personal · so that happened

Falling Half in Love with Strangers

Quinn

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I love being able to express myself in writing.

It feels more accurate somehow than speaking words. Talking for me can sometimes feel like playing tennis with a colander; I mean, it’s possible, I can do it, but it’s not ideal. The ball goes over the net, but just about. It goes where I want it to go… more or less. I can’t be sure it’ll hit it’s mark, but I can hope. Later, I’ll go home and think about how I could have done it some other, better way.

Writing is different.

Writing is a tennis racket. When I’m writing, I have the time to think about what I’m trying to say, and then mentally flip through millions of words looking for the one that slots into my sentence like that Tetris block you’ve been waiting five minutes for; the one that gives you a combo and wipes the screen clean. Finding the right word feels satisfying, and I’m always on the lookout for new words to add to my vocabulary. If you’ve been reading this blog, you’ve probably noticed this already (like with Hygge and Sonder). I collect words.

Sometimes I find myself reaching into other languages for words that describe feelings or situations that there’s no term for in English. I’m bilingual – Spanish/English – and there are times when I can feel a Spanish word trying to force itself into an English sentence because there’s no English equivalent.

… And yet, even with two entire languages to pick words from (and a smattering of others), I still sometimes find myself searching for a word that doesn’t exist.

I am on the lookout for a particular word.

I want a word for the feeling I get when I connect with a total stranger for a few minutes or hours, and then never see them again. It’s an ability to suddenly feel profound, intense affection for someone I don’t know. It’s not physical attraction, necessarily. It can happen with men or women. It is a non-discriminatory feeling that happens without warning, without rhyme or reason. I want a word that explains how I can feel instantly and powerfully attached to somebody and then, in a perverse way, almost hope never to see them again.

Is there a word for that?

There are a handful of people I’ve met over the years who I still think about from time to time, because even if I only spent a few hours with them, in those hours I was invested. I wanted to know everything about them. I fell a little bit platonically in love with them and their stranger-ness. I felt something that I don’t have a word for, and I hate that. I felt a nameless, wordless bond.

If you’re thinking, ‘Quinn, what are you on about?‘ … here’s an early example.

About half a lifetime ago I was in Vienna, Austria, with barely any German and friends who had succumbed to sickness. I wandered out into the city by myself, and walked the cobbled streets alone with only a crumpled paper map for orientation. These were the days before smartphones, and everything was just a little more complicated. In the square behind a large cathedral, I pulled out my map and tried to trace my finger down the streets I had walked earlier. A voice interrupted my thoughts in harsh German and I turned to find a long line of horse and carriages parked along the kerb. One of the carriage drivers, dressed smartly in a black felt hat and waistcoat, was observing me with amusement.

“Lost?” He asked.

I nodded and trotted towards him. After all, if anyone knew the streets of Vienna it had to be the carriage drivers. He nodded his head at the padded bench beside him and helped me up into the driver’s seat. Up close I realised he was young, with bright blue eyes and a friendly, shy smile. He had a small gold hoop in one ear. I was alone and bored and lost, so I flattened the map against my thighs with the palms of my hands and explained in broken German where I had come from and what I was doing there. I told him I had no plans for the evening, and was just looking for landmarks to visit that wouldn’t require too much walking.

He nodded as I spoke, and pointed out a few different landmarks. Every few minutes a carriage would depart from the front of the line and our carriage would jostle as he coaxed his horses forward.

And then it happened. That wordless, nameless thing.

There is an entirely regular level of healthy interest that we as humans have in each other. When you meet someone for the first time, often there are a number of things you want to know about the person. A lot of adult conversations start with “What do you do?” or “Where do you live?” or “How do you know Martin/Julia/Alex/Sam?”

