You might actually like talking to strangers
Part 1
It was Easter weekend when I went to get my hair cut. There were only two people working, so even though I’d booked an appointment I had to wait for about 20 minutes. That’s fine by me. Most of the time I don’t mind a little unexpected breathing room in the day. An unscheduled pause. Sometimes it’s the only pause I get—I probably need to do something about that, but I likely won’t. The woman next to me started making conversation, but I was distracted looking at my phone, replying to a message from someone.
It was so tempting to just keep looking at my phone, but I’m trying to do less of that. It’s hard talking to strangers, and it’s made harder by the fact that so many of us are focused on something private—our phones—in public spaces.
So I put my phone in my bag, and turned to the woman next to me and asked what she was getting done. I don’t really remember what she said. This was not an earth-shattering conversation where she revealed some insight to me, or I to her. It was an ordinary conversation with a stranger who I’ll never see again.
Yet I’m glad I did it. Put that phone down for a few minutes. Opened myself up to the possibility of a nice little chat with someone I don’t already know. I did it with the hairdresser too—I didn’t look at my phone once. Nor did I take a book. As I sat in the chair wearing the cape, I watched as she cut my hair and listened as she interacted with everyone else around her in the salon.
Again, there was nothing insightful. It was so unremarkable I can’t even spin it into an amusing anecdote. I would probably have forgotten it by now if I hadn’t written this down. Yet these insignificant interactions gave me a tiny point of connection to the social world in an otherwise solitary day.
It is commonly accepted that we need connection with other humans for a multitude of reasons—health, happiness, longevity…
In his Ted Talk, The secret to a happy life—lessons from 8 decades of research, Dr Robert Waldinger said, “All types of relationships support our well-being. So friendships, relatives, work colleagues, casual contacts. The person who gets you your coffee every morning at Starbucks1 or Dunkin' Donuts, the person who checks you out in the grocery store, who you see maybe every week. Even talking to strangers has that benefit.
“[The Harvard Study of Adult Development] did an experiment where they assigned some people who were about to go on the subway the task of talking to a stranger while other people were assigned the task of just doing their usual thing of being on their phones or listening to music or reading. It turned out that the people who were assigned to talk to strangers didn't think they were going to like it, but they turned out to be much happier at the end of the task than the people who just rode the subway keeping to themselves. So even talking to strangers gives us that little hit of well-being from relationships.”
It’s so easy to feel isolated and disconnected. Even when I’m out in public I’m purposefully on my way somewhere, with plans to meet people I already know, or with a specific errand to carry out, and probably distracted by my phone en route. I don’t wander anymore. I take the solitary bubble that is my house, and shrink it around me as I walk, like a turtle shell. I’m out in public but in my mind I still have a shield around me. It can be shocking, even affronting, when someone breaks the bubble.
Dr Waldinger’s research made me wonder if I need to make more effort to talk to strangers, to step outside of my bubble.
Every March Facebook reminds me of this memory:
If it weren’t for my inclination towards oversharing my life online and my subsequent social media archive, I probably would have forgotten that moment. That night is so clear to me, though, once I’m reminded. I remember the cool—but not cold—night air. The phwoosh sound every time the bucket fountain empties. The bustling crowds on Cuba St—back when people went out more, before the pandemic closed down businesses and turned many of us into hermits who flake on plans with the flimsiest excuse.
Bowtie guy and I became friends for a while. He was always dressed sharply—beautiful suits, well groomed, bowties. He was fun and respectful; I always felt safe around him. I remember one night we were driving into town, me singing into a hairbrush I found on the floor of whoever’s car we were in, while the music played loud. Back when I was young and fun. I don’t remember why we stopped hanging out. Perhaps he moved away. Perhaps it just faded, as friendships do.
He’d approached me while I was watching the busker play, and complimented the flower I was wearing in my hair.
Back in my mid- to late-twenties I was open to that sort of thing. I didn’t bristle, like I do now, when approached by strange men. These days the only men I don’t mind talking to me are the ones begging on the street. They are clear what they’re asking for, and they don’t push you if you say no. I give them money whenever I can and if I can’t I at least say hello and smile at them. Sometimes it’s the only interaction with strangers I have in a week. Recently I asked a man begging outside a supermarket how he was. “Well, you know. It only gets worse,” he said. I gave him money on my way back out, and he pressed my hands and told me I was beautiful.
