Fleeting Foreigners

The William F. Walsh Regional Transportation Center has, by far, been my first and only glimpse at Syracuse, and Im not all that impressed. I am nowhere near appealed by the green-roofed edifice that looms overhead as I struggle to avoid getting soaked by the sudden downpour of summer rain. Its safe to say that Ive had better Sunday mornings, especially when the indoor lobby fills up with a group of teenagers carrying signs that say "Let our Children Dance" and rehearsing a capella routines to a room of hyperactive children and hungover adults. I vaguely plan the rest of my day while waiting for the train, my sole source of amusement stemming from a 6-year-old boy attempting to flirt with my friend Abigail for the last five minutes while his parents watch in half-embarrassment from the bench across the way. If on time, the Amtrak 48/448 train from Syracuse to Utica takes one hour and three minutes, departing from Syracuse at 11:38am and arriving in Utica at approximately 12:42pm. If my ride from the Utica train station gets there at one, I can be back on campus before 1:30pm, guaranteeing some semblance of a full day of rest before taking a train back to Boston on Monday. If all goes well, I'll be drunk before three. My presence at this station is completely unplanned, an unfortunate result of my poor knowledge of New York state geography and a minor lapse in making the necessary transportation arrangements. Up to this point, every trip Ive made over the summer has been flawless, at least when it comes to making it from Point A to Point B. However, thanks to my ignorant assumption that the drive from Oswego to Rochester passes through the quaint village of Clinton, I find myself shelling out twenty of my remaining thirty or so dollars on an unexpected, additional train ride. The first boarding call triggers a mass exodus from the lobby to the platform. Abigail and I join queues for separate cars, since the train eventually splits into two at the Albany-Rensselaer, with one branch continuing east to Boston and the other bound for New York. We exchange brief verbal goodbyes, since we were seeing each other within the next month, if not the following weekend. Frequent farewells lose their meaning after a while. City-bound trains tend to be packed on Sundays, with people having to work the next morning and all. On most train rides I would usually find a vacant two-seater and cozy up next to the window while my legs rest on the other seat, avoiding social interaction as much as possible. An hour isn't long for a train ride, though, so I dont mind settling on the first aisle seat that I could find. I end up sitting next to a pale young man who looks about my age. He seems quiet and normal, his neck framed by a pair of electric blue headphones. His reasonable attractiveness doesn't hurt, either, so I ask for the seat, which he politely offers. "You going to Boston?" he asks. I tell him no, I'm getting off at Utica in an hour. He says, "I'm coming from Buffalo. I've been travelling since yesterday." Neither expecting my new neighbour to be so conversational nor wanting to come off as the rude seatmate for the next hour, I ask him about his accent. He tells me
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he's from Germany and had just finished school. He's on a six-week trip around America, he tells me, starting from Chicago and making his way east to Boston and New York, and then south to Miami, west to New Orleans and San Antonio, and then back up to the Midwest. I reciprocate with a few sentences about myself, how I'm in America for four years of college but originally come from the Philippines. I tell him about my ten-day midsummer visit to my college and how I had just spent the last weekend in a small city in Western New York and seen one of the best firework shows I'd ever seen outside of Disneyland. "That's really cool," he says. "I've never been to Asia." "Well, I've never been to Europe." He smiles, and I ask him about his trip to Buffalo. "I wanted to see the Niagara Falls," he says, speaking in simple sentences. He offers me some Skittles. I say yes and he gives me a small packet of them. "They were so much cheaper when I bought them," he says. I tell him that they cost about twice as much in the Philippines as I bite into a green apple-flavoured Skittle for the first time. "I have studied English for eight years," he says. "And I've spoken more English in the last few days than in all those years combined." He asks if I know any German. I tell him know one word: Scheie. We laugh. Of course the only word I know is a swear word. Over the last few years I've amassed a vocabulary of expletives in eight languages, but I keep this information to myself, unsure of the implications of being a polyglottal pottymouth. I shoot Abigail a couple of texts: Sitting next to a hot German dude. I tell her, Score. Had I not recently seen Richard Linklaters Before Sunrise, this conversation would not have gone on as long as it already has. Watching a young Ethan Hawke and Julie Delpy embark on what might be the best first date ever set me on a romantic doozy, and this stranger struggling with simple sentences made me feel like I was in a real-life movie. I rarely engage in conversations with people I don't know, not since watching Hitchcocks