The wordless, nameless thing I feel skips the superficial curiosities of that regular level of interest. I lock onto people. My curiosity spontaneously mutates from a lukewarm, detached interest to a many-tendrilled absorption in the person in front of me. Once this happens, my curiosity extends into private, hidden corners; darkest secrets and earliest memories and family histories and relationships and hobbies.  I want to know what they do to feel better when they’re feeling low. I want to know their favourite food. I want to know when they last cried, and why. I want to know how they get on with their siblings (if they have any), whether they like to dance or prefer to sit by the bar, what age they realised the truth about Santa Claus, and how. I want to know what drives them, and I want to know what led to their presence next to me in that particular moment, out of the 7 billion other people in the world.

If that sounds extremely intense… I realise that. Don’t worry, I don’t interrogate people like I’m trying to solve a crime. I do gently question them though. Max, my friendly carriage driver, told me about how carriage-driving was a family tradition. He told me about the routes he usually took. He told me about how long he had been doing the job, and his worst experience with a passenger. He told me about his horses and his family. He pointed out his favourite spot in Vienna and his favourite coffee shop. We talked for about 45 minutes, and then a middle-aged French couple approached him for a carriage ride and I realised we had reached the top of the queue. Blushing, I stammered an apology and stood to jump down, but Max shook his head and gently motioned for me to stay seated.

“You come?”

I had just watched money change hands and realised that a carriage ride cost about €80. As a broke teenager, I had absolutely no discretionary funds for carriage rides around the city. I told Max as much, and he shrugged.

“You are not passenger. You are co-driver.”

The carriage ride was about 45 minutes of magic. I had never been on a horse-drawn carriage before, but compared to the paying customers I definitely felt like I got the best seat in the house. Sitting up high on the driver’s bench with Max telling me about the landmarks and explaining their history, Vienna looked different. The evening sun threw a golden filter over the intricately carved stonework on the buildings. I glanced over my shoulder at the French couple; the woman’s head was nestled into the man’s shoulder, and the two of them were smiling at nothing in particular. I could see how Vienna might easily be as romantic as Paris.

In between landmarks I slid in more personal questions. I asked about Max’s parents, his ambitions, what he did in his free time. He gruffly answered every question, with a shy smile every now and then to show he didn’t begrudge me my curiosity. Every so often he would mutter a question of his own, his low voice hard to hear over the sound of trotting hooves.

By the time we circled back around to the church, night was falling. The streets were clearing, and some of the other carriage drivers were disappearing in the dusk as they turned in for the night. I hopped down from the carriage, checking my watch.

“I guess it’s time for you to go home,” I said, gesturing at the carriages trundling away.

“Ja.”

“Okay. Well. Vielen Dank Max. That was… amazing.”

Max accepted my thanks with a sharp nod.

“Where do you go now?” My curiosity again. “Where do the horses sleep?”

“Other side of river” he said, gesturing with his arm. “Over…”

I opened up my map again and he studied it for a moment before pointing at an area of Vienna I had never visited.

“You come?”

I looked up to find him looking at me with an inscrutable expression.

I looked down at the map. The area he was pointing to was pretty far away. How would I get home? Nobody knew where I was. Then again, I had no other plans, and I was stuck in this nameless, wordless feeling with Max, Austrian stranger.

I looked up at him with a smile. “Sure!”

He held out a hand and helped me back up into the carriage.

I pried further into his life on the carriage-ride to wherever we were going. He told me about his last girlfriend and how long they had been together and how it had ended. He told me about the food that brought back childhood memories for him, and how he had spent his birthday. At one point, clattering over cobblestones on a dimly lit, empty street, he nudged my thigh with his hand.

“What?”

“You want?”

His hand opened slightly, offering me the reins.

“Me? I can’t! Max, I’ll crash your carriage.”

He nodded insistently and put the reins in my hands.

“You feel?”

I did feel. There was a tension on the reins, a sort of pushing, pulling, rhythmic motion. It immediately gave me a feeling of both pure joy and total calm. I gripped the leather tight and felt focus and control wash over me. He let me drive the carriage down the streets of the city, guiding my hands when we needed to turn, or tugging when we needed to slow down. Eventually we reached our destination, and he slowed the horses to a stop and jumped down to lead them through a large door between townhouses.

