Almanac Travel: Coincidence and Empathy

 

 

She was sitting in the far corner of the reception area, looking for all the world like she was on the verge of tears. Even from a distance of ten metres or more, I could tell that she was upset. It was mid-afternoon, and I was in the process of checking in after a relatively pain-free flight from New Orleans. Outside, the July sun was baking the sidewalks.

 

The youth hostel may have been an attractive brownstone building on Amsterdam Avenue and 104^th Street but, when I was checking-in, the manager had warned me – and anyone else within earshot – that everywhere above 100^th Street was considered ‘unsafe’. After all, this was New York City in 1990, and we were only a stone’s throw from Harlem. I nodded an acknowledgement and reflected that, yes, when I emerged from the nearby subway station I’d noticed a very different ‘feel’ to the environment which greeted me; something intangibly dissimilar to the more comfortable sights and sounds further down town.

 

 

After a quick shower, I felt ready to handle whatever Manhattan could hurl at me. Night-time was approaching, and there were a number of bars that had been recommended to me by fellow back-packers across the US over the preceding weeks. I was 24, and indestructible. When I re-entered the reception area, perhaps searching for someone who might want to join me, she was still tucked away in the corner, and still looking troubled. Back then, the concept of empathy was foreign to me, and it certainly was rare for me to display any. It was not a case of my being cold-hearted, it was very much my naivete. So I am still slightly surprised that at that moment I decided to walk over and introduce myself to the sad young lady in the corner.

 

Her name was Janet, and she was Australian – which, I had long since discovered, was totally unsurprising even in a youth hostel on the other side of the world. After a brief exchange of pleasantries, I told her that I was interested only in planning my next few days in New York City over a beer or two. And that she could join me if she was so inclined. She said she could use a drink and said, “Let’s go.” We caught the subway back downtown, and stumbled upon a succession of bars – some seedy, some funky, some far too upmarket for a pair of Australian backpackers. Over the course of the evening she brightened up, eventually getting off her chest the cause of her distress.

 

It seemed that Janet and her best friend from Melbourne had set off on a dream American adventure that would include travelling on a succession of planes, trains, and automobiles. Their friendship had already grown increasingly tetchy by the time they boarded a Greyhound in Miami. Somewhere north of Jacksonville their disagreements had exploded into a blazing row, and Janet had disembarked in the middle of South Carolina, leaving her best friend to travel to NYC without her. That was a week ago, and she had not seen nor heard from her companion since. She wept openly as we ate a dinner of Chinese food in a restaurant opposite Madison Square Garden. “We were planning on travelling to Niagara, then on to England, but now I think I might just go home.” Soon, we were downing shots at the Hard Rock Café. In a matter of a six thirsty hours I had blown my daily backpacker budget to smithereens.

 

The sleeping quarters at the hostel were strictly segregated into male-only and female-only, and expulsion loomed for any transgression of the rules. Janet and I had purchased a few beers at a nearby liquor store, sidestepped the vagrants playing craps on the pavement, and we drank and talked while the other five girls in her room slept. The next morning, I tapped on the door, thinking that perhaps she might want to catch the ferry to Staten Island with me. But her (Australian of course) roommates informed me that Janet had departed for JFK in the early hours, bound for Melbourne and home.

 

A week later I was in a small Lancashire village, drinking pints in a pub beer garden with a couple of mates from home who were spending the winter playing league cricket in northern England. Blessedly, the sun had followed me, the evening balmy and mild. One of the lads was awaiting the arrival of a workmate from Melbourne who had been travelling in America for a number of weeks. She arrived at the pub and made her way to our table, slightly flustered, but relieved to be with a familiar face. “Hi,” she said, “I’m Anne.”

 

We inquired: how had her holiday been thus far? She made a show of rolling her eyes. “It started off really well,” Anne replied. “I was travelling with my best friend, but we just couldn’t see eye to eye on anything. I guess you don’t really know someone until you live with them 24/7.” She explained that they had had the mother of all arguments on a bus near Savannah, Georgia. Her friend had disembarked then and there, and she had not communicated with her since. “I’m not sure where she is, but I do hope she is ok.”

 

My father’s words “there is no such thing as a coincidence” were ringing in my ears like church bells. If there wasn’t, then what on earth was all this? There was a moment’s silence as I gathered my thoughts and retrieved my jaw from the ground. “I ran into her in New York last week. She was upset, but she would be back home in Melbourne by now.” At first, Anne thought I was jesting. But when I described Janet’s appearance, she knew that I was serious. “You seem to be more resilient than her,” I noted. Maybe this empathy thing was not so bad after all. “Looks can deceive,” Anne replied, her eyes watery.

 

As a glorious sun began setting behind rolling green fields, I bought another round of drinks. And we raised our glasses to friends, coincidences, and the smallness of this world in which we live. And silently, I also saluted empathy. After that night I never again met either of these ladies, but down the years I have wondered did they ever repair their fractured relationship, or were the wounds too deep and too far beyond healing? I like to think that they resumed their friendship, and marvelled at the coincidence of them both meeting the same empathetic fellow.

 

 

 

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