Strangers on a Train last summer and finding myself borderline paranoid over sociable characters on the Amtrak or any form of public transport. My usual aversion to these kinds of interactions is directly opposite my uncle Joey, to whom Im often compared: though we both have a knack for solo urban exploration, he would go as far as to conversing with the sketchy late-night folk who lurk about New York City subway stations after dark. I dont talk to strangers, save for waiters and flight attendants, or store clerks, or security guards, and only if I have a question that a smartphone cannot address. Of course such individuals dont count as strangers per se. My mother repeatedly reminds me how, seventeen years ago, I once got lost in the largest department store in Manila, going off on a solo exploration of the four-storey complex of clothes, shoes, and towering shelves of childrens toys galore. As the story goes, she couldnt find me anywhere she tried, even after retracing her steps over and over again. It wasnt until she heard a cryptic PA announcement that she knew where to find me. The voice that resonated across the massive shopping centre called for the mother of a young girl named Pocahontas. My mother eventually made her way to customer service, and there I was, an energetic, innocent four-year-old in a braided wig, hopping around while pretending to answer telephones. Apparently I had approached
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the nearest store clerk, saying, Saleslady, saleslady, I am lost, and introduced myself using the nickname my great-grandparents affectionately called me as a toddler. Precocious intuition may have saved me then, but unless its a matter of life and getting kidnapped in a crowded city, I tend to steer clear of talking to strangers. On the rare occasions that I do agree to indulge the conversational needs of random extroverts, these people are usually middle-aged women like the mother of two who sat across from me on my train from Boston to Utica ten days ago. She and her sons were on their way to their grandmother's funeral in Toledo, Ohio. I like the idea of talking to white suburban mothers who haven't talked to many foreigners. Their fascination with people from unfamiliar parts of the world gives me a sense of cultural superiority, a most obscure kind of high. I ask the German, "Where do you live in Germany?" He asks which places I know of in Germany. "Frankfurt, Berlin, Antwerp..." "Antwerp is in the Netherlands," he corrects. He looks out the window and holds his camera up to a passing freight train, counting the cars that pass by. When he hits the record button, he curses to himself, realising that he hadnt captured any footage of the train at all. During my last two years of living in America, Ive gotten a really good, narcissistic kick out of talking about myself to my classmates and aunts colleagues , because lets be real, who doesnt enjoy feeling interesting? The questions have repeated themselves over the years: why dont you have an accent? Whats the weather like back home? How do you know so much about American culture? Like a celebrity at a press conference Ive come to accumulate a set of well-rehearsed answers to each of these questions. Sitting next to this chatty German, who, within the first few minutes of our conversation, has already mistakenly referred to me as a really friendly American, I curse to myself as well, embarrassed at the realisation that maybe, just maybe, my crosscultural knowledge isnt as rich as I thought. I change the subject and ask for his name; besides, we had been talking for half an hour without even introducing ourselves. At this point he introduces himself as Robin Vogler, an eighteen-year-old from Wuppertal, a city in western Germany located about forty minutes from Cologne (which I initially thought was in France, but Id exposed enough geographical unawareness for the hour, if not a lifetime). Robin shows me his ID and passport, which he keeps inside a small orange pouch wrapped around his stomach, a less tacky version of the fanny pack. He shares how, back in Germany, people would occasionally confuse him for a woman, since Robin is a name used for both males and females; the gender distinction would come in the form of a middle name, which, as he demonstrates on his passport, does not exist in his case. To balance out our current situation, I show him my Philippine passport. Robin can barely recognise my fifteen-year-old face on the photograph. He attempts to pronounce my last name and fails terribly. Suddenly overcome by the discomfort of sharing this valuable possession with a stranger on a train, I take my passport back and stash it back into my purse. Robin asks, Do you want to see my photos? Before I can respond in the affirmative despite feeling guarded, I have, by this point, ruled out any possibility that this guy could be a Hitchcock-esque sort of character he takes his Canon DSLR out of its case and scrolls through his photos from Chicago and Buffalo, explaining that his biggest challenge so far has been trying to capture high quality self-portraits at major landmarks. His father is a photographer,
