(Author’s Note: I’m experimenting with a slightly different style in this post than the past. Let me know in the comments whether you prefer this or my past style.)

 

There is a lot to be said for travelling alone. Most of my travels have been solitary. Travelling this way teaches you a lot about yourself. When you are the one who decides what you do, when you act alone and navigate in a strange culture, you begin to understand yourself a little bit better.

Not only that, but when you travel alone, you are more open to those around you. You are more willing to talk and interact with strangers. Perhaps it’s the loneliness. Perhaps it’s the adventure. Perhaps it’s the necessity. Most likely it is all three.

Now, as anybody who knows me in real life will tell you, I have a mild obsession with people and their stories. To me, a life is a collection of stories that we weave into a narrative. There is nothing more important than the stories we tell. With that said, I am unlikely to ever turn somebody down who wants to tell me their story, preferably over a nice hot cup of coffee or a cold beer.

Once upon a time on an adventure of my own, I was lucky enough to hear the story of a stranger. Now, I’m sharing that story with you.

 

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The setting was Ha Noi, Vietnam. Ha Noi is an odd city. Unlike its sister city to the south, Ho Chi Minh City (sometimes still referred to as Sai Gon), Ha Noi is relatively new to the capitalism game. It is a city that blends the aura of the Old World with the hustle and bustle of the New. It is also the hottest city that I have ever been in, with a devil’s mixture of heat and humidity that is sure to knock any foreigner off of their feet.

 

By the time I made it to Ha Noi, I had been traveling through hot, rainy Asia for several months. Ha Noi was my last Vietnamese city after a month in that beautiful country. I was just beginning to be able to differentiate between the seven different Vietnamese tones, although in general I was still bad enough at speaking the language that anything besides a thank you wouldn’t be understood.

A travel tip for those of you visiting Vietnam; the best places to eat are the street kitchens. These are less restaurants and more open little areas with tables and chairs or stools under a sign that advertised their signature dish. These kitchens had no menus. Rather, they served one dish at a set price (or as set a price as exists in Vietnam. In reality, everything is open to haggling). So long as you choose a street kitchen that is busy with locals, you are guaranteed an amazing and cheap meal.

One day I found myself sitting at one of these street kitchens, enjoying a Bun Cha (grilled pork meatballs with noodles) and a cold Tra Da (iced tea). A relatively normal and delicious day in Ha Noi for me.

 

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I looked up from my meal and noticed a strange man. He looked decidedly out of place.

He had untouched-by-the-sun white skin, a balding forehead, wispy white stubble, and lost, sad, and confused eyes. His clothes, far too heavy for the weather, were drenched through with sweat, and he looked unsteady on his feet. Something was wrong, it was apparent to see. As I’ve said, I’m interested by peoples’ stories, and it was clear that there was a story here. More than that, however, there was pain and hurt. Perhaps it is a flaw, but I cannot see hurt without wanting to help.

There were very few seats still available at this street kitchen. He looked at the empty seat across from me, and I smiled him over. When you travel alone, company is always welcome during meals. Throughout our shared meal, he shared his story with me.

 

Let us call him Mr Jennings for no particular reason. Mr Jennings was recently divorced and recently retired. Mr Jennings also wasn’t sure how to live his life without his job or his wife.

His life had been his work. He had worked hard, and he had known success. His work kept him busy… busy enough that he never noticed when he and his wife fell out of love.

Upon retiring, their problem became clear to both of them when they tried spending more time together. What they had thought was comfort was instead apathy. They tried to make it work, but the spark was simply gone. With little fanfare, they separated.

Suddenly, Mr Jennings found himself without an anchor in his life.

 

So, I asked him, drinking from my iced tea, what brings you here?

 

Mr Jennings had made a decision. He had realized that he had lost his identity somewhere in his life. He wasn’t sure how to find it again, either, but he knew that he had to try.

So he decided to travel. For one full year, he was going to travel. At a little over 60, Mr Jennings had never been outside of the USA. So he would explore the world, and hopefully he would find himself along the way.

 

And how is that going? I asked.

 

He smirked. Today was his first day on this adventure. He had been ripped off by the taxi driver who drove him in from the airport last night (or so his hotel told him), then today he had gotten lost. He had tried to take a cab back to his hotel, but they had dropped him off at the wrong location and then demanded a crooked fare. Now he was even more lost and had not a clue how to get back to his hotel.

 

So all in all, a very bad day?

 

No, no, not at all! He laughed, a true genuine laugh from the stomach, the type of laugh that is impossible to fake. Despite all the twists and turn, Mr Jennings was still excited. He was still trying his best. His adventure wasn’t going as planned, but he’d be damned if he gave up this early.

 

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What became of Mr Jennings? I wish I could tell you that he had found what he was looking for on his adventure. I wish I could tell you that he had a happy ending. In all reality, I don’t know.

At the end of the lunch, I gave him directions on how to get back to his hotel. And then I never saw him again.

I hope that Mr Jennings found what he was looking for from his solitary year of travel. I hope that he was able to learn more about himself. I hope that the days that followed the day he met me got better.

That is not how life works, however. Like all strangers, we were passing footnotes in the other’s story. A meal shared, and a story spoken.

Our lives are the collection of stories we choose to tell. Each of the characters in our stories lead narratives of their own. A small footnote in our story has chapters upon chapters in their own stories. And footnotes in their stories have chapters in their own stories. This web goes on, becoming a near infinite amount of experiences and adventures.

I chose to share this story of another’s story to show a small part of this web of humanity, to show how we are all linked to each other by the lives we lead.

And that, my friends, is beautiful.

 

TWS