by OWARD BODIE

I.

The people I meet on each flight—they’re single-serving friends. Between take-off and landing, we have our time together, but that’s all we get.
- Fight Club

Figure 1. My second home: the Airbus A-300 series.

This essay could be about any number of either dizzyingly fascinating or downright ruinous aspects of friendship and socialization, but I’ve chosen to focus on one particular part of it:

Friends I meet while traveling.

This could be construed as cheating, because I’m not really talking that much about friends. I’m really just talking about me. Me, and traveling. This is not, after all, a New Slang issue on Oward Bodie, nor an issue on traveling. But as I’m more-or-less preparing to leave the Philippines, a two-year stop on my global sojourn (with no end in sight), I’ve been thinking a bit (perhaps excessively) about the state of my friendships in light of this very serious, and long pit-stop.

Because I travel so much—for work, for leisure (although as one gets older, the distinctions between the two start to blur, right?)—I’ve made all sorts of single-serving friends. Many of them are, by nature of the relationship, kind of forgettable people. We get a cup of coffee together, or we swap stories about work while mutually feeling uneasy about that bumpy plane flight. Sometimes we share a cigarette, a Jeffrey, a bottle of wine.  We laugh, share brief, succinct observations about life, and depart at the appropriate time.

The phrase, “single-serving friends,” isn’t quite right here for my essay. Some of the people whose memories I cherish may have been those I bumped into for an afternoon, or maybe two or three.


II.

Run run away run run away
‘cause there’s nothing left to say
oh, the travel always gets me…
–      My Bloody Valentine

Sometimes you meet them when you’re on the road. Serendipitous, light, charming.

I remember this Chris McCandless-like hippie named Hobbit, whom we met when our car broke down in the middle of bum-fuck California (an epic West Coast road-trip). Besides marijuana, all he had to trade was an unopened can of oatmeal, which he was hoping was enough to take him down to Santa Barbara. For some reason he had a longboard with him and I thought about asking if he’d ever thought about just riding all the way home. Anyway, we all ended up getting pretty stoned, and wound up ceremoniously burning sage brush around the car to ward off evil spirits[1]. Hobbit got a ride not too long after. My buddies and I ended up selling the car for a hundred bucks and hitching all the way to Los Angeles.

There’s the Norwegian guy and a Coloradan girl with whom I backpacked the Czech Republic for a couple weeks—and with whom I shared a pact “not to exchange names” because we wanted to “live entirely in the moment”. We went hiking, visited some villages, and lived on the cheap. We also read to each other[2], especially because the Norwegian guy adored contemporary American literature, and hadn’t ever met any young Americans with whom to talk about Philip Roth, Cormac McCarthy, Don DeLillo. At some point, I’m not sure when, they fell in love with each other. When it was time to say goodbyes, I wasn’t too surprised when they decided not to follow me to Slovakia, opting to head to Italy together. You know, I kick myself to this day wishing we’d have broken that stupid pact because they were just so awesome.

Or that French girl in southern Mexico, with whom I spent an afternoon wandering the city streets of the old colonias of Distrito Federal, where the buildings are bright blue or green, talking about vegetables, coffee, love. She had flax-coloured hair and agreed with me that Diego Rivera got a lousy reputation, and was indisputably better than Frida Kahlo.


III.

They wept together, for the things they now knew.
- Jhumpa Lahiri

I can’t help but single out the people who kindly stopped and gave me a ride: these people prove that hitchhiking is still one of the easiest ways people can access goodness, peace, and enlightenment.

Like the middle-aged businessman who took me from Liverpool to Manchester so I could see My Bloody Valentine play live (but not before stopping by his house for a cup of tea first, mind you!). He was sneaky, grabbing a couple of pints together at a local pub—but keeping the receipts because he could count it (for some reason) as a business expenditure.

Or the exuberant high-school kids on spring break who picked me up at a gas station in southern Manila when I was hitchhiking my way to Batangas, a rural province that’s also the heartland of Tagalog culture. The young guys went to Ateneo High School, something they were quite proud of; I’m not sure where the young girls were from. The van ride was quite lovely. The young women spent time huddling together and watching Japanese pornography on one girl’s cell phone, transfixed by the bizarre imagery and providing commentary (“Ganda ang ‘boobs’ niya e!”). When we got to Batangas we stayed in a house next to a pebble-strewn beach. After helping to set up a bonfire, I got drunk and went skinny-dipping. Ironically, the same set of porn-viewers clammed up right away and thought me rude and slovenly for taking my clothes off. Go figure.

Oh, and let’s definitely never forget the Romani father, and his son, who picked me up in Eastern Bosnia. I was coming off a serious emotional high from a trip to Sarajevo[3] and Southern Croatia, which included cliff-diving in Dubrovnik (probably the scariest, and dumbest, shit I’ve ever done). The gypsies were lovely, letting me ride in the bed of their pick-up truck. I’d nap for an hour or so, but I was awake when we eventually crossed over to Serbia (you can imagine the look of surprise with the immigration officials). The trip provided me with a spectacular view of the hills of the Republika Srpska, while father and son enjoyed blasting the fucking loudest “turbo folk” I’d heard at that point on their 8-track[4].