I felt my eyes widen as we passed under the stone arch and through time straight into the 1800’s. A small stone courtyard paved in cobblestones housed four stables with glossy emerald wooden doors. Lit by half a dozen warm yellow lamps, I watched as a cat yawned and sat up on a hay bale to greet us. I hopped down, completely enchanted, as Max parked the carriage and led the horses to their stables. I gazed up at the baroque townhouses flanking the little courtyard, my mouth hanging open. When Max tapped my elbow to get my attention, I was startled back to the present.

“I come back. I shower.” He said, running his fingers along the brim of his black felt hat.

“Okay.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah, Max, go have your shower.”

“After, drinks?”

“Sure.”

He disappeared, undoing the buttons of his waistcoat as he went. I spun around and sat down on a hay bale to pet the cat. Fifteen minutes later a man emerged from a building to my right.

“Hey!” he shouted, and I looked up, startled.

How would I explain my presence? Was I even allowed to be here? I looked around for Max.

“Hey,” he said again, and stopped in front of me. My eyes slid over this man’s body, from his leather boots, past his ripped jeans, over his white and red motorcycle jacket. A red motorcycle helmet dangled from his hand, and he had very pale blonde hair cropped short. He had a cowlick at the front. I stared at his face, frozen in panic.

Then I saw the gold hoop earring. It was Max.

I started laughing.

Out of his work clothes, he looked like a completely different person. He looked much younger. I realised he was only a couple of years older than I was. Without the hat, his blue eyes looked impossibly big and it was much easier to read his expression. He was pink from his shower, and he flushed and rolled his eyes when I explained, through gasps of relieved laughter, that I hadn’t recognised him.

The rest of the night was idyllic. He refused to let me on his motorbike because he only had one helmet, but we walked together to an open-air bar by the river and sat at a picnic table drinking and laughing and asking each other questions until the night wound down and I realised I needed to get home. He offered to walk me, but I declined the offer. The whole evening I had been suspended in a bubble with Max, and now I felt like I was holding a pin, ready to burst it and step out into the real world again.

We walked to the bridge, and he took my hands with an earnest expression. He said that he always had breakfast in the corner cafe near the cathedral on Wednesdays. He said if I wanted to find him, I knew where he would be. He told me he hoped to see me again. Then he kissed me on the cheek and squeezed my hands before turning and walking away, motorcycle helmet swinging at his side.

I didn’t go to the cafe on Wednesday. Although part of me wanted to see Max again, a larger part of me felt that we had spent a perfect evening together, and that was enough. I had half fallen in love with a total stranger over the course of a few hours. I had learned so much about him. I knew more about Max than I knew about some of my friends.

I never saw him again.

Every once in a while, I wonder what Max is doing. I wonder if he still draws in his spare time. I wonder if he still drives the same carriage through the streets of Vienna, and whether that coffee shop is still there on that corner. I wonder if he still has a small gold hoop in his ear. I wonder if he has a family now, and whether he remembers an evening spent talking about life with a stranger from Ireland, who was lost and bored and open to the possibility of being kidnapped. I hope Max is well. I hope he is happy. I hope that his life has been untouched by tragedy.

A few memorable hours spent with a total stranger, and I still care about their wellbeing years later. I still send good wishes their way when I think of them, for whatever those are worth.

There really should be a word for that.

471 thoughts on “Falling Half in Love with Strangers”

  1. 1. I loved this.
    2. I love “the wordless, nameless” feeling, as it’s both apt and relatable.
    3. If there’s ever a mainstream word for it, it might lose some of its magic, Quinn. Many, perhaps most, people will never invest in a stranger in that way. Will never exercise the courage or possess the comfort to be part of a wordless, nameless moment. I think it’s awesome that you’re one of the people who can and do. I think it’s awesome that you’re thoughtful enough to have even conceived of this idea, and delivered the perfect story to capture it.
    And, at the risk of sounding like I’m rooting against the thing you’re searching for, I think savoring something wordless and nameless is just about as delightful a thing as I can think of.
    Thanks for this.
    A phenomenal think-piece without one bit of pretentiousness.
    Cheers to Max. And you.

