Immersion

When I was travelling alone, I craved company during the silent stretches.  There were a lot of those.  A few friends told me that traveling alone is the best method because you don’t have to compromise with another person who has different tastes or someone who moves rather sluggishly. 

But none of these people ever mentioned the numerous silent stretches spent walking to the train, waiting for the train, sitting on the train.  I had no problem entertaining myself, but every so often I wanted a little verbal back-and-forth from someone I knew.  Conversations with strangers about itineraries, dreams, and wanderlust were even beginning to lag.

When I became part of the Contiki group, I wanted to be free once more.  I wanted my differences to stand out; I didn’t want my personality to be absorbed by the crowd.  When I was out on the road, alone, I naturally adopted the status of an outsider, a label I cling to in order to feel unique.  I wanted to believe my thoughts and opinions were singular and that they had never entered the mind of another person. 

As a teenager, I avoided my girlfriend’s family conventions.  My parents divorced when I was very young, and both sides of my family are very small.  Out of my two uncles and three aunts related by blood, only one aunt has had children of her own.  I only have two cousins.  My mother’s relatives rarely inhabited the same spot because they were spread out across the country until they all moved to Florida.  

I have three brothers, and one of them is my identical twin.  We have always got along easily and shared the same interests, but I have always felt a desire to distinguish myself in order to form my own identity.  Maybe this history explains my reluctance toward immersion into large groups, or perhaps my ego is more swollen than I’m willing to admit. 

Now I am beginning realize how foolish this all sounds.  I am composed of bending bones, working organs, and a functioning brain.  I am the summation of my miniscule cells, and in that regard I am not special.  Yet I still separate myself from everyone else hoping this will help me achieve relevance.  My natural instinct is to do the opposite of what the majority is doing.  I’m not sure what I am trying to accomplish other than attracting a label of unusual or radical behavior.    

Eventually I warmed up to the Contiki group, and a few friendships blossomed.  I toured Paris on my own until Aaron invited me to see the catacombs with him the next day.  Then Ryan and Laura joined our clique, and after they left in Rome I spent more time with Bridget and Ash.  The group didn’t form overnight, but strangely I can recall the moments in which our friendships strengthened. 

When we visited the sand dunes in Biarritz, France, I climbed up the hill and ran down the other side until I reached the frigid sea.  Naturally inquisitive and competitive, Aaron matched my distance, and we wound up far away from the bus with limited time to spare.  We took a short cut through a grassy area because the ascent was not as steep. 

As we neared the summit, we found ourselves barred by a fence that reached up past my stomach.  Since Aaron was taller than me and was wearing shoes, he managed to reach the other side with relative ease.  I wanted to walk barefoot, so I left my shoes on the bus.  The wooden fence was too high to jump over, and there were no perches I could use to propel myself over.  I didn’t have enough time to find an alternative route; I had to jump over the fence and I had to jump now.  But Aaron thought of a better idea. 

I planted my foot onto the smooth, vertical beam of the fence, and my bent knee touched my chest.  Aaron grabbed my hand and pulled me over to his side, and I landed safely.  Since Aaron struck me as being emotionally distant, this gesture surprised me, and I was filled with a sense of euphoria.  Breaking the physical barrier between friends is a surefire way to develop a closer bond.  This is why wrestling can be deemed affectionate.