When you’re an immigrant and alone in a new city, making new friends looks very much like dating.
There are apps for making new friends in a new city. You register, set up a profile, upload nice photos of yourself – ridiculously outdated and that border on cat-fishing – and write a one-liner, something along the lines of ‘Hi everyone! I am new to this wonderful city and would love to find new acquaintances with whom I could go hiking and share stories from my home country.’ When in reality, all you want to say is ‘Wazzzuuuuup assholes. New to this dumpster. How’s the housing crisis treating you all? Desperately needing someone to get drunk with and who wouldn’t get on my nerves.’
But of course, if you say that, you wouldn’t get many swipes. So you lie. Just like in, uh, dating.
You sit in a restaurant and suddenly hear someone speak your language a table away. You eavesdrop on their conversation and learn what they think about Liz Truss, Sunak and Boris Johnson. You learn about the woman’s peanut allergy and the last time she went to Bali where the waiter didn’t ask her whether she had an allergy and how she almost died oh my God she thought she’d never make it alive. You learn that the guy across the woman makes good money and has kids but doesn’t get enough time for what he actually wants and is one of those people who like to whine about just how unfair destiny is and if only he chose a different major.
You turn to that couple and casually say in your native language, ‘Sorry guys, I heard you talking, and I was just wondering where you’re from.’
Of course, you know where they are from – it’s all part of a line, a play, an act.
‘Oh I am from Russia. And she’s from Kazakhstan,’ the guy says without skipping a beat, pointing to the woman.
‘Nice, I am from Russia too,’ you say, and the conversation basically ends.
Everyone smacks their lips, nods, looks around, and thinks about things to say.
‘How do you like it here?’ you finally ask a millisecond before the moment slips away, and the couple returns to their engaging conversation.
‘Oh you know. It’s great! Much better than Russia,’ the man says.
‘Yeah but the prices,’ you say.
‘Yeah the prices are awful. And the GPs!’ the woman says.
‘Yeah, and the strikes,’ you add, happy that you’ve found an angle.
‘Yeah the strikes…’
‘And the…’
This goes on for some time.
Neither of you enjoys it, of course.
Inside, you’re still grateful to be in the UK despite the prices, strikes, and GPs. All these things aside, the UK is still not Russia, and you don’t have to go to prison for saying what’s on your mind.
The three of you tolerate the exchange because this is all part of an icebreaker. You have to get through it because on the other side, well, you might score…
…a friend. Or maybe even just a mere acquaintance and someone you can talk to. Abroad, people who speak your language and are not utter idiots are rarer than snow in Africa.
Finally, the couple asks for a check, and you ask them for their mobile number.
After a moment of hesitation, the man gives you his business card and says, ‘Email me. And we can sing karaoke together one time.’
You’re overjoyed. They’re overjoyed.
Neither of you will probably call or email.
But who cares. You had a moment.
And sometimes, that’s all that matters.