Strangers, Neighbors, Friends

San Antonio, Texas

Helpless, I laid on the road between two stopped cars, body still braced in fear of further impact. Was my back broken? I couldn't tell, all I knew was that it was frozen, just like the rest of me, stunned by the vehicle that swept me off my bike,  onto the hood of their car, and now this hard ground I desperately grasped. The sound of breaking metal and plastic resounded behind me as more cars collided. I opened my eyes when the loud noises quieted and wept. I was alive, but never did I feel more alone.  

Strangers dashed out of their stopped vehicles and rushed to me. Medics weren't needed, thankfully, but a scared, rattled young woman alone on a cross-country bike trip found enough care and hospitality through strangers that day to seal a hope in humanity forever. A kind couple took me to their house, fed me, nurtured me, helped me fix my bike and cautiously sent me on my way after a heavy plea for me to stay the night, or take a ride from them. This was one of many encounters throughout the summer I travelled by bike, when desperation leaned me into the kindness of a stranger.

Eventually, I made it home. If you would have known me then, you might have thought I encountered the supernatural. I was awestruck, as if I had met the world for the first time, and realized, it was good. 

I started a book, once called "The Goodness in Humanity," later changed to, "Humanity," and now it is large document that sits on my desktop, occasionally edited, occasionally added to. Wholeheartedly, I was convinced humanity was innately good, and if more people allowed themselves to trust the "stranger," we would see the instinctual nature of humans to help, to give, to care. Over time my theory on this evolves as I learn to weigh the complexities, leaving this document in progress, but at the root, fear of the "other" seems to be the divisive factor between humanity, and perhaps, our ability to see goodness in the stranger.

Our news feed is stocked full of terror, crime and acts of hatred. We install fences around our property line and sleep, with a gun near or under our beds. From an early age, children are taught to not talk to strangers, and we grow up believing the stranger could be the one we read about in that daunting news feed.

When my husband and I got married, we chose to live in a travel trailer, mostly for our desire for simplicity and love for the outdoors, but the aspect I have found most significant is the uncommon friendships created in the communal lifestyle of RV-living. Strangers travel in and out of the park on a daily basis, some stay a while, become neighbors, and later friends you struggle to say goodbye to. There are no fences in-between properties, and what you choose to do on your plot of land is everybody's business. The twelve-foot span from one motor home to the next makes it difficult to not know your neighbor's name, where they're from, and what their plans are. 

Newly married and new to recreational-vehicle lifestyle, the very first site we parked our trailer was a learning curve. The day we moved in to our river site in San Marcos, Texas, we met our neighbor, Joe, when he came over to show us the ropes- where to connect to sewage, how to use the grey water hose, tricks on saving propane. Most full-time RV-ers have interesting stories that led them to the lifestyle. For Joe, his marriage ended after forty-years and he figured he could wallow in his own pity or recreate his life. So, in his late 60's, he took his portion of the money, bought a fifth-wheel and moved to a city where he could go back to school and study US-Middle Eastern History, a subject that had interested him during his time in the Army. I learned this about Joe in just a few days of knowing him.

We were at this site for three months. During this time our neighbor walked us through any questions regarding the operation of our new home, spent hours one evening helping me work on my broken down car, and even bought outdoor furniture so he could have a place for us to sit when we came over.

This stranger became our friend. We looked out for each other, checked in every day, traded stories and shared food and an occasional drink together. We  gave one another the care, connection and compassion one could hope and imagine in a neighbor. He was hard to walk away from when we left for a new park in another city, but the next park of communal, recreational living only bred the same relational environment.

I'll never forget the day my husband and I returned from a date night to our river spot in New Braunfels. It was a Friday night in January and we were in the midst of a confused Texas winter. Weathermen said it was "the hottest year yet," and a mere two days of December dared to be labeled "winter." So, when the strong, cold winds built up over this evening, we were taken off guard. Much needed time together contributed to our lapse. We drove down the winding riverside road back to our home, as the whoosh of the wind became more noticeable. The thrust against our car was strong and the brush piling in the streets was accumulating. As we were awakened to the fierce change of weather, it dawned on us, we had left the awning out on our trailer. 