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    1. That’s true Matt. Maybe you have a point. Maybe it deserves to stay nameless. Words have a certain power to them too, but I like the idea that it’s rare and perhaps too uncommon for a common word. Thanks Matt.

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  3. Wow.. it was enchanting.. I was totally mesmerised in what you had to say. I could feel every moment like I was observer seeing all this happen from distant and what you said is true. there should be a word for it..

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  4. That was wonderful! I know exactly that feeling. I’m just like that! Part of you feels like you’re asking too many questions but then this quote pops in my head “No woman ever left a date unhappy saying ‘ugh I spent the whole night talking about myself!’”. And it’s true, people love to tell their own stories, but it seems so few people really want to listen. Most of the time they ask a question only to follow up with their own stories as if they never heard yours. But like you, I could spend all day trying to find out more about a person and completely forget to tell them about me. I love that feeling, even if it’s nameless. Oh, btw, it can happen with couples too. My wife had a similar experience with 2 different couples while in Italy.

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  5. Wow, what an amazing story. This post was captivating- it feels like your experience was something surreal and absolutely beautiful. That word for strong but fleeting love should exist, and if it does, I hope that you find it.

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  6. Quinn, I can’t tell you how glad I’m that you started this blog and started writing. I read your every post, as soon as I get a notification.

    I guess there will always be experiences that would not be able to match words in numerous languages. It is when such experiences are recognised that we bother to fit them in the realms of known combination of the syntax of a language. Some things are rather experienced than be known in words. My name was given by my parents, for example, I do not think of my name so much, only sometimes when people ask the meaning for it, but that’s another story (this one to be exact fictionalised by my friend: https://mysoulscompany.wordpress.com/2015/08/07/the-boy-who-conquered/).

    Our thoughts are almost always approximately converted into words no matter how hard we try. I think that wordless, in silence, unlabeled connection with people is something that deserves a dog’s lick and a human beans’ (as BFG would say) awe and wonder.

    I love what you write. I love that you take time out to build it slowly, taking time. I don’t know how dreamy it is, and I’m even tempted to say in the undulation of the inundation that these words have triggered, that I could meet you someday, I most probably will not. But this, I’ll always keep reading what you write, one email notification at a time.

    Gratitude _/\_

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  11. The closest word that comes to mind is serendipity, though I don’t think it quite encapsulates this experience quite completely.

    Out of all your posts, this one is by far my favorite (my apologies to Lenny, tu madre, the bald Japanese man who likes to point out UFOs and Olga). Thank you so much for sharing your amazing gift for writing (yet again) and for sharing another whimsical story of yours.

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  13. Hi Quinn; just to say, this is a really great story!
    I’ve had a few similar experiences (though could not describe them so well) that do fall under that specific, special heading.
    Two of my favourite words are “serendipity” and “synchronicity”… and whatever the word is for what you describe, I feel it should be something along similar lines (though doesn’t have to start with S and end with Y, of course…)

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      1. Oh definitely: whether you believe in fate/destiny or not, what can’t be denied is that such experiences remain in the memory for life — and we never quite know when the next one will happen.
        Haha well if the word exists I’ve a feeling it’ll probably be found in Italian or Gaelic!

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    1. I feel like I have a few of these memories. I pull them out from time to time and examine them and they just make me feel so content. Like, things like this happen. The world can feel magical. Keep your chin up and your powder dry!

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    1. Hahaha it would have been a great first date activity… Although would it have been as magic if it’d had been planned? Part of its greatness was how unexpected it was!

