Don't they always tell you to not speak to strangers?

I could list a million cliches about the joys of travel. It’s rewarding, mostly eventful, and one always hopes each indulgence would turn out memorable. I am especially itching to write about the wonder that National Express is, as I bought a return ticket to Brighton for less than eight pounds. What’s better for someone who has just submitted his master’s thesis and refuses to find work?

Brighton is another story, another post, with a truckload of customary photographs. I have been struggling to get over this one incident in Lewes, which is a lovely little town in East Sussex less than twenty minutes away from the university area in Brighton. I was visiting a dear friend at the university but decided to venture out alone on this particular day, primarily because she needed to do what I had already taken care of. Submitting the darn thesis, that is.

My trip two weeks ago came at the right time as London was at its characteristic best by which I refer to its endless gloomy sky with patches of mild sunshine that you can never store in a box while Brighton was brilliantly warm and sunny. That’s right, sunny. This made me send a few hundred text messages to friends in London that read HOORAY I SEE SUN! COME HERE! Though this part of England is windier than anywhere I have been to so far. It’s not just windy in the darn it, my umbrella broke sort of way, but it’s windy in the merciless way that makes you thank god you have those three extra kilos on you.

Eep, we must get back to Lewes. Lewes is a pleasure to walk around with its old, broken, charming appeal. It appeared to be a little community-led country English town with its own castle (yet another one, one thinks, but this one stands out as it is the oldest in England and is unusual because it has two mounds). Apart from the facts on display at the Lewes Castle that entertain my wannabe-geek self, it does not compare to the magnificent castles this country has. Lewes also has a bookshop which was built in the fifteenth century with obscenely priced old gems. Dare I say I would have picked up a July 1894 Wilde for £75 if I had that kind of money.

I have been thinking of this one conversation I had with a gentleman in a quaint little pub. The pub did not have an interesting name, or so I am guessing, as it escapes my memory. What it had was cheap beer with many red couches with the typical wooden interior. It had an extravagant table by which I sat with my pint of Guinness and made an attempt to look lost in my thoughts. I really didn’t have any engaging thoughts at this time, as I had been considering lunch for a while but ended up eating a cold sandwich out of a bakery that was nearly shut.

A gentleman decided to join me at this point, a fellow traveller who seemed to have had a fair amount to drink by then. I say this with much confidence because his speech gave it away. He called me ‘young man’ and greeted me with a tired smile. I smiled back, as manners dictate, but didn’t expect what this would mean to him. He perhaps thought I was That Super Friendly Dick Who Can Pass Off As A Listener Anytime Of The Day and there I was, listening to his story.

He introduced himself as Rob and bought me another drink. Good start, I thought. Rob is Irish but has lived in Edinburgh all his life. He then moved to London to find work and fell in love with a Spanish lady. Rob has been on the move for a while, he called it a ‘much needed break’. Naturally, I expressed curiosity about the break he was referring to. This led Rob to speak for about thirty five minutes. This includes the three times he went to the bar and walked slower each time he came back to sit across from me.

Rob talked about his life with much focus and even showed me a photograph of his family. He told me of his trips to visit his son who now lives in Dublin, a decision that Rob claims to have been most proud of. At least my son is in the place I wished to be all my life, he said. I smiled all along, nodded, and I can’t deny that I was enjoying his honesty in what was a rather friendly chat among two strangers.

More importantly, it must be something to do with the fact that I was a stranger to Rob that he decided to talk about a decision he made three weeks ago, sitting along Brighton Pier, seeing the sun set with a box of Marlboro Lights and his favourite brown lighter. He had decided to leave his wife and described his marriage as a ‘bloody compromise’ for the son and livelihood. I did love her once, he claimed, and drank some more. I sat there, listening, noticing how easy it had been for him to share such an intimate tale with a stranger. He said he was not going to tell his friends as they might force him to make his marriage work. Rob had made up his mind and did not want to share with his friends because he thought they enjoyed seeing him in pain. I confess that I was uncomfortable as anything in my head seemed like bad response to such sentences and calmly decided to stay quiet.

I had a memorable time walking about in Lewes all day but have to admit that this interaction really got me down. Rob’s story is perhaps one among many out there, seeking strangers for listeners, because these strangers know nothing about you or your past. They only see your projected self and let you stick to the side of the story that works the most for you. What a sad, pretty fucking mindblowing realisation.

I bought the last round of drinks and shook hands with Rob before leaving the pub as I had to catch the bus back to Brighton. He thanked me for listening and I smiled. Perhaps I should have thanked him too.