Stranger, tea and bubbles

I walked into a random book shop to browse quickly before running to class, and ended up sitting behind the counter for two hours, drinking chai with the owner. We discussed the world, and somewhere between the compulsive collector not leaving for the third time and the rival bookseller waltzing in, he touched on a profound subject. He talked about his difficulties meeting new people when he visited new countries, without realizing the serendipity of our encounter. I couldn’t help but think of home and agree.

Last weekend I explored a few towns by the Aegean Sea, and I ended up drinking a record 7 cups of tea in 48 hours. With 6 different groups of people. All of whom I didn’t know before. All of whom refused to let me pay. I climbed mountains and saw thousand-year old ruins the same weekend, but the cups of tea were what amazed me the most.

It is strange when strangers acknowledge one’s existence and legitimately care about it. At least, it was new—and therefore weird—to me. The last time I can remember having so many open conversations with people I just met was during freshman orientation, and maybe during a couple short retreats or intensive programs which are designed to encourage intimacy. I definitely encountered new students after orientation—several thousand of them probably—but the curiosity and well, desire to know others, wasn’t there. Or, rather, it was buried deep somewhere by what seemed normal. And so there are people I see and nod to everyday, and I have never asked for their name.

I’d rather not fetishize different cultures, and extoll their exotic “hospitality”. No, I’d rather ask what it means for us to be "bubble" people. When everything is new, we want to know everything. When one thing is new—middle school has an exchange student—most of us want to figure out what the new thing is. But when there is a well-established set of familiar people and paths, and a steady stream of the new passes through, we start to ignore it. We blow a big bubble which surrounds ourselves, keeping away lest the other’s touch pop our sense of self. Sometimes our bubble drifts away in the wind and we become lonely. And no one in our unfamiliar surroundings reaches out because they are not expected to, and they might not want to risk popping. And we don’t reach out. Sometimes we lock eyes rather than look away, realizing that our flimsy, soapy barriers are not opaque, and that, hey, maybe we could be friends… But then we float away, not looking back.

As Bill Nye the Science Guy once said, “Everyone you will ever meet knows something you don’t.” Everyone we don’t meet—everyone we ignore, walk by, just miss—knows something we don’t too. Knowledge, potential friendship, escapes from isolation and sometimes just simple, fulfilling, one-time shared experiences are all lost when we let strangers remain strange.

Our quest for facebook likes, initials scratched on signposts and the regurgitation of our identities on public platforms are all ways of crying out, “Look, I am here. I exist.” Personal interactions are a more wholesome way of meeting this human need for acknowledgement. And to acknowledge others in turn is to obey the golden rule. In a possibly contradictory way, it’s when we go beyond meeting and start helping strangers that we have the chance to witness true altruism, and understand what humanity means. Blowing bubbles is good fun, but it’s when they pop far from their source that the mundane becomes beautiful.

I probably don’t know you, the person reading this. And maybe I never will. But if we do cross paths, let’s introduce ourselves and chat. I’ll get the cheesy ice-breaker out of the way now. “Hi, my name is Abdul. And I think you are pretty cool…”

Abdul Latif is a Trinity junior. His column runs every other Friday.