Nostalgia can come at the cost of the present contentment—we forget the drudgery and remember only the emotional highs and lows. Most days are ordinary. Most times we forget how often we’ve walked down a street. You forget the times drunk men in bars hit on you and remember only the time a man in a bowtie complimented the flower in your hair. If I really wanted to interact with strangers in the same way I used to, I’d have to deal with all the loneliness, boredom, discomfort, and fear that I experienced in my twenties when I did go out a lot.
Recently my friends and I went to a suburban club to see a covers band that one of my friends loves. (As someone who used to play in covers bands it is odd to me that someone would become a fan of what is basically pumped up background music. But I went anyway.) The band had the spicy cough so it ended up just being a guy on his own—he was good though, no shade.
This club was like a portal into 90s small town New Zealand. Bold red patterned carpet, coloured fairy lights hanging from the roof, pokies, and town hall style chairs. There was a bunch of friendly boomers standing round drinking beer, as they have probably done for the last 30 years with the same people in the same place.
There was no greige, no millenial terrazzo, no pendant lights or chic styling. This was formica, baby! The coasters were beer advertisements! We had to sign in as temporary members because their liquor licence required it! When I walked in my friend said I had to meet the president and get him to sign my sign in. It was charming and I felt the delight of doing something a little differently.
That was until one drunk board member took a liking to me and kept coming to talk to us—he used board member as a reason to keep asking us if we were having a good time. Which we would have been if he’d left us alone. He was an ex-skinhead. (“Ex??” I said, when he told us this, looking at his bald head, but he didn’t understand that I was roasting him, so it was wasted.) My friend asked him if he voted National and he said “of course, anything to get rid of that horse-faced bitch.” I said we were not his target demographic and he said, “I bet you guys like cycleways too.” Which, yes, two of my friends cycle as their main form of transport. Despite this obvious clash in values, he wouldn’t leave us—and particularly me—alone.
There’s a particular smell that men give off when they are very drunk off beer. It’s a stale, wretched smell. I hate it. This man smelt like that. It got to the point where I was being quite rude to him and he still wouldn’t leave us alone, and yet—I couldn’t quite make myself say, literally, “leave us alone”. I wish I had. I thought I was the sort of person who could say that.
This is the downside of talking to strangers. Sometimes it goes badly. Sometimes a drunken racist ex-skinhead won’t stop hitting on you when you’re just trying to hang out with your friends.
While I was writing this it occurred to me that I could look up the bowtie guy. I still had his number in my phone but I hadn’t thought to text or call him over all these years. Instead, I Googled him. What can I say, I am a product of my times.
He has a slightly unusual first name, which is lucky because I didn’t remember—or perhaps never knew—his last name. Friendships in your twenties can be like that: you spend a lot of time with someone based purely on having fun, while knowing very little about each other.
I found him on LinkedIn and messaged him. He remembered me and told me I’d been his first friend when he’d moved here. He’s basically a stranger again to me now, but our brief LinkedIn conversation was a soft reminder the way an unexpected meeting can lead to a lovely friendship, even if it was just for a while.
People who are able to strike up conversation with strangers are endlessly impressive to me. For me to make conversation with strangers I have to be match ready. Prepared. Like when an athlete is waiting for their turn and they’re shaking their arms and legs and making weird flubbery noises with their lips. Is that an athlete thing? Maybe it’s a musician thing. That would make more sense. Anyway—it requires being in a certain mood—happy and extroverted—and in a generous state of mind. If the conditions are precisely right, I can do it. These exact conditions rarely occur, therefore I am not very good at striking up conversations with strangers.
I’d like to be better at it. While it’s easy to scorn small talk, I actually don’t mind it, and I think like many things, good quality small talk, or introductory talk, is a skill and a talent. You know those people you meet and they immediately make you feel welcome and interesting and slightly more lit up and alive than you were a moment earlier. I’d like to be one of those people.
This is getting long, so I’m going to split it into two parts. Come back for part 2, where we’ll look at how to talk to strangers.
In the meantime, I’d love to hear your stories of random interactions, or any tips you have for talking to strangers!
Obviously we are not going to Starbucks every morning after they sued a labor union of Starbucks workers over its pro-Palestine social media comments last year.
Hey Charlotte spot on! this makes so much sense and something we need to all realise is natural and used me be more common, thanks
You've done it again Charlotte! Love reading your work <3