Caffe Interactions

I met Grzegorz a couple of months ago, while working as a receptionist in touristic apartments, waiting for some guests to arrive. He was accommodating himself to sleep at the entrance of the building where I was expecting the clients. As they were delayed, Grzegorz and I started talking. 

When he first saw me, he apologized, saying he didn’t want to cause any trouble and just needed somewhere to sleep. I felt awkward with the apology. For me it was the other way around; we, as a society, should have been the ones expressing regret for the conditions he was facing. Not having a roof and bed was hard enough; it felt wrong to expect an apology from him on top of that. So I went to the supermarket across the street, bought him something to eat and then we continued talking. 

When I asked his name, he told me he was called Gregorio. I introduced myself as well and asked him what had happened that led to him becoming homeless. As he told me about the different events that brought him to this point, he referred to me as ‘a native Spaniard,’ which made me wonder. Until then, I hadn’t noticed a strong accent coming from him and he didn’t notice mine either. So, I excused myself and told him I wasn’t Spanish but Argentinian, and asked him where he was from. 

To my surprise, he answered that he was from Poland, a culture I was closely related to back then, so I replied shocked that in that case his name wasn’t Gregorio, but Grzegorz. He widely opened his eyes and said yes, so I inquired why he was using a translation of his name. The process of adapting ourselves to countries and cultures sometimes brings this with it, however, getting used to being called using a translation of our names, has also an impact on the perception of our identity. In this case, using his original name or its translation came down to pronunciation—sometimes a choice between a more familiar sound and the authentic name. Following the thread of our conversation, I asked where in Poland he was from. His answer is what leads into the lines that follow.

_ I’m from a place close to Krakow. 
_ So, what’s the name of that place?– I asked. 

The answer was Żory, a town that’s actually closer to Katowice than to Krakow, if we look for a big town to refer to. True to be said, it was easy for me to remember the name of the city as it had only two syllables, and I could immediately ask a Polish native about it, to identify the area in the map. 

Most of the time, when we have to introduce ourselves to other people, we don’t mention the name of the cities or villages we come from, because they belong to the unknown territory in the world’s map. Unless we come from capital cities or somehow popular towns, we assume that the listener won’t recognize the spot, so we “make it easy to understand” and simplify everything with the known place. Although this can make it easier to understand locations, origins and continue with the conversation, we also deprive others to expand the region of the world map that is known for them. We contribute to sustaining a world where capitals represent what others assume we are, and the territory becomes a sum of quantifiable, isolatable, enormous and massified points. 

Remember when traveling and going to hostels e.g. where you can Pin the place you come from in a map on the wall? Or leaving any local money note at some bar? I believe these moments in conversation work in a similar way. They allow us to expand the territory we know of the world, deepening our sense of presence and existence, and revealing the infinite richness of who we are and what we inhabit. So many places—different, remote, quiet, unpopular, unknown, far, close, astonishing—waiting to be experienced and embraced, instead of simplified.

Just as Grzegorz first introduced himself as Gregorio, many of us shorten or adapt our origins for simplicity’s sake, overlooking the opportunity to share a true part of ourselves.
I’d rather take more time, speak in longer sentences, and name the place I come from. I’d like to hear more names and longer sentences so I can get to know the places you come from, too. To broaden our sense of the world not only by traveling along it, but by learning the names that fill those places—spoken by the voices of the people who live there, bringing with them their stories and ways of being.
In naming the places, we add to the map not just of the world, but of human connection.

Only a couple of days ago, I said to a friend: existence requires two elements to happen—space and time; however, to be fully alive, we must add consciousness to that equation. Embracing the complexity of our identities and the world we inhabit, by simply naming the pieces that build our story, seems like a good place to start.