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. I don’t think there’s a single word to describe what you were feeling, but there is one for your story: Amazing. This was one of the best, most enjoyable posts I’ve reads since I’ve been on WP. You have a gift. I felt I was right behind you and Max eavesdropping on your conversation or watching a movie with intent interest. Nice one Quinn. But you ruined the rest of my reading day. Everything else will pale compared to your story. I may as well skip WP today.

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  4. When I’ve experienced this the feeling the sensation I would best compare it to is gliding. All the commotion of life allowing for a sudden moment of effortless momentum where I can simply drink in the humble yet extraordinary beauty of the world I’m moving through. If I had to give it a term it would be Zero Gravity, i.e. That night we had was zero gravity.

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  7. It’s a great story! I loved the way you stayed on such a unique topic. I always find it interesting when I find a situation or a feeling that there just isn’t a word to.

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  8. Thanks for sharing. I was glued to your story. That feeling comes sometimes and sometimes I do not even have to come close to the person… For some reason I get interested in them .
    Writing is an easier outlet

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  13. Completely agree with you. Writing allows me to think more deeply about the message I’m trying to communicate. I’ve never been a natural born impromptu speaker either.

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  14. There should be a word for that, but there won’t be. That feeling is irreplaceable and indescribable. I can’t imagine someone coming up with one word to describe all the wonderful feelings you felt in that moment.
    I loved you story, Quinn. I felt like I was with you & Max in your little tour in Vienna. Only a few people has the gift that you have. Please don’t ever stop writing, and thank you, WP, for bringing me to Quinn’s story.

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  20. Fantastic story, loved reading it. I hope you discover the word. This brought back a rush of some similar memories for me, most often involving travel. Maybe the search for the word would start there. Alain de Botton might have something to say here. I suspect he might. And while you pointed out the platonic nature of it all, I couldn’t help but think a little of Before Sunrise.

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  25. This just show’s how we are all connected together, how little events with strangers may leave the most profound feelings in us for the years to come. Your lovely story just shows how every small experience leaves the greatest impression on the years to come.

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    1. It really does. It’s funny to think about how the same experience can stick (or not!) with different people. I wonder if Max even remembers it…

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  26. I think in a situation like this, the risk is run of looking back in simple fondness or being hounded by what ifs. There are people, men and women that still cross my mind after many years. Once I saw a girl reading in the restaurant/bar that I frequent. I have occasionally brought a book with me as well, and all of my friends think it strange. But here she was, reading in the midst of her friends drinking. I felt we would be great friends, but I never approached her. That woman still crosses my mind and I have a soft spot for her though we never spoke a word. I do still feel a spot of regret that I didn’t go over and introduce myself.

    I feel that writing is one of the best things in my life. I’ve had journals for many years and work that I publish on my blog go through many hours of composing and editing. I love to edit. Move sentences around, decide on which words to use, change, which images and examples to insert. It’s soothing and stimulating at the same time.

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  27. How beautiful and perfect it is ♥..completely awed by the moments..and also the best part is how beautifully u can give without asking or without getting it acknowledged. .we do and said a lot of things about a hell lot of people and thn we show off a relation and it died…
    I hope max is also reading this..I so hope fr this.
    God bless u this is definitely beyond words

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    1. I haven’t seen this movie but it’s come up a couple of times in the comments here so I’m thinking I should give it a watch! Is it set in Vienna? All I know about it is that Ethan Hawke is in it and there was a relatively recent follow-up?

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    1. Somebody further up mentioned this same movie and now I’m thinking I will need to watch it! Thank you so much for reading – it’s a lovely memory to have and I’m glad people enjoyed my sharing it!

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  41. I totally fell into this story, what a great time you must have had, I almost feel sorry for Max, I think he may have waited for you in that cafe on the wednesday looking out for you.

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    1. I hope he didn’t, or if he did, I hope he didn’t wait too long. I hope if he does even remember our evening together he does it with fondness! I would hate to think I hurt him after he gave me such a lovely memory.

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  42. Beautifully written. Your care with the description and tender emotions paints such a vivid picture that I could feel the experience as if it was my own aswelk. The word I use to describe such moments is SoulSync. When, even for a split second, your soul genuinely and vulnerably connections to another person and you both know you are seen, understood, and valued by the other. It’s a SoulSync moment you have allowed us to experience along side of you. Thank you!

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    1. Thank you for reading it Leigh! I agree, that is one of the best things about travel, although usually I think we’re too cautious to let these situations play out, especially these days!

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  45. I have to say this was one of the most idyllic, enchanting articles I have read. I shouldn’t coin it romantic for this is completely different feeling altogether! Oh! Why don’t they have a name for this feeling. The stranger who charms you in her strange ways, your heart leaps out, you sense and feel nothing other than the presence of that stranger yet you are subtly aware that you aren’t going to see her again. These dates when a date is something we mull over so much, swiping left or right, dress up, do our hair, I miss the discovery of a stranger that deciding after a well carved plan!

    Truth be told I felt as though I were riding the carriage, through the streets of Vienna, listening to your conversations with Max! Ah!

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  46. its amazing what you expressed is amazing the way you feel about a total strainger is wonderful its better to fall inlove with a strainger than fall in love with your friend xxx
    i think your talanted and you need to keep doing more xx

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  47. It’s so beautifully written; as though I were sitting in the carriage, riding through the cobbled streets of Vienna, listening to your conversation.

    I so wish there was a word for the feeling you talk about. Drawn to a stranger, lost in the strangeness of the stranger also knowing that you shall never chance upon her again. Ah!

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  48. Oh my god, this is so beautiful that I am, quite literally, crying. You so poignantly captured that moment of true connection with someone, when you begin to know them. We spend most of our lives searching for this, who knows how many chances have slipped through our fingertips? Thank you so very much for writing this. It touched my soul.

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    1. Thank you so much for reading it, I’m glad it resonated with you. It’s such a powerful feeling when it happens, and all too rare. I think you have to hang on to those moments – even if it’s only in your memory – when they do happen.

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  49. I don’t know who I’m more in love with: you, Max, or this incredibly dreamlike story. I know the feeling of the non-existent word you seek. I looked on Google, but to no avail. I’m sorry. I had a similar experience once, with an Arabic man in Geneva who spent an afternoon teaching me French. There really should be a word…I feel like there is one. As with so many parts of life, it’s out there, it’s just a matter of finding it 🙂

    One word that does describe you as well as myself: logophile.

    Thank you for sharing this beautiful experience. I too, wonder what Max is up to. If he still goes to the coffee shop near the cathedral and like you, I hope tragedy has missed him in his life and that he is well.

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    1. Oh thank you Celestial! I hope your Arabic gentleman still makes you smile when you think of the memory. I love that we can collide with strangers and spark an instant connection; it’s a lovely and rare and powerful part of life.

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