When most of us go out for a meal or toddy, we want to sit where
we can enjoy privately the company of the person or group we came
with.
When most of us go out for a meal or toddy, we want to sit where we can enjoy privately the company of the person or group we came with. Who wants to sit with some clowns you don’t know? Then your evening becomes more like a cocktail party where you have to struggle to be charming and pretend you’re really interested in the orthodontist you just met from Fresno.
I go to great lengths to avoid such potentially painful situations. But I have lately been recalling some of my fondest memories that came out of situations just like this.
When I was young and single (I think it was during the Truman administration) and living near San Francisco, the Buena Vista was a fun place to go. It is still located near the Cannery across the street from the Hyde Street Cable Car turnaround. Legend has it that the Buena Vista is where Stanton Delaplane introduced the Irish coffee to the United States. The place was always packed. When you finally worked your way up to the bar (excuse me … excuse me … pardon me), the bartender would be there with a row of Irish coffee glasses in front of him, making them 10 at a time.
No table had less than six seats; so on the rare occasions when you could find an empty pair, you had company. I guess it was due to the festive atmosphere of the place, but the encounters with tablemates were always magical. Two Irish Coffees and a lot of loud conversation later, you’re on each other’s Christmas card list.
Another time, Renée and I attended a Yosemite Association function at Tuolumne Meadows Lodge. Dinner was served at group tables, and we sat down with six strangers. Inside of 15 minutes, we were laughing, carrying on, and topping each other’s friendly insults in a way that is normally reserved for friends who have known each other for a lifetime. I still remember the sore cheek muscles; laughing so hard I had to turn my back to the table, napkin covering my mouth, in case the mashed potatoes came back up. I left the table wanting to name my children after these people who were strangers two hours before.
Why aren’t we more open to each other? How do these wonderful moments happen? Would they happen more often if we were more open to each other? Questions for the philosophers, I suppose.
But when I lose myself in these recollections, it feels inescapable that all of us are tied together in a way that we have all but shut down. Newspapers, TV news magazines, Court TV, Cops and all the other outlets for stories of serial killers, pedophiles, kidnappers, terrorists make us cautious if not cynical or downright fearful. Yet how many serial killers, pedophiles, kidnappers and terrorists do you know? As for me, none.
There is nothing wrong with seeking a private table to spend an intimate evening with your main squeeze. At the same time, some of my life’s best moments happened when I opened myself up and connected with strangers. We all have much more in common than we have differences; and most of our differences are artificial things that separate us only as much as we choose.
It takes some effort to reach out. It’s easier not to. But if we let loose a natural trust in other people and leash the cynicism, there will be many more magic moments that we would otherwise miss.
