A Few Thousand Miles Closer

We are not defined so much by our successes and failures, but rather by the interesting people in life we get to call friends. – A lesson learned from Ben Stiller’s The Secret Life of Walter Mitty

            I often question why I do what I do. Why I am who I am. It’s very existential of me, and it seems a never-ending process of discovery and confusion. Some things make sense to me, others don’t. At some point, it simply is what it is. However, among the things I have answers for is the above lesson learned from a beloved movie and put into my own words, experienced time and time again in countries other than my own. What do I have in life other than the ability to connect? Not much, as my bank account will attest. I have squandered thousands of dollars in the pursuit of connection—a pursuit that must seem foolish to my family; they’ve told me as such—but it remains the greatest of my accomplishments to have met this array of interesting people, all the while learning not only their languages and how to connect with their respective cultures, but also learning how to connect with myself. Address my own human solitude. My mental anguish, my broken heart, my tired soul. The happiness—the love—and the mistakes made. Travel is, and will continue to be, a great experiment in this.

            I met many friends in Peru—from all over the world, be they from my hostel or fellow pilgrims to Machu Picchu—but the best of them all was Theo. He was Australian—and I came over the course of my brief moment in Cusco to get to know two Aussies named Theo. But this one I met on the train to Aguas Calientes. We began to talk immediately, I think because we had to—there was nothing else to do, and we were drawn to each other. Our souls could sense the common ground. I have no idea who spoke first, but soon we couldn’t shut up. About travel, about love and heartbreak, about language. Theo spoke five much better than I spoke mine. We connected over Japanese and Greek grammar—topics he knew well and I surprised myself by my ability to engage with—and we spoke about the power of language in connecting with others. The euphoria that comes with understanding someone. He dated someone from Argentina for a time, and thus learned Spanish. Though that relationship ended, he was now able to explore places like Peru. He had a delightful magic about him and wore a hat that made him look like he was straight from the outback. And a funny tidbit? He was obsessed with Texas. Most Australians are, but him especially. “I feel I lived in Texas in a past life,” he told me, “I’ve never been, but I can feel it.”

            I guess my next friend was Tahar. Morocco overwhelmed me in many ways, and in others it was my linguistic playground. I was happy to find an English-speaking Berber man whose shop conveniently pointed out the street where my riad was located within the endless maze of the Berber part of the souk, and although he was always trying to get me to buy something, he offered handy Marrakech tips and tricks. And Darija words. And the pinnacle of Moroccan hospitality—homemade tea. He had a small stove and a kettle right there in his shop, and a stool he whipped out as I trudged back to my riad after a long day shopping and sitting in the sun. Tahar had a wonderfully bright smile. I learned later that his name means “virtuous”. I surely found him to be just that. He was a gentleman and a soothing presence amid that chaotic world—someone transparent and trustworthy. He never kept me for too long—I often excused myself early for fear I could not trust him. It was only later I realized that he may have been the only person I could trust. And I did not get to say goodbye. I ran through the souk to catch my flight, only caring to stop at his shop—but it was closed. I guess he was right, this was a special time to visit his cousins at the Berber market. And now that special time had passed.

            The most recent friend I met still strikes me as one of the most special connections I have made. I regret that I could not speak more French, although he was more than willing to speak English with me. Ari was about eighty years old. He wore a simple beanie and coat, smoked many cigarettes, hit two vapes at once from time to time, and drank simple espresso. The bistro table he sat at was littered with papers—tables and graphs and photos—which intrigued me. The second day I sat next to him was a Sunday, and I had to ask. “What are you working on?” I not surprisingly forgot how to say how are you in French, my weakest language. He was a retired civil engineer, he said, and he was working on revitalizing a 17th-century convent to turn it into a high school. This sparked a conversation that lasted about an hour and a half. We drank many espressos and smoked many cigarettes. Sometimes we fell silent, and then one of us would say something else. I mainly listened. I had something to learn from Ari. He had grown up in Morocco just south of the Atlas mountains, then moved to Israel, then to France. He didn’t quite agree with the Israeli politics, he said, and felt alienated by religion. “I am much happier here,” he told me, “In France, they separate church and state.” His wife was also retired. But in her retirement she went back to university and got a degree in ancient semitic languages. She read the Code of Hammurabi in the original Cuniform. I couldn’t stop thinking about how badass that was—how badass they both were. How much I admired them pursuing their passions well past retirement. Ari and I spoke about many deep things. We shared common opinions and had been to some of the same places. He had even been to Dallas. “The accent was hard,” he said. I laughed. I could see why.

            I don’t quite yet know what I learned from Ari. I know I admired him, and I feel honored to have shared a bistro corner with him. I think he might be the most interesting person I have ever met, and a kind soul. I think in the coming months and years I will look back on that time and the friends who came before and regard them as the greatest times in my life. And there are many more I have not mentioned here. Theresa who brought me coca tea and breakfast when I was altitude sick in Cusco. Maya from Tunisia. A girl from Jordan who sat next to me at a Flamenco show in Madrid. All who shaped me or provided comfort one way or another when I was a weary traveler. I know that this is why I travel. Why I learn languages. So I can learn from others. So I can make more friends. So I can find my own tired soul in the souls of those around me, look into their eyes, and see we aren’t so different. Though I often feel like an outsider in my own home country, state, and city, I can see that globally there are people like me, and I am not alone. I think that is priceless, and I will gladly spend many more thousands of dollars to remind myself of it. It is why I recommend travel—solo travel—to everyone around me. There is something so precious about your world expanding and exploding by thousands of miles and a string of lucky or fated connections—whatever you believe. Regardless of my own belief, I believe it is worth it. For who are we if not lonely people floating as islands in our own insignificant worlds? That is, until we make a friend.