Talk to Strangers

The pillow smelled like him. I was halfway around the world. But somehow, the collection of people who’d sat on this couch, rested their heads against this pillow and left fragrances… smelled like him. I threw the pillow to the ground. The woman who owned the hostel turned quickly, hoping I didn’t see that she’d watched me do it. I felt awkward.

I went for a walk. The people I’d left behind for my travels – I needed to get them out of my head. There was a worry at the back of my mind, nagging me that I’d made a mistake travelling here on my own.

Down the front stoop, I took a left. I hadn’t gone this way yet. The road led uphill toward a metal broadcasting tower. The houses were thin and tall, with steep steps up to their porches. They were painted in a mismatched palette, retro shades that somehow looked chic. Nothing like the wide, spread apart houses back home.

The incline became so steep that buildings looked crooked. My muscles burned, but cool air from the bay had lowered onto the city hours ago, once it got dark. I could see people-shaped outlines through front window curtains, televisions lit up, families talking on couches and washing dishes in kitchens. Even here, in a strange city, these were shadow puppets of scenes I could narrate. I made eye contact with a man who was grabbing his coat just inside a door. I was outside, walking by their lives, but I was a part of their scenes, too.

The street leveled and brought me to a grassy hill. That tower cut a sharp shape against the dark sky. There were a lot of people out on the grass, looking up. The moon had a bite out of it. Tonight was a lunar eclipse.

I sat down with the picnickers and kite flyers and stargazers.

From this hill I could see the entire peninsula of the city lit up under the darkness. Cars on the Bay Bridge, a little line of ants. A grid of houses, gardens, people walking dogs. I saw the park I’d had lunch in, the theater that probably still had a queue out the door, the brick square where I’d listened to a busker play banjo. Little landmarks I’d collected in an unknown city.

The moon was shrinking behind the shadow of the earth. All of our shadows in one place. My shadow. His shadow, from back home. The shadows of my friends and family, the shadows of the strangers around me and the shadows of everyone I was ever going to meet.

I’d justified travel as a way to see the world, without really knowing what that meant. How did I end up here, in this moment, doing exactly that?