Hello/Goodbye
After a year of mostly being isolated, I thought the “return to normal” activities I would most look forward to would involve people. As I write this, there are 12 other people in this house; I can hear them talking and laughing; loading a dishwasher, closing bags of chips. It is storming, a torrential rain common for Florida that will probably end by the time I finish writing this. But I am alone, sitting in the craft room that is serving as my bedroom for the duration of my stay, my legs propped up on the arm of an oversized chair, sipping moonshine gifted to me by one of my favorite people. This feels like a moment I would describe as perfect—writing, large comfy chair, homemade booze—but I feel on the verge of tears, a mood that seems to always inhabit my soul when I spend too many days with a large number of people. Contrary to what it probably seems like to anyone that has noticed I am gone, the name of this affliction (which is quite common) is not “What Is Wrong With Alecia.”
Sometimes my personality feels like a false advertisement. I’m great at small gatherings because I love strangers and intimate settings. Backyard parties are my jam because they usually involve beer and various games at which I excel. But by day 4 of a combination of small gathering/backyard party/various activities with no strangers at all, my brain is begging me to find a tiny corner to crawl into, and hopefully, when I find it, there will be my own alcohol stash and a book waiting for me.
But before I got here; this chair, this storm, this moment adorably interrupted by my two small nieces asking in the hallway outside my room, “ Where is Aunt Alee-sa?” I found myself doing what I’ve really been missing the past year and a half — traveling alone, talking to people I’ve never met.
I am discerning in my befriending of strangers. I will wave at small children but never talk to teenagers or men under 35 ( as these two groups are basically the same to me). My ideal stranger is someone older than 45, who is wearing some sort of momish-dadish-grandmaish-grandpaish attire. I am talking sweatshirts with faded lettering that say Cape Cod. Socks with sandals. Lavender sweaters with small fake gem buttons. Church slacks when the occasion doesn’t call for it. If you are too stylish, I may love what you’re wearing, but I don’t feel confident you’re going to share the very personal details of what recently happened at your daughter’s wedding, so you are not the stranger for me.
I am aware this particular stranger profile comes from having lost my Mammaw and my Mom, and while that void will always be there, attempting to fill it with anecdotes and moments with Madre-Mam strangers is a rewarding use of my time.
My trip to Florida is my first traveling experience in almost two years. I normally drive this route, which I enjoy since I typically stopover in my favorite state and stay at a hotel ( hotel bars are excellent for Ideal Stranger chatting, but only before 9 pm), but this time, I decided to book a room on Amtrak. In the room across from mine was an older couple, mid to late 60’s. He was wearing a baseball cap and reading a book, she was wearing shorts and a sweater with Grandma Sneakers. Swoon! Our assigned dinner times were the same and Midwest Grandpa said hello and asked me where I was traveling to. When they said they were traveling to Orlando, I said “fun!” ( they were going to a funeral, and although I was mortified at my out-of-practice communication skills, I knew they would forgive me as they were Perfect Strangers personified). Over the course of the evening, I found out they were from Minnesota, had visited their son in upstate New York, enjoyed red wine, and never went to bed before 10 pm. At one point, Midwest Grandma leaned over, pointed to her husband, and said, “Know what his claim to fame is? he was Prince’s junior high teacher. Prince!”. My educated guess is she’s brought up this story hundreds of times to people they’ve just met, but I imagine the way she beamed with joy looking at her husband remained the same every time. “Prince”, Midwest Grandpa says picking up the story, “was extremely smart and I told him he should be a doctor but he said he was going to do music and I thought ok I guess. He sure showed me!”. We all laugh. Which is the point of this entire story—the laughter at the end. It didn’t occur to me until the next morning as I was gathering up my bags and Midwest Grandpa said “Aw, you’re leaving us!”, that we didn’t even know each other’s names. But at that point, it didn’t seem to matter. After all, I knew how many kids they had and what their life is like in Minnesota, and how the past year has affected them. Finding out their names and giving them mine seemed like a less intimate detail than what I already knew.
I had a really hard time when I turned thirty. As soon as I turned thirty-one I started thinking about turning forty and anticipated how much worse I would feel; how many failures I would have to stack up on my already growing pile. But something happened in the last year that I hadn’t been expecting. I am a woman who has many less fucks to give. I found 3 grey hairs recently and instead of that sending me into a spiral, my first thought was that I would look great with salt and pepper hair. Because I would! I like that most of my conversations are with the less than 5 people who are the most important in my life. I don’t have to go to every family holiday party if I don’t feel like it!
And instead of surviving a pandemic and forcing myself to see and be with every single person I know, I can travel the long way and do what I enjoy the most—sharing small moments with people I will likely never see again.
In my creative writing class in high school, I wrote a poem called Everyone Has A Story To Tell. It was my dream to travel around and talk to strangers and hear their stories ( when Humans of New York became a thing, I was very mad at myself for not trying to accomplish this goal when I graduated).
But New Me doesn’t believe this is a dream that has to die just yet.