I took another trip last week, my second since COVID began, and I can tell you that the difference between traveling in July versus traveling in April is something like the difference between seasons 1 and 9 of The X-Files.
IT IS VERY DIFFERENT.
Masks are gone in most places, as you know, and that six feet of physical distance has collapsed to an inch or two, depending on how long and angry the line is at the baggage check. People will once again reach across you to access souvenirs and bottled drinks. Oh, and we have returned to a world in which we’re all handling the same germ-infested salt shakers before eating, just as God intended.
And I was pretty much fine with all of it.
If rapid adaptability is the greatest asset of our species, then I am one high-performing human specimen. There were people everywhere on this trip, and rather than feel the need to step outside and hyperventilate, as I would have in April, I actually felt relaxed enough to enjoy having them around.
How you like them apples, novel coronavirus??
On my last trip, I stopped panicking long enough to remember something obvious—a fresh set of scenery is one of the reasons travel feels so nice. It’s a reminder that there’s more on this planet than you and your stupid problems.
On this trip, with even less panic, I remembered something less obvious—a fresh cast of characters is a benefit of travel, too.
Or, more accurately, it is a benefit of traveling with my friend Sam.
I don’t meet people while I travel, of course. I say hello to store clerks and perhaps people walking toward me in long hallways, but I’m otherwise a member of the chit-chat averse. My demeanor suggests the presence of silence in the same way a brightly colored frog suggests the presence of neurotoxins.
I forget, though, how much people can sense that about me until I watch them sense the exact opposite from Sam.
Maybe it’s the eye contact. Maybe it’s the interest she pays to passing dogs and entrees and stylish joggers. Or maybe, as I suspect, it’s just the unapologetic enthusiasm she is constantly hurling at life. Regardless, somehow the people are surmising that a conversation with Sam is something they’re going to want to have.
And you know what? They’re right.
So it was that we met an entire writers’ workshop worth of characters last week, from a 60ish female hostage negotiator flying out of Indy to an Iranian shop owner selling Native American goods in Scottsdale. The shop owner showed us black and white pictures of him escorting Elizabeth Taylor and Peter Graves around Iran, explained the various types of Americans he does not appreciate, and then complimented our smiles.
“Always be friends with people with dimples,” he said, as Sam paid for a bookmark shaped like Kokopelli and I attempted to melt backwards through the door like a T-1000. “You know why? They enjoy life more, like the two of you.”
In Sedona, we met a woman on our Jeep tour with a blue crescent moon tattooed on her forehead and a Kraken pin on her purse. She told Sam and I that we had very good energy, but that she couldn’t join us in the gift shop at the Chapel of the Holy Cross.
“I’m afraid there might be, you know,” she said, gesturing vaguely, jangling the seventy-five crystal bracelets she’d brought for vortex charging. “They don’t like my kind there.”
All weekend, I found out what breeds of dogs people were walking, how long the stores had been open, and what kind of soup they were eating at the table behind us. Some people were answering Sam’s questions; some rambled voluntarily at the sight of her.
Either way, I had the novelty of my travel doubled, because with Sam I get to borrow a little piece of what it feels like to want to talk to strangers.
It’s not a permanent effect. (Moments ago I clicked the Instacart box that reads, “I do not need to be present when my groceries are delivered,” and then put my feet on the desk and lit a cigar.) It’s been enough, however, to shake me up a little, to wake me up a little, to whisper in my ear for the ten thousandth time that the most comfortable way to do life is not necessarily the most interesting.
When I was younger, I spent a lot of time and blog space grumbling about how few people were like me. It’s easier to see now—particularly after a trip with a people-magnet friend—that life is just a prestige TV series held up by its most compelling characters. The plot isn’t that important, because it will either work out or it won’t. We just want to know what people will do with what happens.
So, whether you’re going to Disney World or Walgreens, and whether you’re going there alone or with your version of Sam, you might take a minute to appreciate who’s been cast in this episode. It made my trip up to 50% more engaging, and now I really want to see what happens next.