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Robin tells me, and so he is extremely picky about lighting and framing; fellow tourists, however, are not as keen on such details of shot composition. Behind us on the train, we hear a woman speaking loudly in a language neither of us could identify. I turn around to ask her to tone it down, since her yelling was interrupting my now engaging conversation with my new European friend, and notice that she looks familiar. I realise that she is the same woman who sat across from me a week and a half ago, the Toledo-bound mother who now appears to be headed back to Springfield. She recognises me as well and we exchange pleasantries, but there isnt much meaning to our small talk, so I politely nod my head as a silent farewell and sit back down next to Robin. Returning to my previous conversation, I tell Robin that my aunt lives in Boston, and that I would be taking this same train all the way there tomorrow. His face lights up and he pulls out a letter-sized, clear pocket folder. He shows me the first pocket, which contains a message from his friends, in German, congratulating him on finishing high school and sending him well wishes on his trip to America. Flipping through the plastic pockets, Robin takes out two sheets of paper: one is an annotated map of the United States on which he has planned his east coast adventures for the next few weeks, while the other is a word-processed list of Boston landmarks that he plans to visit over the next few days. Do you know where is Bunker Hill? he asks in broken English. I struggle for a moment. Despite having lived in Boston for the last month and a half, I had never heard of Bunker Hill, neither the battle nor the monument erected in its name. I justify this moment of ignorance by asserting that I am not American, and therefore feel no obligation to be well versed in the countrys history. On the inside, I feel like an arrogant idiot, an uncultured foreigner, the kind of person that I have always wanted not to be. With an honest smile, I tell him, You know what? Ive actually never been to Bunker Hill. Maybe I can take you around Boston on Tuesday. We can go to all the places on your list, I can take your photos if you teach me, itll be fun. Im not sure what came over me to make such a brave offer. Despite my initial attraction to him, I make this suggestion without any intent of seducing him; he had mentioned a girlfriend earlier and I always know better than to mess with that, even in a seemingly serendipitous case such as this. There appears to be an air of innocence to this guy, a slight navet that resides within his gentle smile, dark eyes, and copper hair. Robin is thrilled. Jeah! he exclaims, and I try not to laugh at this minor nuance in his accent wherein he frequently pronounces his ys as js. Do you have WhatsApp? As he asks this question, an announcement plays through the speakers informing passengers that we are now approaching the train station at Utica. I quickly take out my iPhone and we exchange contact details, making tentative plans to meet up in Boston on Tuesday, and then again in New York on Friday, since I had scheduled a Wednesday morning bus trip to the Big Apple for weekend. We exchange cheek-tocheek bisous, I gather my belongings, and disembark from the train. Two days later, I see Robin again outside the American Eagle store at Quincy Market, just as planned. With a map in one hand, his phone in the other, and his camera around his neck, Robin greets me enthusiastically. I imagine that weve both thought of this day
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as mutually beneficial: I could finally, potentially, come to appreciate this city that Ive barely explored, while Robin can spend a day in a foreign city feeling a little less alone. We walk through Quincy Market and navigate through crowds of summer tourists, catching up on the minor changes in our lives since our first meeting. Occasionally he would stop and ask me to take his photograph, providing me with some guidance on how to compose a shot that met his standards. After two or three attempts, I finally get it right. Can we go to the Shops at Prudential? Robin asks. Since downtown Boston is relatively small, especially compared to Manhattan, I suggest that we walk through Boston Common, the Boston Public Garden, and the Commonwealth Mall. The stroll is rife with conversation: we talk about our common appreciation for electronic music, though his specific preferences could not be more different from mine, we make sloppy attempts at talking to each other in French. He takes photos of nearly everything, and I feel like Im seeing the city for the first time all over again. We walk through the Shops at the Prudential, which Id already been to several times. Robin asks me to take his photo in front of the Microsoft store, which I find really strange and uncommon. Why this store? I ask. Ive never seen a Microsoft store before, he replies before flashing a smile as he poses in front of the brightly lit Windows logo that I had never once regarded with more than a fleeting glance. Robin walks towards to view this most recent photograph and shoots a giddy Cool! that perplexes my desensitised self. I ask him if he wants to have dinner soon. I want to go to The Cheesecake Factory, he says. Before I could catch myself, I laughed out loud, thinking about all the American things that my relatives back in Manila considered to be key things to