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  17. I’m not one for romance but you had me at every word. Lol. I can’t believe stuff like this actually happens! Sounds like a wonderful memory 🙂

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    1. It really is! I’m also not outwardly a romantic but that entire evening felt like it didn’t belong in real life. Walking home that night I felt like I was leaving a surreal parallel universe or waking up from a dream. I love that I can think about it still and remind myself that sometimes the world can be a magic place, despite the bad days.

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  20. So… your art of live, verbal articulation has not been as refined as your writing skills, huh? Hmmmm. 😛

    I want a word for the feeling I get when I connect with a total stranger for a few minutes or hours, and then never see them again.

    Is there a word for that?

    Hah! I believe there’s a word or two for that in the DSM-5. 😉 ❤

    Seriously though Quinn, this was a delightfully thrilling, hilarious story! Please don't learn anymore languages! Hehehe

    P.S. I am totally joking about the DSM-5 part, ok!?

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  21. Oh Quinn, you have a way of grasping at my heart. I could easily use that word on you. I know exactly what you mean, I have met many people in my life and felt that word for them. I can picture them in my head. This was one of my favorites. You are one of my favorites 🙂

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  22. In a less beautiful and meaningful vein- This makes me think of all the drunk girls I bonded with in bar bathroom lines. How is she doing now? Did she make up with her boyfriend? Find the courage to chat up the cute guy in the corner? Take my advice? Get a wicked hangover the next day? 😉

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  23. There’s an undeniable thrill about meeting a stranger and spending a few hours together, indulging in each other’s lives. It’s that spurt of saying whatever you want and leaving it behind with someone who’ll never look at you and think of it again. And your narrative is so magical Quinn. Wow. Fell in love with it. ❤ ❤

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  25. Okay, this is gorgeous and I loved every bit of it. Like… that feeling that you can’t find a word for? I just had that feeling about this blog post. You need to work this into a short story – or even turn it into a novel that spans just one evening. It’s beautiful and I’m going to tell everyone to read it.
    Thank you to This Stuff Is Golden for leading me here!!

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  26. The word is… tease. Great post, seriously, it has all the qualities of very good short story. I wonder how poor Max felt like, waiting for you that Wednesday. I wonder how long he waited. I wonder if ever again took a beautiful Irish lass for a spin in his carriage, or if he thought better of ever extending himself that way agin. Or if he does this all the time, playing the odds. Or if he is now married to an Irish tourist, after having looked for your double for 5 years. Are they happy, I wonder? You see, it’s a great story, that engages the imagination. It hinges on whether or not you ended up going to bed with him. If that seems crass, I wonder if he would have gone out of his way like this, had you been not as attractive, or were 40 years older? At any rate, a perfect story, that is all about sexuality, yet is not. Today he would have asked for your number, and he would have called it… I wonder if you have answered the phone, assuming you have given him the right one.

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    1. I wonder too… I hope he felt like I did that it was a good enough evening to leave it at that. I didn’t feel any push from him which is partly why I felt safe around him. I think if I had seen obvious intentions I would have bolted. I hope he’s happy. He gave me a lovely memory and I don’t know how he would have acted had I been someone else. There are a lot of unanswered questions, but I’m satisfied with the ones he did answer!

      Really, the truth is that none of this would have happened today, because google maps would have sorted out my tour of Vienna and I would never have needed his help in the first place…. Strange to think it.

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  27. Kurt Vonnegut wrote that we all belong to a Kuras (I hope I am remembering that correctly). This was a group of people that belonged together. It was not a group based on hometowns or colleges or anything organized. It was that the universe put these people together and threw them together regularly in life after life. (There is a bit of a reincarnation factor here) Regardless of geography and language groups, these people would all find a way to interact with each other in their next lifetime.
    While this doesn’t exactly fit what you are talking about, I think Vonnegut was onto something for you. Could this person really have been a total stranger? Maybe you had already had a previous life connection and you could feel the residual energy.
    Now, before I sound a bit whacky, I don’t want you to think of me as a new age person. I am not. I just read a lot and some ideas really stick with me.
    I too have met people that I felt an instant connection to–and not in a pickup kind of way. I knew we should be friends (not nearly an accurate enough word for these intense friendships which were destined to blow themselves up completely) but I couldn’t always say why. I also couldn’t understand why the friendship had such a rocky turbulence to it.
    Now I am just blathering and I will stop.

