No more John Wayne’s left in the world: On the issue of loneliness

“Loneliness expresses the pain of being alone and solitude expresses the glory of being alone.”

Paul Tilich, philosopher and theologian

With precision tools such as social media, one’s ability to promote an idealized life is without limits. The right smile, sunset, filter, string of words, location, or company could easily pull the wool over anyone’s eyes viewing from afar. But what about what is taking place behind the lens of a camera phone? What about that place where profiles are people, posts are statements, and private messaging is a face-to-face conversation? You don’t need to activate an account to live in reality, but you may need some friends. ¹

I have had chance sightings when I have either heard or observed moments that scrape through the veneer of the narcissism online, uncovering what lies beneath the surface—raw humanity. I call them ‘lapses in self-promotion.’ It is in these lapses that I find the most honesty. It is in this honesty we get the rare glimpse of the intersection between reality and social media.

Awhile back I read a post on a FB group for the auxilliares. I was blindsided in seeing some ego-immolating, gut-level honesty. A member outright admitted he had a scant number of friends and inquired what was an advisable plan of action for forming new relationships.

 Then, the other day I was texting another friend of mine about his ‘fabulous’ night on the town in Madrid. He lives just outside of Spain’s capital. One night he decided to take the bus to meet some friends for a night of drinks, revelry, and a hopeful date with Debbie Debauchery. Who wouldn’t be excited on a trip to the Spanish city where Ernest Hemingway once famously wrote, “Nobody goes to bed until they have killed the night”?

Everything was in place for my friend to leave his dull apartment in his one-horse town and live Madrid’s nightlife to the nth degree… everything excluding his eyelids of led. When he awoke from his somnolent ride, the bus had already arrived and… left Madrid. Ultimately, his night of discotecas y españolas measured up to nothing more than a bus ride from and back to an empty bed.

Although a hang-up such as this may be humorous, there is an undercurrent of truth floating the story along its way. The truth, as far as I can see it, is people are still people. No matter how many siestas, fiestas, or other seemingly hedonistic cultural practices a country may offer, the same person one may be before their journey is the same person one will be while living abroad. Everywhere you go, there you are.

As for my sleepy friend, he can slam an energy drink the next weekend. But on the issue of loneliness, I have found a few combat strategies useful. For one, feverishly scouring the streets and web for friends is not always the answer.

When you come right down to it, all you have is yourself. Yourself is a sun with a thousand fires in your belly. The rest is nothing.

Pablo Picasso

After teaching some days, I enjoy some quality alone time. I walk alongside the Guadarrama River, stop to eat a characteristically late Spanish lunch, lean against a tree to soak in the warmth of direct sunlight, listen to the water roll over the nearby damn, and nod as food digests and consciousness vacillates between dream and reality. At first I ruminated on things lost. I mulled over more than I would ever write and broadcast to the faceless masses on the Internet. However, I am beginning to recognize this time as very precious, something I will definitely miss if and when I ever return to the North American workforce. I treasure my time alone in the sun.

There is nothing wrong with making friends of course. I assume this is difficult for introverts, much less with a language barrier factored into the process. I wouldn’t know. At the peril of my company, I tend to be afflicted with diarrhea-of-the-mouth syndrome. As much as I want to cut it out, that muscle seems to be fuera de servicio more often than not.

In spite of the more extroverted or introverted orientations, I have found the advice of an elderly man I once encountered useful. I was told if I wanted to have a lot of friends, I should be interested. Contrarily, if I wanted to be alone, I should be… ‘interesting.’ In time I have forgotten his name, but not his words.

Lately, I have been more interested in the Spanish people than swimming about the fishbowl of Americanism abroad. As comfortable as it is to speak in my native tongue, there is no path of least resistance in learning a foreign language. I have made the concerted effort to whittle the Americans I see somewhat frequently down to two, one of which I hardly have the proximity of seeing very often. I have no ax to grind with the other auxiliaries. I see them at the intercambios and if I want some travel friends outside of Spain, they are always ready to bop till they drop.

I have found the Spanish to be very open, fun-loving, generous and thoughtful. Others may have different summations of the culture. Maybe I am just at the right places at the right times. I doubt it, though. Proof to back my claim is what recently occurred this holiday season. It can be difficult for some people abroad this time of year, especially people who are not accustomed to missing annual family functions. That is why I found it very kind when I heard that one of the local intercambio attendees had organized a potluck dinner for our traditional día de acción de gracias (Thanksgiving).

For reasons none other than happenstance, I decided to travel to the Spanish island of Ibiza alone during the last puente. With the exception at staying alone at the world’s all-time creepiest of hostels, the experience was bastante bien. I had no means of locking my door, since there was no one to be found upon arrival or ever.  It was very strange. I know it was not tourist season, but it felt as though I was stowing myself away in an empty building following some cataclysmic post-apocalyptic event. I was very much alone and it seemed as though the building itself knew it.

