Strangers on a Train

To close a fabulous summer, I spent the last week of August in Montreal, Canada with one of my best friends. I travelled by train on Amtrak's photogenic Adirondack Route, a straight shot north through New York state by way of the Hudson River and Lake Champlain; lodged at a eco-conscious hostel in Old Montreal that was bohemian enough (at $25 dollars a night) not to have air conditioning; and met the most extraordinary woman on the journey home.

I'm still marveling at this last turn of events, I suppose because it was entirely unexpected. I'm, um, not exactly the type to strike up conversations with strangers, and I certainly don't believe in the romance of making friends on public transportation. I know it does happen, and I admire those who possess the charisma to make it happen, but that kind of thing simply doesn't happen to people like me. I'm too shy and too reticent. Watching movies like Before Sunrise fill the void just fine. Books are also great companions. They never disappoint, and they never let you down.

I'm still not sure what prompted me that day -- other than a necessary kick in the pants from the goddess of serendipity. It's time to step up your game and be more social, she may have said.

I kinda knew my seat mate was a keeper when she, who had been sitting nearest to the window, begged my pardon before stepping over me to use the bathroom with the type of chivalry that was probably more common in 1810 than 2010. People just don't talk like that anymore, I thought to myself, but I appreciated the sentiment all the same. Yet though I subconsciously found her approachable, it wasn't enough to compel me to say something. Would I complement her on her Macbook (because great minds think alike)? Would I comment on the scenery and see if she agreed? Uh, no. Much easier to disappear into the gothic literature resting on my lap. That drama was more interesting, anyway.

When we reached the border, I (literally) couldn't help but overhear her interview with our customs inspector and discovered the purpose of her visit: family in Brooklyn. Brooklyn, I mused excitedly, that's where I live! (Well, not exactly, but close enough.) I turned towards her and said "Brooklyn, holla!" a joke which she not only understood, but laughed at politely, and this gave me the confidence to tell her my parents grew up there. She was very obliging towards this news, and it lead to an innocuous discussion about New York: how it's changed over the years, how it compares to other large cities in the world. She is a Canada native, from Alberta, but has been calling Montreal her home for the last fifteen years.

The conversation could have easily dissolved there, I could have went back to my book, she to her music. Except it didn't. It blossomed with the immediacy of two friends whose 10 years apart seemed like it never passed. We gabbed for eight hours, hinting at our past experiences, expressing our hopes for the future, and discovering a mutual kinship in how we approach the everyday.

What struck me about Rosiland (the name of one of the most sagacious characters in Shakespeare, not coincidentally, I think) was her wisdom, her passion, and my God, her inspiring eloquence. I was in a constant state of self-discovery, revelation, and contentment during our exchange. And most of her tidbits weren't new, nor original. They were the basic concepts of virtue and integrity that we've learned from our parents, modes of behavior we strive to achieve by reading this magazine, lessons of life we hope to pass along to our loved ones.

Reminiscing, our meeting seems almost ethereal, like something out a film. I've never been the most active participant in humanity (see above), and maybe that's why I love cinema: I live so much of my life vicariously through it. But this does leave me wanting more, a more palpable feeling of connection, something which has always eluded me due to my own reclusiveness. Yet in rejecting that very attitude I received exactly what I needed at the exact moment I needed it.

Though we exchanged contact information, I'm not sure I'll ever see Rosiland again. She was one of those figures who waltz into your life ephemerally, only to pass on whatever motivation, spirit, or intelligence you need to pack in your suitcase to move forward. If Montreal was a great trip, meeting Roz was the icing on the cake. But she was more than a confection, our conversation much more satisfying and enduring then the sugar that keeps you craving for more.

And even if we didn't exchange phone numbers and E-mail addresses, even if the scene would have played out more fortuitously, I quickly realized we weren't really strangers at all. We were sisters in solidarity, and I'll never forget it. If we never speak again, I am (still) so amazed by the moment, and can't but feel incredibly humbled.

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Comment by Dianne Sikel on November 3, 2010 at 12:31pm: What a great story!
I Love these kind of experiences

Friends for a Reason
Friends for a Season
& Some Friends for a Lifetime

Comment by Christine on September 22, 2010 at 9:21am: Wow, this is the sort of experience I always hope for! But like you, I tend to avoid striking up conversation with strangers... preferring to keep my headphones on and my book open. So awesome that you found a "sister in solidarity" (love that) and had such a great end to the summer!

PS- I've heard so much about Amtrak's Adirondack Route-- were you travelling the whole week on it or was it just a to & from transportation? It sounds perfect.