Perdon, donde esta el metro?" Dressed in London wool and laden with an oppressive backpack, I wasn't prepared for balmy Madrid and its metro in hiding. The woman rattled something off in the sort of Spanish you just don't learn in high school. Then she pointed. "Ah, si. Gracias." I walked across the street and nearly got hit by a car. "The right side of the road," I mumbled to myself. "What am I doing here?"
Two days prior, I discovered I had a few days off, so I bought a guide book and a plane ticket to Madrid. Just like that. Knowing not a soul, I got hold of a few pesetas and walked the town, hitting the Prado and avoiding every form of ham Spain could cook up. Fun, relaxing, scary -- well, it was quite an adventure.
I may be cavalier now, but it can be downright terrifying to be out of your element. To be alone. To have an accent, a map, and a few funny-looking coins in your pocket and know that things don't happen unless you make them happen. It's frightening to step off a plane with an army of airport limousine drivers waving signs and know without looking that no one is there for you. It takes courage to walk into a crowded restaurant and say "table for one" and convince yourself that the groups amicably chatting around you aren't wondering why.
This was the off-term experience I chose -- listening rather than speaking, discovering rather than knowing. I came into the urban jungle with a work visa and two bulging suitcases. A dozen passport stamps richer, I will leave next week with the same densely-packed luggage, but not as the same person who boarded a 747 six months ago. Being perfectly alone for a full term was one of the best off-term experiences I could have hoped for.
There is a certain social stigma to being alone. From the time we follow the leader in kindergarten and hold hands when crossing the street, we learn that it is socially unacceptable to fly solo. Walking to the soundtrack of your internal walkman is rarely diagnosed as a sign of confidence as much as it seems the mark of social awkwardness. "Not a team player" is always a negative euphemism. We are coached to work together, but rarely taught the value of standing alone.
To be alone is not to be a loner. And that is precisely what I learned on my European vacation. In pursuit of Wally World, I navigated through and survived an obstacle course of British bureaucracy and mince pies. I found a job, a flat, a new confidence and an appreciation for how much people enrich our lives. Confronting a new city, a new culture or simply a diverse college environment forces us to take up a position. It asks us who we think we are.
My answer came from the click of shoes on pavement -- the shoes bought with money I earned and on a shopping trip to the store I found with a map. I could have easily sat at home in socks, continuing to define myself by the things and people around me. Without that security, I took the initiative.
I have been alone and if ever I must, I can do it again. I am no longer afraid to eat meals alone in public. I will venture to the weight room by myself, because even with limited equipment, it's an amazing resource available for free.
I will not chug beers in a frat basement because "that's what a Dartmouth student does." Not this Dartmouth student. After making casual friends and acquaintances from all over Europe, I appreciate that while I was raised in a certain culture, diversity makes the world go 'round. Dartmouth does have problems with integrating diversity, and when I get back, I am not going to accept segregation in my sphere.
And I am also not going to be alone anymore. It is important to have that space and breathing room, if not for confidence, then simply to understand how much friends and family enhance our lives. For six months my father has been a voice on the phone and an occasional non-zero digit in my bank account. I miss the human being. I've seen countless movies and shows, but I will relish being able to discuss them with someone afterwards. I have funky shoes. I want funky people.
But as much as I felt occasional pangs of loneliness mixed with annoyance at spending three hours at the Alien Registration Office, I think everyone should afford themselves the chance to be alone, without any shame of feeling anti-social. It isn't about squirreling yourself away, but setting the mental jello to face real people.
It's about eating chocolate biscuits and saying "Blimie, I'm knackered!" and figuring out what that means to you -- about distancing yourself from the comforting shoulder and learning to live as an adult. Oh, and my kingdom for a twinkie. I'm coming home.