The awning cover connected to our trailer was only meant for small winds to subtly lift and drop it. Heavy winds like this one could rip the cover straight off in one strong blow. Anticipation filled up as we pulled into our neighborhood, surely it had broken by now. But, I could almost hear angels singing as we pulled into the driveway, our two neighbors, Rick and Matt, were standing on both sides of our trailer, baring the dark night and cold winds, weaving a rope at the pivotal sections, anchoring it down to a stable tree and my husband's truck tire. 

That night, homes were destroyed, street signs were down, trees demolished, and the news of 11 people in nearby areas died from the dreadful wind destruction. These neighbors had no reason to be outside that night, but they saw our home was in danger and they responded like it was their own property. One, a retired, sick and weak man, the other, a struggling alcoholic trying to reinvent his life in the alternative camper lifestyle. Over our 6-months stay at this park, these men became like family to us. Rick could never seem to cook for just one, so he was always coming over to share his pot roast or barbecue, and as we ate together, he processed his long lived life with us, and was graciously eager to learn more about our paths as well. Matt confided in us, and would come sit by the fire for life advice and personal direction.

During this winter, I spent several weeks recovering from an ankle surgery. These men came to check on me daily, drove me to get propane when my right foot was casted and walked my dog when I wasn't able. They weren't perfect. There life was messy in places, and that wasn't hidden. But we loved, accepted and respected each other. When we left, we didn't exchange numbers, we had one last campfire and talked about all the places we will go- some will only be dreams, some might actually happen. But that riverside family taught me the heart of neighboring, and what it looks like to love a stranger and then let them go. 

Today, we live in another RV Park in San Antonio. This community shares a dog park, a laundry room, a swimming pool, a hot tub, a propane tank, a basketball court, a mail center and trail access. There is community potlucks, holiday get-togethers, long-term neighbors and those just passing through. Our park manager picks up and delivers our propane cans, he brings by fresh grapefruit from the neighborhood tree, he drops by to warn us of upcoming bad weather and how to prepare. Here, I've met artists getting away for inspiration, young families piled in for vacation, northerners coming south for the winter and retired couples with no agenda. Every day I hit the trail or take my dog to neighborhood dog park, I am greeted by a new face, with a new story. Sometimes these relationships get nourished over the weeks or months they stay, sometimes, it is only for the one day that I will know the person.

For my husband and I, we will be in this park for the near future, which seems contradictory to the mobile home lifestyle, but on the contrary, sometimes I feel as I am the one traveling from city to city, meeting strangers, quickly becoming their friend, and saying goodbye.

This lifestyle is an adventure. I have learned how to share resources and space, how to dig into relationships quickly and accept the walking away, I have learned to embrace the stranger, and the dysfunction they may bring, and see them as a neighbor, a friend. This lifestyle shows me that we are all in this together. At some point, we all need to borrow a cork screw or an extra egg for our recipe, or maybe something bigger. The truth is, we need one another. And though I might always feel awkward doing yoga on my exposed cement slab, the gift of a shared community has nurtured more acceptance, love and appreciation for humanity more than I could imagine experiencing from a secluded, fenced in home, destined to keep my neighbor in the "stranger" category. 

Back to the bike trip, Cliff Madell, the director of Teen Treks, the only bike touring company left in North America leading non-supported trips- meaning teens travel the country by bike, carrying their own equipment and providing their own food along the way- had a dramatic influence in my life. I had the pleasure of working for him one summer and caught his vision for humanity.

With bike touring, you enter into the neighborhoods, there is no glass, metal or plastic around your vehicle, it's just you, the open environment, and the people in the cities you travel. When you enter a new town, you greet the local citizens as you pass by. Occasionally, your bike breaks down in the middle of nowhere and it's beyond your mechanical ability to fix, and you need help, so what do you do? You flag a stranger down, ask for a ride to the nearest city or bike shop, you trust in the goodness of humanity when you are at their mercy.

Bike touring companies these days have changed to supported trips, with a team following along, providing the resources, leaving no room for public hospitality. This is due to a generational shift in being self-reliant rather than trusting the good nature of the stranger, or in other words, fear.

During that summer, I travelled solo trips and leading groups. I camped in strangers' back yards, hitch-hiked countless times and entered strange homes for hospitable meals. I learned that the stranger can be your friend, but not without the willingness to engage. For the most part, the world has been good to me, but I'd have to say, it hasn't come without choosing to enter into communities and relationships, believing the best in people, and through that choice, I have seen the innate kindness and instinctual goodness within human nature.