No. 186 - A Hindu, a Protestant, and a Town That Shall Not Be Named
It’s eight o’clock in the evening in a mountain town in southwest Colorado that shall not be named, to protect the several hundred residents who cherish their anonymity and specifically requested I never mention it — including, but not limited to, the town librarian, a post office employee, and a gift shop owner.
I had just finished supper in a café where a group of blue-collar guys were drinking their dinner — a sudsy array of beer, whiskey neat, and the occasional double shot of Jägermeister. I watched the Tennessee–Alabama game over a club sandwich. The only server, a younger brunette in jeans and a flannel, poured their libations while talking to me, as we’d gotten to know one another the previous day during her lunch shift.
I walked back to the motel with every intention of smoking a cigar while looking at Mt. _______. I apologize to the reader, for I cannot divulge which peak I was looking at, as anyone with a library card could discover my whereabouts and, thus, know the name of the aforementioned city that shall remain nameless.
I went to my room — a hostel with two three-story bunk beds — to retrieve said cigar (My Father The Judge Grand Robusto, winner of Cigar Aficionado’s Cigar of the Year). I was looking forward to lighting it up, as you can imagine, but there was a gentleman lying in his bed. We had never met, so we made one another’s acquaintance, as courteous travelers do.
Before I could leave, this gentleman — a technologist from San Francisco who had just wrapped up a week-long solo hike — engaged me in conversation. I, being aware that had I smoked, I would’ve come back to our shared room smelling like an ashtray, thought that maybe tonight would be best spent chatting up a stranger, as we lay in separate beds facing one another.
As luck would have it, this gentleman possessed a high IQ and an attractive personality. He was an Indian immigrant who practiced Hinduism — a religion I knew nothing about. And I, a twelfth-generation American Protestant from the other side of the country, lived a life wholly unfamiliar to him. Like himself, I was willing to ask and answer any question about our lives and religion.
We ended up talking until midnight — two perfect strangers. Our conversation covered our personal lives and careers, but more importantly, history, philosophy, and religion.
He went to bed with an education about my family’s role in American history, and I left with a gilded copy of the Bhagavad Gita (translated to English).
You see, for an introvert like me — someone who does everything possible to avoid meeting strangers — the good Lord brings guys like Nikunj into my life. We shared a room in an old miners’ boarding house, both on the bottom bunks — like summer camp.
I’m sure Nikunj would agree that he wished the conversation didn’t have to end. But he was tired from hiking, and I was tired from driving. And it was getting late. Coincidentally, the following afternoon I sent him photos of Telluride, Colorado, and he replied, “I was just there.” How cool would it have been to run into one another again?
I have a knack for finding interesting people on my travels. Rarely do I meet bankers, lawyers, or consultants (unless I’m in New York). I seem to attract fellow drifters. Birds of a feather, I guess.
It’s been my experience that ninety-nine percent of people are genuinely good. And I’m sure if you found a version of me in another part of the world, they’d say the same thing. Most folks are simply trying to get from Point A to Point B in life. They avoid drama in all its forms. So when they meet a reluctant conversationalist without an agenda, most folks want to connect. They want to be helpful. What they really want is to be heard.
*Composed, Edited, and Published in Atlanta, GA