During my final night, I returned to a locked door. Somehow, an invisible hand materialized from seemingly nowhere while I was out for the day. Through a 12-hour process of finding another hostel open after midnight and later hunting for the owner like a bloodhound on a scent, I finally found someone who could help me get back into the room the next morning. My boots, a few articles of clothing, and even my worn underwear and socks were gone. What was even more uncanny was that whoever this person was had locked the door behind them. There was a very still sense of underhanded secrecy about the place. I would not be surprised if there was a room somewhere in the building where I could tug a choice book and be whirled 180 degrees to find some God-forsaken treachery awaiting me on the other side of the wall.

My first night was slept with one eye open. I set an empty can on the handle of my door in case anyone were to come in my sleep with intentions of inviting me into something similar to one of Quentin Tarantino’s Hostel films. The sound of a tin can hitting the cold floor would have at least been alarming enough for me to spring up and assume the fighting pose of Lone Wolf McQuade in case the night turned sour. Fortunately, no one wanted to pay me a visit. ²

As for the daylight, I was happy to explore the less-traveled regions near my hostel in Sant Antoni. I wanted to see more than just the party city of Ibiza, where the most frequent bus line traverses from coast-to-coast along the face of the westernmost Balearic Isle. Considering the winter season’s semi-defunct bus line services, I decided waiting at a bus stop indefinitely was not an appealing option. I would rather ride a tortoise to my desired points of interest than stand idly at a bus stop trying to translate the uncertain hours posted in Catalan from each stop’s placard. With the help of locals I had met while hitchhiking, I found the west end of the island to have some sights worth the pain of my later acquired shin splints after beating feet walking all over the place during the 3 days I had there.

There always comes a time when photographing a moment can steal from the moment itself. Watching the setting sun approach the azure horizon of the Mediterranean was one of those moments. I found one clearing facing the sea, hung my legs from a precipice, heard one Spanish girl proclaim, “Que guapo” to her boyfriend, and finally set the camera down. As the sun contacted the crest of the western horizon, I wished the moment would distend a bit longer and was already beginning to mourn the loss of the day’s sunlight.

Before leaving Ibiza and after accepting the fact I’d be returning to central Spain with less than half of my possessions, I decided to walk through Dart Vila’s portcullis one last time. Dart Vila (literally “Upper Town” in Catalan) is really an ineffable neighborhood. An insurmountable wall seals the upper hill completely off from the outer, lower hillside which slackens as it declines into land meeting the harbor.

“[...] almost nothing important that ever happens to you happens because you engineer it. Destiny has no beeper; destiny always leans trenchcoated out of an alley with some sort of 'psst' that you usually can't even hear because you're in such a rush to or from something important you've tried to engineer. ”

David Foster Wallace

On a whim, I wander through the medieval neighborhood’s inclined, cobblestoned streets once more. My pituitary glad thirsted for caffeine and the battery of my phone needed a kick-start before heading to the airport. In didn’t take long to get lost in the labyrinth all over again. I stopped a local I saw carrying his groceries from his car to his piso to ask for directions to the café. It was closed. I was ready to start my trek back to the bus stop when this perfect stranger, whom I later learned was named Mario, invited me in for tea instead. I acquiesced. After all, what was the worst that could happen, right? 

It turns out Mario was one of the kindest people I have encountered in quite some time. Mario laid out his wide array of teas before me, asking which I preferred. I pointed to the kukicha, a Japanese blend that looked like it was spit out the ass end of a chipper-shredder more than it actually looks like tea.

We sat, drank, exchanged revealing stories of our lives, and generally just enjoyed one another’s company. It felt as though I’d met him before and, likewise, he told me the same, which was odd because we were meeting in the middle between both our skills in Spanish and English. Language is a funny thing. In these moments its utility was obvious, but its necessity wasn’t as crucial as I often thought. It was the most meaningful face-to-face conversation I have had with someone since arriving in Spain. The sense of self versus other was suspended. It was a perfect coincidence with a perfect stranger.

When our time was over, Mario was insistent on giving me a ride to the airport. Once again I acquiesced. Before bidding him adieu, I felt it was best to offer some euros for the ride. Even then, he had a lot of trepidation in accepting my money. I understood he didn’t want money to undermine his altruistic act. Notwithstanding his hesitant palms, I shoved the five euros into his hand and gave him a big ol’ bro hug before departing. I had only known him for two hours, but it felt like saying goodbye to someone I knew I would be seeing again in spite of the slim likelihood I actually would.

I kicked back at the airport, crammed a bocadillo down my throat, and then ate the extra cookies Mario gave me for the flight. Reclining in the terminal I felt at peace. I could see my place, just a small spec in the greater mosaic of mankind. I was glad I ended up travelling alone. I was happy that I wasn’t John Wayne.