The Enduring Gift of Friendship

Last week, I joined two new acquaintances for lunch at a bookshop café in Stirling, Scotland. The bulging bookshelves painted in a cheery turquoise, the piercing hot hiss of the espresso machine, and comfortable sofas set in cozy corners of the aptly named Book Nook offered warm refuge from the grey gloom and lashing rain outside. 

I caught the eye of Cheryl, seated at a small round table near the door, when I stepped inside. We smiled in recognition. Then, I spotted Lorraine at another table. Each is a friend of friends, neither familiar to the other, both new to me. A familiar excitement surged through me, an eagerness to get to know these women, introduce them to each other, and create new memories together.

As a longtime traveler, I’ve often experienced the delightful, surprising, and frequently enduring bonds of serendipitous encounters. Last month, my husband Hank and I set off from Èvora, Portugal, for a day trip to Setúbal to spend an afternoon catching up with Bob and Lynn, a couple I first met on a flight to Barbados in 1999. At Christmas, Nathalie, a French Canadian friend, sent pictures of her preteen grandchildren, about the age Nathalie and I were when we first met 48 years ago, bodysurfing Atlantic waves in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. Then there is Jill, a Scottish friend I met in 1991 during a yearlong Scotland teaching exchange who recently introduced me to Cheryl, who lives in Stirling. And Lorraine, with whom I shared a couple of hours walking together a few months ago during her visit to our mutual friend, Monica. Monica is a British expat who resides in Évora, where Hank and I spent three months before journeying to Scotland to experience the emerging Spring. This is the nature of travel relationships. The way they intertwine beautifully, brilliantly, and unexpectedly across borders. Fleeting and enduring. Taking me backward and forward. And on this dreary February day, to the joy of fresh potential. 

For over a decade, every three to six months or so, my husband Hank and I pack up our temporary lives and move on to the next place, across countries and continents, embracing a movable life as long-stay travelers. We spend a lot of time saying goodbye and starting over. Sometimes, we know no one when we arrive. Other times, we return, again and again, to familiar nests in places that feel a lot like home with friends nearby. And despite the pain of repeated departures—or, perhaps, because of it—I discovered something in our uprootedness, which feels and looks like belonging: meeting up with friends at a local café, joining a writing group, or accompanying a neighbor on their daily dog walk. When experienced through the prism of travel, these kinds of connections are transformed into something precious, no matter how nascent. 

The meetup with Cheryl and Lorraine reinforced this feeling. Over creamy flat whites, savory falafel bagel sandwiches, and the chattering and clatter of the café, the three of us quickly found common ground. When Lorraine, a dietician by trade who relocated to the UK via Hong Kong, mentioned an upcoming job interview for part-time work to supplement the Creative Writing master’s degree course she was enrolled in. The position turned out to be with a team Cheryl, a retired psychologist, had worked with for a decade. And that wasn’t all. Cheryl was also enrolled in a writing course. The afternoon flew by. Job advice was shared. Favorite book recommendations exchanged. Writing projects and plots dissected, hopes and dreams revealed. A creative high that left me buzzing long after we’d made plans for another meetup and hugged goodbye. 

Human connection is a gift: a radiant sunrise, bringing warmth and light to the soul, as vital to our well-being as Vitamin D. But it’s easy to neglect amid the darkness of life, the doom-scrolling, the polarizing politics, the rising costs, and melting ice caps. It’s easy to stay scrolling on the sofa, to postpone social gatherings and phone calls in hectic lives, and experience loneliness within the endless stream of notifications, likes, and comments on social media. There’s a lot to be said for the pleasures of solitude. I find solace in the quiet depths of my own company. I adore solitary walks in nature, curling up with a good book in a cozy corner or daydreaming in a hammock. Though, for much of my life, I was constantly trying to make myself brighter and bolder in a world that values these qualities. Still, despite my best intentions, my introverted nature persistently beckoned me back to myself—to introspection and reflection. And yet, nurturing relationships with others enriches me. When I am curious and interested. When I cultivate and nurture relationships, to my delight, life becomes brighter and bolder, like some sort of cosmic irony. It becomes infused with purpose, resilience, and a profound interconnectedness. 

From The Book Nook, my heart full, I made the half-hour drive from Stirling to a renovated 300-year-old coastal cottage on the Firth of Forth, the latest temporary home in a long string of them, where Hank and I will stay through May. I opened the hobbit-sized front door of the low-slung house and stepped inside, following the hearty scent of simmering tomato sauce, garlic, and herbs to the kitchen, where Hank was preparing spaghetti and meatballs. I kissed him and sat at a sleek white pedestal table to tell him about the day. I told him about the uncanny coincidence of Lorraine applying for a job at Cheryl’s former workplace. About the creative writing programs and the stories they’re writing—about how they’d inspired me to start another project, perhaps a novel. I told him about our plans for a potluck at Lorraine’s farmhouse next month. Hank listened. But the bemused smile on his face was a telltale reminder of past conversations about similar gatherings in other places. By the time I’d finished, he’d plated dinner, and I felt glad for the journey that had brought me to this man, this day, this place, this cozy cottage, and I knew my life was better for it. The great paradox discovered at the heart of nomadic life—the thing that compels us to stay and to leave again and again—is the gift of broadened human connection.

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