2/23/2013 3 Comments WE'RE NOT IN KANSAS ANYMORE TOTOWhy making new friends means manning up, playing indoor volleyball, and leaving your shame at the door. Bruised and belittled after branzenly attempting indoor volleyball last night somewhere in Madrid with a group of strangers, all experienced players... Don't trust those sultry mental images of relaxed people effortlessly volleying balls over sandy nets bathed in sunlight. Also don't think that just because you are a natural at Badminton and have a keen eye for ping pong that these innate powers will aid you. They will only delude you into slapping and punching a volleyball anywhere but downwards, during which time you will be very confused, very sore and very regretful. Moving to a new country and having to adapt to an unfamiliar setting has proven for me to be a mixture of frenzied anticipation, utter discomfort, reinvigoration, and interestingly, regression. I say regression in two senses of the word: on the one hand, in the sense of having to start afresh socially and in this sense, relinquishing ground that has been made with those friendships and social occurrences that over a significant period of time have become innate. The newcomer and outsider must, quite simply, step back or regress and start again. The second sense of the word regression is something subtler but perhaps also more core, and that due to its complexity I am only now just starting to see. It is the sense of the word in the way that psychologists use it, mainly, the return to childhood modes of thought and behavior. Dramatic outbursts, disempowering self-doubt, fears of abandonment, failure (and the list of various manifestations of neuroses continue), in one’s adult life are almost always anchored in some childhood event or memory. It’s funny (i.e., not actually funny, but rather frustratingly unusual) that in having to proactively trigger social possibilities as a result of relocating and moving away from givens and comforts, one is faced with echoes of those anxieties that arose in childhood. The most obvious being acceptance and rejection. I recently joined a collection of meet-up groups online, ranging from writers to volley-ballers, inspired by accompanying marketing and light-hearted block quotes, to branch out and start making friends. After outlining who I was (which despite only being two lines in length nonetheless triggered a philosophical onslaught of probing questions about self-identity and what I had amounted to), I ticked boxes that pinpointed my various interests (sure, I can be into mountaineering and Frisbee comps), I submitted myself to an online panel of those who would contemplate responding to me or not. This is not to say that I am against means of social networking. In fact, I fully endorse the idea of online dating but in this context, in search for friendship not sex. I am merely highlighting that the process itself, even prior to the actual meeting with strangers, is a necessary form of exposure, but exposure nonetheless. Once you’ve created the online version of yourself that looks friendly and approachable (photos in which you are smiling are advised), but also not desperate (don’t be too smiley; this may backfire), you’re next step is to rsvp to group activities that sound fun/interesting/will get you outside of your bedroom, and attend them. So far, I have attended a group of expat writers who sojourn fortnightly to read out their written work via microphone with the aid of atmospheric lighting and alcohol. I wrote about this in the previous post – to sum up, it was a quaint and stimulating experience that enabled me to meet some interesting and very friendly people, which was a huge plus. Consequently inspired, I then attempted soccer with a group of primarily large, aggressive German guys last weekend some time between 10 and 11 at night, a time when winter proved its omnipresence in the form of 0 degree air. Next to the Germans I felt like a spindly, 10 year old child, skipping around and trying my best to look like I was impatiently anticipating the ball but was really trying my best to stay clear of it. Attempting to rally my enthusiasm and competitive edge, someone on my team ordered me to “Kick their shins!”, but I wasn’t in the mood to kick people in the legs, nor race around astro turf in the freezing cold trying to prove myself for that matter.. To redeem myself, or having not learnt from my mistake, depending on how you view it, I signed up to indoor volleyball with a group of strangers. My first and (I say this with resolute certainty) last, game took place yesterday evening, somewhere in Madrid. I say somewhere because I still have no real idea where my photographed images on my iphone taken of googlemaps on my computer screen (I don’t have 4G, and I’m quietly proud of my innovative solution to this annoyance) led me to late last night. As I expressed in the opening of this post, it’s safe to say that what I had anticipated and what played out were two very different stories. I was freezing cold, underdressed, stunned by my lack of coordination (considering that back home I play sport frequently and can catch balls with no visible disability), and feeling sorry for my forearms that were taking a beating every time the ball was pounded into my vicinity. In both attempts at playing competitive sport with strangers, or generally facing a social collective alone, one is faced with situations that are an inherent part of childhood: The picking of teams, favouritism and popularity, infiltrating a clique, introducing yourself and what you do with yourself to strangers, searching for people who look your own age and with whom you could potentially share common interests, and most of all, appearing likeable. This is why in doing totally new things with totally new people, with the goal of making friends, is regressive in both senses of the word. It is a form of going backwards and starting from scratch in order to slowly build up new relations. In so doing, all those precarious moments while growing up revolving around being accepted and liked echo back at you as a grown adult, no matter how confident and self-assured you are. On that note, my next venture is meet up no. 2 of the writers’ group, where I plan to read out a small descriptive piece I made up about a Spanish man who drinks every afternoon at a pub on my street. His name is Jorge, pronounced “whore hey”, which I think alone validates a story. After that, I’ll be giving Touch Rugby a go, followed by an all girls expat group called “Girls Gone International” (all I can think of is “Girls Gone Wild”, which I’m sure I will discover is an ironic association), people who are into drinking coffee and/or tea , and strangers who want to exchange native languages over beers (however, only strange men have contacted me for this one, and I’m beginning to think that they’re looking to speak one language and one language only… The international language of LERV). But in no way suggesting that I’m despondent about the whole unfurling from one’s comfortable cocoon and starting afresh abroad, this post is merely a way of making light of these attempts before an invisible audience of hopefully sympathetic readers. Even if I had Dorothy's shoes from the Wizard of Oz, I still wouldn't click my heels together as a short-term escape from unfamiliarity. As my mother always said, ‘a stranger is a friend you haven’t met’. However, keep in mind that my mother has done the following: danced around on stage in a borrowed superwoman costume at a day club in the South of France, acted like a crazy person in the subway to avoid being fined by an NYPD officer, and knowingly graced a hotel breakfast table with a sanitary pad adhered to her head. I think the key in all of this is to just be yourself and never let shame or dignity get in the way of making friends.
3 Comments
Scott
2/23/2013 11:18:29 am
Harriet you are fucking awesome!
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Susan Homann
2/25/2013 06:08:41 am
I do have many great and diverse friends even though I occasionally wear a panty shield on my head
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