Whenever I travel with my partner I am amazed by his ability to communicate. He is, in effect, multilingual despite speaking only two languages, English and Football.
Using broken phrases and football references, he can bridge any language gap. When we travelled through Egypt we took a phrasebook, but all he really needed was to say “Mo Salah” with a hand gesture that looks like a heart (to say “I love him”) and all icy receptions thawed. It happens here, too. Five years ago he walked up to strangers playing football in the park. “Can I have a game?” he said. Last week, he was the goalie’s best man.
I’ve been wondering about this, because my new year resolution was to make more friends, and so far it’s been slow. It’s the chitchat I can’t do: one minute I’m saying “nice weather” and the next I’m thinking aloud about rising ocean temperatures as the other person flees.
But last week at the hairdresser, as the salon fell silent, a woman said: “My husband is sleeping with his receptionist.” A collective gasp filled the room, followed by an explosion of energy. Consoling voices jostled up against indignant ones. “My husband cheated, too,” said one. “I was the other woman once,” said another, “but he never told me he was married.”
By the end, a few of them had decided to go to a singles night; I watched them exchange numbers.
Is this the secret? Letting yourself be vulnerable and, if not baring your soul, then offering a glimpse?
At the chemist’s, a conversation sparks about waiting times. “I’m extra-impatient,” I say. “Because I’m on a diet, I’m constantly hungry and grouchy.”
“Don’t starve yourself,” comes a voice. “There’s a great aerobics class nearby. Come… I’ll be there.”
