Mr. Alan, 2 for!

Often when I tell people back at home that I am travelling alone, I can read from their reaction some concern, a bit of pity, and a general vibe of awe.  This reaction is totally logical and loving, and it sort of makes me feel like a bad-ass.  However, anyone who has ever traveled alone knows that you are never, ever actually alone.  To add another layer, if your last name is Skinner, you really, really are never alone. 

The thing is, although it sounds really cool and unique in the American context that I am off traveling alone for eight months, there are heaps of people doing this all over the world, all the time.  In fact, there are so many people doing this in the world that I sometimes find it troubling.  But, that is material for another blog post.  In this post, I want to talk a bit about one of the people that eradicated my alone-ness:  Mr. Alan.

Well, really his name is just Allen.  But, how could I possibly not make a reference to that classic metro-D shoe store, and it’s commercials that havebeen cranking on WDIV as long as I can remember?  I knew Mr. Allen and I would be friends because the second time I saw him and called him ‘Mr. Allen’ and launched into a really uninteresting rant repeating, “Mr. Allen’s!  2 for 59!” in my best impression of that ad’s super masculine voice, he did not laugh that much, but he continued to show an interest in talking to me.

Twenty-four hours later, he told me I had to stop calling him Mr. Allen.  I was no longer allowed to say the ‘mister.’  If I needed to do so, I would have to say it silently before uttering his name.  Fair enough.  I do have the tendency to exhaust these sort of things…

I usually let travel buddy dynamics unfold out of practicality or proximity.  I’m really into organic evolution of things.  So, I don’t work hard for travel companions.  I actually like a bit of my Anna space, and I am a bit too old to feel like I need/want company for the sake of having company.  I would rather be embodying a different traveler cliché by re-reading Eat, Pray, Love alone on the balcony of my accommodation than have the same boring backpacker conversation that I often find uninspiring.

But, it was a bit different with Mr. Allen.  I felt drawn to him, as I often to with hardcore folks (despite my un-hardcore-ness).  I met Mr. Allen in a small town that is renowned for surfing, and that was just what he was there to do.  He was in Indonesia to surf that one specific wave every single day for 14 days.  I liked that.  I had only been on the tourist trail for a few days, and I was already having heaps of philosophical and ethical questions about being a traveler.  Plus, my inner American was grappling for a purpose.  And, there was Mr. Allen – a dude with a very clear travel purpose in his surfing who liked to take the piss out of people like me with my Lonely Planets and draft itineraries.  He was kind of like a travel non-conformist without being one of those travelers who is actually annoyingly trying to be a non-conformist.

What was coolest of all about Mr. Allen was the fact that he volunteered to introduce me to surfing.  Now, let it be known that I have never had much interest in surfing.  It looks like totally amazing great fun, but there is the small issue that I am slightly terrified of the water.  I had completely ruled it out of possible things to try in my life.  I have dabbled with all sorts of hardcore things, many of which made me feel that I was dying.  So, I felt like I had earned the right to draw the line at surfing and scuba diving.

Remember, though, that this is explicitly a surfing town that I am in.  So, I was the only person not getting involved in the waves.  Everyone was talking surfing with all sorts of interesting related slang.  And, everyone was saying that it was completely necessary for me to get my ass on a surfboard.  I held my ground for quite a while.  Then, Mr. Allen said that he would take me out with his surfboard and that I would not try standing at all – belly on the board only.  He also assured me that I would not die.

Woah – it was totally amazing!  Let me be clear that I did not actually do anything technical.  We would walk out to point in the water that Mr. Allen deemed appropriate.  He would watch the waves and then he would say, ‘get on the board.’  And, I would.  And, then he would give the board a slight push at just the right moment.  And, weeeeeeeee!  It felt like I was flying on top of the water!  I did not die.  In fact, I did not even feel like I might die.  It felt more like I was on one of the best amusement park rides ever.  Oh, it was just so good. 

Lucky for me, Mr. Allen was heading out of surfy little BatuKaras to Yogyakarta on the same day as me.  So, we got to hang out together in the hustle and bustle of an Indonesian city as well.  We ate every fried thing we saw on a food cart.  (Actually, we probably just ate everything off of every food cart we saw that we had not yet consumed that day.)  We rented a motorbike and visited a cool, old temple (let it be known that I was NOT the driver – that would have been more terrifying than every hardcore thing I have ever done combined.)  We each got a massage by a man that Mr. Allen called ‘Frances’ while we were sitting on a stoop and drinking a beer. 

And, then Mr. Allen left.  And, I was sad.

This is why I love travelling, though.  I love seeing heartbreakingly beautiful things.  I love witnessing other cultures and learning about religions.  I love being in situations that cause me to say, “Is this really happening right now?”  I also love the natural presentation of ubiquitous life lessons.  Like the fact that the Mr. Allen’s of life come and go and that that is OK.  Be grateful that Mr. Allen showed up at all and acknowledge the greatness of the peace and stillness that comes along after he leaves and you return to a greater state of alone-ness.  There will be more Mr. Allens that present themselves and their proverbial surfboards at just the right moment, in just the right way.