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  28. Hello Quinn..
    Thank you for sharing your story…It makes me feel warm and light, with a strange sort of satisfaction filling my heart..I can understand what you mean, for I too have the tendency to fall platonically in love with people, so much that I want to know them the best in the world, be emotionally and intellectually intimate with them, but without physically intimacy. There isn’t a physical attraction that is so characteristic of romantic love. But there is that intense feeling of wanting to know, to talk,to listen, and to spend time together, connect ed by an inexplicable, sacred bond…most people do not understand such a sacred, intense feeling can even exist. The feeling is asexual, and almost spiritual. The connection is formed between the minds, hearts and souls of two individuals. I’ve experienced this a lot towards people around me, but never with a complete stranger..partly because I (like most of us) find it difficult to trust a complete stranger. This is where your story has an exotic flavor, as it carries a blissful experience that many of us have denied ourselves.
    The feeling can be pretty intense and even self-intimidating. Like you, I had been looking for a suitable word to describe it, since our dictionary has no satisfactory word to offer. I think I’ve found a nearly appropriate word recently , coined by the asexual community. It is called a ‘squish’. It’s like an intense platonic ‘crush’ without physical or sexual attraction or need/want. It is not actually romantic, but can be as intense and deep as a romantic love.
    I hope that helps..Thank you again for sharing your story.
    Love,
    -Surya😊

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  29. Wow I really enjoyed this story and I know exactly what you are talking about. I recently had a similar experience where I met someone (ironically also named Max) again after 7 years. It was kind of amazing. And I don’t know if there is a word for that, but maybe the German ‘Anziehungskraft’ (~appeal) comes close.
    Wonderful story.

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    1. People are fascinating! As Randy Pausch said in his last lecture, give people enough time and they will almost always pleasantly surprise you!

      It’s giving people the time that’s difficult, I think…

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  34. You may want to read “The Alchemist” by Paulo Coelho. Throughout the book it talks about the “language of the world” and how we can understand others from completely different cultures without words or without overt communication at all… we just, know.
    In The Alchemist you’ll also find this word “Maktub”, an Arabic word that means something to the effect of “It is known”, or “It is written”. It’s a great word for those little moments in life where the omens just seem to line up with no explanation necessary.
    Great essay, thank you for sharing!

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  39. Brilliant writing here. This reminds me of a time I was stuck in a subway car for 40 minutes and I experienced that same feeling, instead with about 3 people. There’s something quite romantic about knowing you’ll most likely never see them again. Absolutely loved this read!

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  45. What a magical moment! I agree with your decision not to go to the cafe the next morning – it would have broken the spell. I also agree that writing about this is easier than speaking about it, although we really do need a word for these moments! Maybe the fact that we can’t quite describe them, though, preserves the magic and mystery?

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    1. I think so! In some way it keeps its magic that way.. If there’s a word for it then that must mean it’s common enough to have a word… so in a way not having a word makes it rare? Hmm…

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  46. What an interesting story. So captivating I held my breath all through. I’d say you and Max were truly in sync. It happens…I wonder why the hesitation to see such person again. Is it the fear that things maybe awkward next time and not flow like it did previously? Instead one holds dear that cherished moments in one’s heart.

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    1. I guess the hesitation came from normalising what was a really special evening… Would it lose its magic if I saw him again and rode in the carriage again and in that way turned them into not-once-in-a-lifetime events?

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  49. I think the word might be stained. The strangers you fall in love with make a stain on you. Their impact is like a patch in memory drive and every once in a while you recall those few counted moments. It’s like a stubborn stain. That doesn’t get off. That you don’t want to get off.

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