I've become a pretty independent person. I haven't lived with my parents for nearly 10 years. I moved to Chicago for college without knowing a single other person at the university. I travelled to Rome without knowing whom I would find. I pay my bills. I've never hit the 6 month marker on a relationship with anyone besides my debit card. And I recently found myself traveling alone for a month to cities I had never seen outside of images and fabled stories. I would make Beyonce proud.
And it always made me proud. Proud to say I didn't need another person (be it romantic or platonic) to put a smile on my face. This was a conceit I gathered after years of romantic rejection and a few soiled friendships. People. Who needs them?
While in Seattle, I rejected the idea of a hostel for a full week in lieu of couchsurfing. This turned into bed surfing (poor word choice. I see that now) while my hostess was out of town and needed someone to watch her cat. So essentially, I had to keep a breathing animal alive in exchange for a week of free room and board. Sounds purrfect. (Ugh, I hate me too.)
The neighbors were incredibly kind. Checking up on me to make sure I had arrived. Offering their phone numbers if I needed anything. It was the kind of neighborhood where I felt like I could leave the door unlocked while I slept. But it was in a city. The incongruence felt both comforting and terrifying.
Thanks, but no thanks, neighbs. Seattle had been five days of isolating myself from people. No hostel to force new friendships, and no budget for bar hopping to let the cool vocal lubricant of alcohol open me up. Save for a couple visits from people I knew, I had pretty much spent five days alone.
But that's okay. Because society is wretched. I don't need anyone to have a good time. I have myself. And my thoughts. And a fully stacked iPod. Who needs people?
I had been in Seattle about five days when it happened. I was performing a task so simple that the next thing to happen felt less likely than an alien attack or getting Rick Rolled.
You see, Seattle is big on recycling. Like, along with the Space Needle and Pike Place Market, Lonely Planet should include a walking tour of a recycling plant. So with my hostess arriving home the next day, I knew it was probably time to take out the recycling. So I grab the bag, walk outside, shut the door so the cat doesn't run out, drop the bag into the bin - a mere 30 feet from the door - wipe my hands together like I just did a job well done, and walked back to the door. I turned the knob. Sorry, I attempted to turn the knob. But it didn't budge.
I attempted a few more times. Nothing. Then a few more times. At this point, I wasn't so much trying to open the door as buy myself thinking time that didn't consist of me standing there in a state of shock, scratching my head and waving my hands like a Sim whose hunger bar has dipped dangerously red.
I walked around the whole house, checking to see if any door was unlocked. There was a renter in the basement, perhaps he was home. Man, why didn't I introduce myself to him when he came home the other night?
But Mr. Random Schedule was not home. I knew this before I knocked because his car was not there. But in moments of desperation, as we already learned, we tend to do the illogical to avoid facing the problem head on.
But wait! I knew the woman next door who gave me the key the first day! She'll at least be able to call Carla and ask if she has a spare key hidden.
I knocked on the door, but it was fairly obvious from the moment I stepped into the driveway that the family was already enjoying this gorgeous Saturday morning.
So what to try next? I know! It's so simple! I ran up to the front door of my house and tried opening it again. To my utter surprise, the door was still, in fact, locked.
To make matters worse, the next door neighbor's front yard was like the Bumpus's. Throngs of giant dogs barking their heads off while a stranger scurried around the front yard searching frantically for a way to break in.
After what seemed like an hour (real time: about 15 minutes), I walked over to the maddening herd to find a man standing there. Just sort of taking it in stride.
"Excuse me," I piped up. My voice shaking. "I'm housesitting for Carla next door, and I think I locked myself out, and I don't know what to do."
"You want to call someone?" He asked, the dogs barking so loud his offer sounded like hiccups.
"I locked my phone inside and--" I started to cry. But the man had already disappeared inside and brought me the phone. He handed it to me.
"--I don't know any phone numbers," I broke down into sobs at this point.
The man kept trying to get me to use the phone, but I kept insisting it was pointless. "Why don't you look up Carla's number?"
"Sir, it's on my phone. If I had my phone, I wouldn't need your phone." I felt like I was trapped in some sort of terrifying version of "Who's on First".
Finally, it dawned on me. The man who was feeding the cat before my arrival. He must live around here. "Do you know Max?" I finally asked.
"Oh sure. He lives right down there." He pointed a couple houses away.
The man walked me to the house, my face covered in saltiness at this point, and I knocked on the door. Max had a key. The key fit in the door. The entire problem was solved. And I was able to venture out to Seattle for one more day. Because I finally dropped the facade and asked for help.
I've always considered myself a pretty independent person. I prefer spending time alone. I make decisions by myself. I rely on nobody but myself. But that day, I realized that these things don't make me an independent person. They make me an isolated person. A person who chooses the company of her own person over the rejection that comes from inviting others. A person who makes her own decisions without consulting others because she would rather push people away than be pushed. A person who relies solely on herself because it's easier to trust yourself than another person.
But you can't isolate yourself from others out of fear. Sure, you can live for 40 years alone in the woods and be happy, but only if you do it for yourself. Not because you're scared of getting hurt.
I used to believe I was a fairly independent woman. Then I travelled alone for a month. And now I realize independence is about surviving on your own. Not by yourself.
*I'm skipping the day to day and writing pretty much however I feel at this point. But if you want to catch up on how the rest of Vancouver went, click here*
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