Hey! This is a very wholesome essay I wrote about meeting people in bars when I travel solo -- G-rated fun for the whole family. Was in the Globe & Mail (click on post title to read, until I figure out a better way to link to other stuff...)
As for the non-wholesome version, hmmm, to be continued? Not sure!
Strangers in the Bar
It's 1 a.m. and I can't sleep. I'm in a five-star hotel in a European country. I landed this morning and my body thinks it's daytime, so I head downstairs to the bar.
As an entertainment and travel journalist, I'm often alone in strange cities. People ask, "Don't you get lonely?" Sure, sometimes. But not as often as you may think.
I like travelling alone. I like the freedom and gypsy power of it. And I meet people everywhere I go. I make friends with ideas, landscapes, my own expectations, memories, fears. If not, even people-watching can be an intimate, socially fulfilling adventure.
(To be honest, I don't know if I'm as brave as I was 10 years ago, when I was happy to sleep in a $5 hut on a beach. These days, I'm not reporting from nations where being sold for 40 camels is a compliment, but more likely shuttling between luxury hotels, exploring new cities and realities. It's easy to be open to the unexpected.)
My usual solo strategy for conversation and laughs is to sit at the bar and befriend the bartender, band, DJ or maître d', if they seem cool. (They usually are.) Things get rolling from there.
But tonight, the main hotel bar is already closed. I am ushered instead into the residents' bar, an opulent, dimly lit drawing room with crystal chandeliers and brocade fabrics. I park it on a sofa and scope out the scene: The usual assortment of characters chilling at a five-star at 2 a.m., their archetypes exaggerated by the Dracula ambience and my jet-lagged, pinot-infused imagination.
Around the fireplace, a flock of silver-haired, suited Americans. Big-business men with loud, overbearing voices. The Group feeds off itself. They move and speak as one entity. They kind of bug me. I'm not sure why.
Across the room, a couple in their 40s. Shy, drunk, silly and, from the looks of it, about to get it on. Her laugh is too loud, his face too red. Maybe they met tonight. Her coquettish movements fit as poorly as her too-tight blouse, which she tugs at every three seconds. I want to fix it for her. He doesn't even notice, probably preoccupied by his own fidgety discomfort and anticipation of what-just-might-go-down-if-he-plays-his-cards-right.
Completing the dramatis personae are a pair of clumsy jeans-and-trainers-clad blokes sprawled on a couch drinking pints. They stare at me. Early 30s, British accents. They call out names of exotic countries.
"Egypt!"
"Lithuania!"
Odd. They look at me again. I opt for the wave, which they ignore. They look away. Embarrassing. But somehow, I'm not. In the real world, my last-kid-picked-in-the-playground syndrome would kick in. I would cringe and feel like a loser. But this isn't the real world. It's late-night, jet-lagged, Euro-world, and I really don't care.
I sip my wine. I look up. Geography Boy 1 has vanished. Geography Boy 2 is grinning at me, but not in a leering way. I smile back. He's coming over. He seems all right, and not like he's trying to pick me up or he would have made some cheesy move an hour ago.
"Hey," he says, sitting on the couch across from me.
"Hi," I say. "Where did your friend go?"
"He went to bed. We have a meeting tomorrow."
Fascinating stuff, I know. He travels all the time for work. (Which explains their prior city shout-outs.) He is my age, funny, married. We talk about travel. And music. It's cool. And easy. Because travel creates a transient reality that makes shy folks confident and strangers BFFs. You will probably never see these people again, so why not be cautiously open? (Key word: cautiously. Also, selectively.)
And, after days alone in foreign lands, speaking with someone who also loves Fleetwood Mac, or who cracks up at the same part of a movie, or who dealt with a breakup by fleeing across an ocean, can feel like coming home. At least for the length of a conversation. And home is what I'm searching for, in all my travels, every day, every curious gaze.
One of my favourite parts of life is locking eyes with someone for the first time and getting each other instantly. On the other extreme are the weirdos. On a flight from Spain to Italy, I met one seemingly normal local who, after an hour of chatting, offered me a ride on the back of his scooter. ("You like ze Vespa?") Something seemed off, so I pried for more information. Good call. Turns out, "You like ze Vespa" meant "I want to perform an unsolicited and totally weird striptease dance for you." So, no, I don't like the Vespa.
I tell this story to Geo Boy.
"My Vespa's parked outside," he says. We laugh. Suddenly, I notice the businessmen have vanished. The awkward couple, gone. We exchange e-mail addresses, walk to the elevator, press the button, get in. He pushes 2. I push 8.
Ding. Doors open. "It was great chatting with you, I'll drop you an e-mail."
"You too," I say. "G'night."
Doors close. I know he won't, but that's okay. I'm on travel time, and I've learned that the real connections do last. I wonder who I will meet tomorrow.