do or places to visit during any vacation to the United States. I recall Skyping with my mother two years ago, a few days after I first moved into my freshman dorm room. Her inquiries about my weeks prior to move-in day consisted of several things that I now consider greatly uneventful: Did you go to a Barnes and Noble? How was the Subway? Have you been inside a Macys? Being with Robin on this day brings me back to those times. At The Cheesecake Factory, Robin devours a full plate of pasta while I scrape my wallet for means to purchase a small plate of fried shrimp and a house salad. After dinner, Robin confesses that he has never actually eaten cheesecake before, so I convince him to try some. He orders a slice of Toasted Marshmallow Smores Galore and happily consumes it like a hearty Thanksgiving dinner. We pay the bill and carry on. On this summer evening, the sun is still out after six oclock, and we make our way towards the nearest T stop that would take us to the Bunker Hill Monument. Robin explains his determination to visit this landmark, telling me that his father once took a picture of the Boston skyline from the top of the monument nearly two decades ago, and he wanted to do the same thing. As we approach T, I hear a loud Scheie! from my previously calm new acquaintance. His camera was out of batteries, and he needed to charge it for an hour. We make a detour towards his hostel in Chinatown. He enters the building in a rush while I wait outside chaining Marlboro reds. I contemplate the humour in my current situation, how strange it is to be doing something like this today, so spontaneous, so unforeseen. If phrased correctly, it could make one hell of a story. Potentially.
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A few minutes later, Robin emerges from his hostel. We walk back towards Boston Common and sit on a bench as we wait for his camera to charge. In that hour, he shares his plans for the rest of his American travels, how he looks forward to visiting the White House and Miami Beach. Robin convinces me to join him as he records video greetings for his friends back home, for his girlfriend Marie-Sophie, for his sister Maren and his parents whom he misses dearly. I awkwardly talk at his iPhone camera, sending shyly delivered pleasantries to people that I will most likely never meet. Its funny, Robin says after he sends the final video slip. I understand your English more now than I did on the train. Oh, really? Jeah, and I think I also understand it more now than this morning. Thats really cool, Robin. I think your English improved today, too. Thanks for spending the day with me. Im really happy I made a friend in America. I usually receive such earnest compliments with a mocking smirk, but instead, I gave Robin a smile. Since we first met, Ive smiled at him out of fascination, confusion, and bewilderment. But this was different; this smile came out of gratitude. Rarely do I ever find myself in these circumstances, wherein I fully submit to a spontaneous decision, dive headfirst into an experience with no real expectations, and come out feeling like I had somehow gained something beneficial, or maybe even life-changing. Im not sure what it is about Robin that affected me so intensely in this moment, and Im not sure whether I will ever figure it out, but something in my gut tells me that Ill somehow make sense of it one day. Nearly two months later, I find myself on Robin Voglers Facebook page, browsing through the photos he took during his six-week grand tour of the eastern United States. Sometimes I speculate about his life nowadays his internship at his local bank in Wuppertal, his relationship with Marie-Sophie, whether hed come across any other interesting characters at other American cities and I wonder. I just wonder. I look back at that train ride and that day in Boston and feel as if they were part of a lucid dream. After collecting his fully charged camera from his room, we realised that the Bunker Hill Monument had already closed. He sighed and told me that he would get up early the next day and try to make it there before his train to New York. We walked back to the North End, past our original meeting point for the day, and took more photos at the Boston Harbour. With an hour or two of daylight to spare, we took the Red Line to Harvard Square and took a brief stroll through the prestigious university. At about ten oclock, I told Robin I had to make my way back to my aunt s apartment in Jamaica Plain. We parted ways after the inbound Red Line stop at Downtown Crossing. He walked back to his hostel. I transferred onto the Orange Line to Forest Hills. While on the train, my phone started to slow down, and I decided to take off a few applications, including WhatsApp, which was supposed to keep Robin and me in contact for our second urban exploration day in Manhattan later that week. Whether or not I chose to do so intentionally, I never reinstalled WhatsApp on my phone, and Robin and I never reunited in New York. Our last goodbye took place on the Red Line, and it was one of those casual see you later-type farewells that expected a future meeting. It was like a fleeting goodbye to an old friend whom I knew I would see again very soon, except it probably shouldnt have been.
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