IV.

“Impart as much as you can of your spiritual being to those who are on the road with you, and accept as something precious what comes back to you from them.”
- Albert Schweitzer

Figure 2. Enjoying the dark night of the soul of Mexico City

Sometimes you meet them through these other ways. Friends of friends are introduced, or somebody’s cousin or aunt is ecstatic that you’re tramping through their corner of the world and invite you over. I’m also a pretty dedicated Couchsurfer[5], and that has yielded some really interesting experiences.

Like when I once spent a couple nights with a family in Łódź (which is pronounced “Woosh”). It’s this town of brick and mortar and chimneys, some of which have been standing around since the beginning of the Industrial Revolution, surviving through war and communism. It’s kind of beautiful in the way that places like Detroit are beautiful. The pornography of decay. I stayed with a young man I met through the site, who was born with only his left arm. He was very gracious and polite and opinionated[6]. He smiled constantly, even when he was criticizing the various failed policies of the EU. His enthusiasm was goddamn infectious. It was fascinating to explore and walk the town together, having to watch how a young person of such disability experiences life in an industrial Polish city. He lived in a Communist-style apartment (super efficient and cozy) with his mother, an older woman who was taking courses to improve her English-speaking skills. She made a plethora of vegan Polish foods[7], and she’d sit and stare at me with baited breath, waiting for me to say something about the food. “Wyborny, mama!” I’d smile. She would nod, take her pencil then slowly write out “Thank you” in her ruled-page notebook. We would talk about life under the PRL, the reforms of the Solidarność, girls, and the challenges arraigned against Poland by history. His grandfather, who lived a few floors up, would join us for evening supper. He always wore a hat, and was so slow in doing everything, but was just so goddamn happy to be around me. “American,” he’d grin, “American—so nice”. When the Second Polish Republic collapsed under German invasion, he enlisted with the partisans. Had to have been like 90 years old.

Think about what I just said: Thanks to Couchsurfing, I had the opportunity to spend time with a family who represented the dramatic sweep of war, capitulation, communism, reform, and struggle that defined 20th century Poland. Even though I never met up with that guy again, I can’t ever forget the intensity of those experiences, when even in the rain shadow of the Sudetes, the clouds of history gave us shade.


V.

Emotionlessly she kissed me in the vineyard and walked off down the row. We turned at a dozen paces, for love is a duel, and looked at each other for the last time. “See you in New York, Terry,” I said. She was supposed to drive to New York in a month with her brother. But we both knew she wouldn’t make it. At a hundred feet I turned to look at her. She just walked on back to the shack, carrying my breakfast plate in one hand. I bowed my head and watched her. Well, lackadaddy, I was on the road again.
- Jack Kerouac

And what of romance? I suppose there have been women whom I’ve come across where being a single-serving friend was an invitation to lust, or something approximate to love. Furtive glances, tingly touches, inching closer and closer. The rawness of dirty talk in a foreign tongue. The universals: heavy breathing, sweat, bedsprings.

The God’s honest truth is that I’m mostly kind of aloof to these sorts of things.

I’m not being purposefully vague, and I’m certainly not haunted by an unrequited something-or-other (at least, any more than anyone else). I harbor no Wong Kar-Wai-like memories of unrealized desire. I’ve had my own romances, and conquests, if you like that language. I know this is a space for over-sharing, but I’d still like to keep them mostly for myself. Sometimes I allow myself to indulge in the whole “what if?” element. These are lovely, warm instances.

Writing this section, I’m reminded of that amazing quote from Citizen Kane, when Thompson visits Bernstein for an interview:

A fellow will remember a lot of things you wouldn’t think he’d remember. You take me. One day, back in 1896, I was crossing over to Jersey on the ferry, and as we pulled out, there was another ferry pulling in, and on it there was a girl waiting to get off. A white dress she had on. She was carrying a white parasol. I only saw her for one second. She didn’t see me at all, but I’ll bet a month hasn’t gone by since that I haven’t thought of that girl.

VI.

Never go on trips with anyone you do not love.
– Ernest Hemingway

And then you have those situations where people become more than single-serving friends. Where they become “real” friends, I suppose[8].

The classic story for this was the time I hitchhiked from Antwerp to Amsterdam, stopping at this field in the southern area of Holland to attend an anarchist festival. I was fairly psyched for this—I wanted to smoke some dope with some Dutchies and proceed to rage against the machine. I was pretty bummed out, though: all the anarchists wore black, were super uptight (“alcohol and drugs are strictly forbidden, since they distract one from revolutionary work!”), were snappy all the time, and just didn’t foster good vibes. I fell in with a couple of hippies who had a similar reaction, and we all hitchhiked to Amsterdam. I stayed in their lovely apartment; a weekend furlough soon evolved into a week. We did drugs, talked about politics, shared stories about our travels, expressed our anxieties about the future. We simply enjoyed indulging in our shared humanity and affection for one another[9]. Even though this is the recipe for “single-serving” friendship, my departure was pretty emotional, and we knew that we would remain friends for years to come[10].


