The older I get, the less I believe there are simple answers about people. Travel has taught me that better than any book ever could. Because when you sit down at a table with people from different corners of the world, you quickly realise that life is far bigger than anything you once considered normal.
A few years ago, work took me to Tynemouth, a charming little seaside town in the northeast of England. A place where the whole world squeezed itself around my small table. And we talked about everything. Wonder, laughter, sadness, loneliness, happiness, everything found its place on our menu.
Beautiful Syria, her bright red lipstick stretched into a smile, telling us how happy she was that her husband allowed her to work. How grateful she was for his generosity. She had never heard "our music" before, while South Africa, scrolling through his phone, played every possible hit from the last fifty years on YouTube. We couldn't tell who was more surprised - her or us. He had left Africa because life there had become unbearable. He spoke about unrest, about the loss of his parents, and how much he missed them.
"Made in China" - a small tattoo caught my eye on the hand of a young woman from China. She smiled shyly and told us she missed home too. She had been living in England for years, and every now and then nostalgia would find her. That's where the tattoo came from, she explained with a smile. India tried to squeeze us all into a video call. He was talking to his wife and daughters. We waved and laughed like fools as everyone tried to fit into the camera frame. He recorded everything. Every little detail. His family couldn't travel. Permits were difficult to obtain, and there simply wasn't enough money.
Then the young woman from Jordan returned to the table. She had stepped away briefly because it was time for prayer. She told us she was getting married that year. Her brother had chosen her future husband because her father had passed away and her brother now looked after the family. "But what if you don't fall in love with him?" someone asked. She shook her head. "That's impossible," she said. "My brother loves me. I'm sure he found the right man for me." We studied her the way one might study one of Kafka's insects, watching every flicker across her face, searching for the slightest sign that she was joking. But she wasn't. India nodded approvingly. He too had an arranged marriage. And he was happy. Very happy. He explained that even after all these years, marriage still felt like unwrapping a gift. There was always something new to discover about his wife. Jordan secretly showed me a photograph of herself without her burqa. I looked at her. I truly saw her. She was beautiful with it and without it.
The Pole was looking for someone to join him for a cigarette break. Nobody smoked except him. Two packs a day, he said. Marlboro. And ten coffees. He was the oldest person at our table. Long hair streaked with experience, carelessly tied back in a ponytail. His passion was photography and wandering through jungles. As I stared into the eyes of a tiger in one of his photographs, I told him not to be selfish. That he had to share that art with the world. They say a picture is worth a thousand words. His never stopped talking...
That evening, I didn't learn much about the world. I learned something about people. That no matter where we come from, we all carry the same things in the pockets of our lives. Some of us miss home. Some miss our parents. Some miss freedom and peace. Some miss love. And most of us are simply looking for a place where we can be seen and accepted.
I love those journeys of mine when the whole world squeezes itself around my small table. In a little town somewhere up north.
And it never felt crowded.
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