BY GERTRUDE FAUST BERGER

Hermit-hood is not a deliberate choice; it just happens when you reach your eighties. Many of my lifelong friends succumbed to the dictates of Mother Nature and Father Time—and those who survived escaped to La Jolla, Boca Raton, and even Safed.

At one point I was lucky to have a couple of single neighbors and also two retired teachers from my UFT class come into my life. They were younger than I, and walked better, heard better, saw better. Our relationship revolved around eating out, which suited me perfectly. After we settled on a mutually agreeable time, we would come to the question of where to go. Muriel said Indian cuisine was too spicy and Japanese food overpriced; Regina said Chinese food had MSG; and Rae wanted a late lunch because it was cheaper and she would not have to eat a big dinner. They suggested Italian, but flexible as I was, I refused to pay 10 dollars for pasta that cost 49 cents a box in my supermarket. So, little by little, the phone calls ended with, “I’ll get back to you.”

I did manage to have dinner with one man at a neighborhood pub so dark I would have liked a guide dog. He chose it because the waitresses called him by name. Eighty years old, he remembered me from the now-defunct neighborhood Apple Spa where I swam; I was flattered that he invited me after seeing me in a bathing suit. He attacked his chicken like an escaped convict, yet showed no interest, as if it were just a glob of clay. Never asking a thing about me, he boastfully ticked off his daily routine; after swimming at nine a.m. at the public pool, he did calisthenics, and then proceeded to his law office, etc. He casually transferred all of the bread on the table into his plastic bag. I finally stopped listening to his smug prattle and returned home to dance to my collection of salsa music. This made me remember my date with a mambo dancer so immersed in his own acrobatic gymnastics that he didn’t notice when I exited the dance floor. Allegedly invented so as not to offend a Dominican ruler with a bad leg, the merengue is easier. It is danced by stepping on a good foot and sliding the bad leg alongside.

I have to say that being a hermit has its advantages. I’m not stuck or trapped. I set my own agenda. I go to sleep when I want; I get up when I want. I eat when and where and also how much I want. I leave whatever tip I desire and waiters don’t have to be annoyed, as they are when I’m out with the gang and request a separate check.

Among New York’s ethnic enclaves, Chinatown is one of my preferred trips. The panoply of fruits, vegetables, fish, herbs and spices is incomparable. The coffee shops are my favorites, with coffee better than that at Starbucks, and a third of the price. I’m relieved to sit alone without having to hear some friend complain that there’s no decaf. I can glimpse the whole hidden world of China: the cherubic children, the mothers, the grandmothers, and elegant couples—all without an arduous trip to China.

In this secret, sheltered corner, I don’t have to listen to my friends’ maladies—colitis, irritable bowel syndrome, chronic fatigue, God knows what else—the endless tales squandering my time with their gritty descriptions. These companions are bright but their drearily limited chitchat dampens the bright moments. I prefer my own company and the intriguing, uninterrupted conversations I have with myself.

Savoring my independent well-being, I was approached by a nicely dressed elderly Chinese gentleman. Bowing, he beckoned to the vacant seat at my table. “Hen hau,” I cheerily indicated. Impressed, he offered me one of his Italianate-Chinese elaborate pastries. Showing off my Chinese, I said, “Tseswoh zai nar,” misremembering its meaning as, “You are very kind.” I had taken Chinese for four hours at the China Institute before my trip to China many years ago. Needless to say, my Chinese didn’t go over very well with my mister “Don Wong.” He pointed to the back of the shop and I realized that what I’d smilingly said was, “Where is the bathroom?”

Chinese 101 will be my next project, or maybe Arabic, if I have time with all the free movies, concerts, and art receptions available in New York. Then there’s always Maximo, the gorgeous Filipino physical therapist who attends to my creaky knees.