VII.

Imagine with thyself, courteous reader, how often I then wished for the tongue of Demosthenes or Cicero, that might have enabled me to celebrate the praises of my own dear native country in a style equal to its merits and felicity.

- Jonathan Swift

And yet, despite all the friends you meet while traveling, you often still find yourself alone. Having to really confront yourself is one of the most difficult, and powerful, learning experiences anyone can have. Part of you is always reminiscing about Home. It’s always the same dream, too: being with your buddies, watching a local band performing in some den-like pub. Everything is in slow-motion, everything is hazy (despite Seattle’s aggressive enforcement of its indoor smoking ban). The band is always on the precipice of minor fame in these fantasies; but they’re really just a bunch of stoned guys with guitars. Acid trips and single-month summers dripping with possibility. Bright bikinis on skin paled by winter, $5-a-pitcher Happy Hours. Spontaneous road trips to Haystack Rock[11], the cathedral-like grandeur of the Northern Cascades—“This is ‘squatch country[12], son”, my father would say, staring out with those steeled Scandinavian eyes of his.

Figure 3. My hometown.

Alas, I don’t know if I’d really be able to build a life in my hometown. The economy is in shambles. It’s not even ironically funny. This Great Recession, likely to double-dip within the next couple years, will most probably set my generation back a decade or two—mirroring what happened to Japan in the early 90’s. The prospect of this decade being “lost” hangs over me, my friends, and their friends.

I’m not alone. A lot of us left. I think of my old friends from back in the day—the kids in my parents’ neighbourhood for instance. Is it corny to say that I think they’re a slice of life that represents the best of America? Maybe, but I don’t care. One kid from high school joined the NBA and just signed a deal last year that secures him more money than I’ll probably ever see in my lifetime. My climbing partner, with whom I shared so many travails, ran off to Chile and Brazil and then snaked his way to Chicago for grad school to study “The Revolution”. The-girl-next-door (literally) became a hippie and now lives in Western Australia, and we joke that after all these years we’re back in the same neighbourhood (or, at least, the same time zone)[13]. The smart-ass prankster who wised up, moved to South Korea to teach, and found love. The drummer for a pop-punk band I fronted[14], who lived only two doors down, left for his father’s native South Africa after uni, found his way to Hollywood working construction and is pursuing an acting career (last I heard he was vying for a role in a Power Rangers reboot). I wonder: in those moments I think of them, are they thinking of me, too?

I was always different, kooky. I chose to travel the world and be permanently rootless. One of those stops—for two years, now—happened to be the Philippines. I guess, “objectively” speaking, I chose paradise. My friends constantly bombard me with messages poisoned with envy: “Dude, I wish I was with you at the beach!”, “Man, it’s so cold here, I wish I was in a warm place, too!”, “Must be so nice!!” (Japanese-style double exclamation points for emphasis, natch).

You can’t go home again, they say, but, as far as I’m concerned, every night I’m back in Cascadia feels like it’s full of fireworks.


VIII.

Tonight most people will be welcomed home by jumping dogs and squealing kids. Their spouses will ask about their day, and tonight they will sleep. The stars will wheel forth from their daytime hiding places. And one of those lights, slightly brighter than the rest, will be my wingtip, passing over.
– Up in the Air

Lately though, life hasn’t been very good. Wanderlust can rear its head in ways that are ugly. Loneliness can take its toll. Neuroses takes over, everything is scrutinized. It’s quite painful. There are plenty of instances throughout the week when I stop and feel like screaming that I’m “way over my head with this shit”—with being a man in the world, being so alone abroad, just being, just being now.

And sometimes, you really come face-to-face with that loneliness. Holidays come by, and without friends or family, you just have to celebrate it yourself. “Let’s do this again next year.”

You want to give up on everything. Maybe I should just go home, I think. Just go home and be with my friends. Get a boring job, pay the bills, have some scratch left over to fool around. Be complacent, be appropriate. This is just fantasia.

I’ve already made peace with the fact that, because of my traveling, I’ll never really be as close to my friends back home as they are with each other. That’s the consequence of so much travel, that’s the price I pay in exchange for memories of single-serving friends.

I told one of those Amsterdam hippies about this the other day. About my loneliness, about my fears, about those moments when you do feel the ground beneath your feet quiver, when you start to feel reality slip a little bit. She listened, told me to relax. She was very sympathetic. We both expressed a desire for me to move there, a new chapter of my unceasing nomadic voyage. Before leaving the conversation, she expressed her love, then shared a quote from Pema Chodron:

When things are shaky and nothing is working we might realize that we are on the verge of something. We might realize that this is a very vulnerable and tender place, and that tenderness can go either way. We can shut down and feel resentful or we can touch in on that throbbing quality. There is definitely something tender and throbbing about groundlessness.

[14] Come on, it was 2001.




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Oward Bodie is an animal rights activist and a nomad passing through Manila. He has contributed mixtapes about bittersweet years and disco prayers, and believes that Veganism, Pot, & Electronic Dance Music are all proof that God loves us.

Feel free to ask him anything here