Talking to Strangers
One of the reasons I really enjoy traveling is because I get the opportunity to walk outside of my comfort zone. “Opportunity,” perhaps, is not the right word: I am dumped out of my comfort zone, surrounded by potential lifeboats who don't always speak English and who I don't always know how to utilize. But it works out. I adapt. And the greatest thing? I have to talk to and put my trust in strangers. I learn to find those kind and helpful beings who take a moment out of their lives to assist a traveler. At home, I am in familiar territory and can rely entirely on myself. That is not as easy to do abroad. Travelling reminds me of how to ask for, offer, or accept help.
I was reminded of this space the other day. I was at the Ha’Hagana train station in Tel Aviv. While waiting for my train I jumped up every 10 minutes to check if it was still on time (it was). I also had a lovely half-conversation with a young man who spoke very little English. Between this and my few words of Hebrew, we came to the understanding that I would like to charge my phone next to his since this was the only charging port I saw in the terminal. He was gracious enough to scooch over on the tiny ledge so that I could perch there while he wrestled with his broken cord. With my few Hebrew words and his somewhat shy smiles, I offered him to try my phone block to plug his USB into, but it was no use: his cord was busted. After a few minutes fiddling with it, the young man found someone else to borrow a charging cable from. We sat in amicable, semi-awkward silence while we squatted next to the power outlet for a good half hour before I left to find my platform (still a good 25 minutes before my train’s scheduled departure, just in case). The silent company was much appreciated.
Talking to the young man with the phone issues had been so easy, even though the “talking” had very little to do with words. This was one of those moments where a common need made the connection effortless. However, when I reached the platform, I found myself with a different challenge. Somehow, the people who stood there, minding their own business, were much more intimidating. This made it so much harder for me to ask them if this was the train I wanted. I did not trust the people to be kind or helpful. I did not trust that when the website and the board at the train station said the southbound train to Pa’ate Modi’in came in at 9:45, that it would. For a moment, I wished I had a car just so I could drive myself. I knew I had read the information correctly, but asking would have given me more peace of mind.
After the 27-minute train ride, I had a 40-minute walk from the train station to the farm I was staying on. I had hoped the first time I made this trip was going to be in the light of day, but that was not to be. At a bit after 10 pm, I headed out of the station on foot. For a moment, I thought I was going to have to walk on the side of the road, but then a dirt track became apparent as an alternative to walking directly on the street and vulnerable to any on-coming traffic. A hop and skip over the guardrail, and I suddenly had less fear of being run over. The thought of hitchhiking crossed my mind, but as I got into the rhythm of walking under a sky full of stars, I realized I was perfectly happy. As the smell of the cooling desert reached my nose, I realized that this was perfect; 40 minutes was nothing.
I had just reached that point of blissful meditative walking where the balance felt just right when a taxi pulled to the side of the road in front of me. It had driven past me, so it backed up until the open passenger window was level. I felt myself groan internally. Too often there have been pushy drivers who try their hardest to get me to take taxis, no matter how often I tell them that I cannot afford it. This, however, was one of those little unexpected helping hands that came at a good time.
To my surprise, the taxi already had a passenger. From my backpack and violin, he had deduced that I was going to the farm up the road. He said he saw people often walking back and forth along the way to the farm. He seemed genuinely shocked that anyone would take it upon themselves to walk the more than half an hour along rural roads to get home. For no money, I got a ride to the dirt path that led to the farm, and in less than five minutes, my trip was cut in half.
As a child, I don't think I was ever told never to talk to strangers, but somewhere along the line, the fear of doing so was instilled in me. Perhaps it came from reading so many books or watching movies. Half of the time, "stranger danger" in these types of media is a joke, but I wonder how often these jokes translate into a subconscious fear. There is anxiety associated with trusting strangers, yes, but also a huge sense of relief. In a strangers’ eyes, I am another adult who may have a question, suggestion, or require help. There is space there to develop who I am and what I have to share.