A Culture of Strangers

by Shiloh Lane
I grew up in a very small town in Kentucky; I went to college in another very small town in Kentucky; and when I went to “the big city” to go shopping, I really just went to a slightly larger small town in Kentucky. It suffices to say that I didn’t meet a lot of strangers growing up, and when I did, chances were high that I would see them again eventually – probably at a high school ballgame.

That’s partly why I find traveling so interesting – strangers flit in and out of my life as easily as fireflies danced in and out of my grasp when I was a kid. People become a blip on my radar, and then they’re gone forever, which  sometimes makes the relationship between the general populace and myself unpredictable.

I’ve discovered that people do crazy things when they don’t plan to see you again. More often, though, I’ve discovered that I do crazy things when I don’t plan to see you again – like forego social grace in pursuit of a photograph. My mother will be mortified to read this, but I find that dignity can get in the way of some really great shots. A few days ago, I was shooting at a crowded Buddhist wat, or temple, and I stumbled across a shot of discarded shoes lying on a mat as a line of worshippers knelt barefoot in the background. In a few seconds, my chin and my camera were on the pavement while my butt stuck straight up in the air. I should have probably been more lady-like, but I got the shot and I made people laugh.

I also love the stories my brief encounters create, the weird little tales I use to make my roommate smile. That same, sweltering day, I was taking a break from shooting while chugging water. My skin was slick with perspiration and my hair looked like Richard Simmons’ curly mop does after 30 minutes of Sweatin’ to the Oldies. Yet, for some reason, one man thought I was a great photo opp. He told his wife to sit next to me and smile, which she reluctantly did. She must have really loved him because I stunk badly. Although it was strange, I like to think that 20 years from now, their family album will hold pictures of his wife with opulent statues of Buddha, his wife in front of gorgeous temples and his wife next to The Random Sweaty Girl. I feel privileged to be that sweaty girl.

It’s really memorable, though, when someone you don’t know does something that makes them feel like family. When I left America, I sat next to two elderly women on one of the three planes it took to get to Southeast Asia. I didn’t know their nationality; I just knew that they were from Asia and that I didn’t speak a lick of their language. Yet, they still grew very concerned over my eating habits. When I didn’t feel like consuming the food, they insisted I do so, and a few hours later, they kindly offered me vegetables in a sandwich bag.  When I tried to sleep, they made sure I had a blanket. They reminded me of my own grandmother, only with healthier snacks. I miss them a bit.

I feel like traveling creates it’s own culture, one in which people often care less about what they do because they will never see you again and one in which generous actions mean so much more for precisely that reason. I’m not trying to philosophize or say anything particularly meaningful, I just found myself mulling over the moments we create with each other and contemplating whether or not any of those people will write about me in their blogs. I also wonder if my airplane grandmothers are flying right now, adopting more kids fresh from college who could use a few good vegetables doled out from sandwich bags. I hope they are, anyway.

This entry was posted on Friday, March 5th, 2010 at 2:30 pm and is filed under Blog, Guest Authors, Shiloh Lane and tagged with Asia, dignity, Kentucky, Richard Simmons, social grace, sweatin to the oldies, Travel. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.