hard to take it all in. That’s Rome.

It’s been 24 hours in Rome and I’m already in love with the Eternal City.

We had dinner last night in the Jewish Ghetto. A man walked with a violin playing songs I used to sing as a young girl in Sunday school. That’s Rome.

After dinner we went to the Spanish Steps and (full of gumption, thanks to the bottles of wine we consumed) we ran to the top. There was a lovely wine bar at the top of the Spanish Steps, hidden behind tresses of ivy and wildflowers. We were seated for another glass of wine and the waiter poured himself a glass, lifted a glass and said “Salud” into the air to the crowd. That’s Rome.

We stumbled home and crashed into bed. Eleven hours later it’s noon in Rome – I’m over the jetlag and now battling a headache. Off to meet MFTM for some pizza before taking in the Colosseum, Forum and the Pantheon.