On Venice and Trusting Others

“What’s something about yourself no one else knows?” my friend of six hours asked me as we rested on a bench in Venice’s Galleri dell'Accademia, staring glassy-eyed at a wall of Renaissance paintings. I paused for a moment. “Sometimes I use my friends’ shampoo without telling them,” I confessed. He told me he had crippling depression. Not a fair trade.

I met Kevin, we’ll call him, late the night before when I arrived at my hostel. We exchanged pleasantries at the communal sink; I learned that he was from Indonesia, he learned that I was American, and we both discovered that neither of us had plans the next day, so I experienced the floating city in all its splendor alongside a total stranger.

There’s a quick intimacy that comes with those you meet on solo travels; after being so tied to self-reliance, you can, for a brief moment, share in the responsibilities and joys that come with witnessing a place for the first time. You can go to the toilet without lugging all your belongings into the stall. You can sit down at a candlelit dinner without needing to bring a book. You can express your deepest darkest secrets sitting dehydrated in a Venetian art gallery. It’s like Before Sunrise without the romance.

So I, without fear, spilled my guts to Kevin (beyond my shampoo thievery). Over an overpriced espresso in San Marco I filled him in on my year in England—my joys and heartbreaks, my hopes and fears, my attempts at reconciliation. I found it easy to trust him, because it was not a trust I intended to sustain nor was it one I depended on. There was no fear of him backstabbing or mishandling my emotions.

The year I’d spent in England up until that point was a huge exercise in trust. As a recent expat, my friends were few, and those I did have, I relied heavily on. When I encountered betrayal or had my feelings hurt, it hit harder because I’d invested so much of myself so quickly. But I want to give as much as I can to loved ones and to new experiences, even when giving more can hurt. Maybe it's the romantic in me, but I think it’s special to think of all the people who share a piece of my soul, even if they don’t hold it like the holy thing it is. How well anyone holds a part of me is outside my control, so all I really can do is trust.

I told Kevin of my proclivity toward opening up quickly, toward giving second chances and bending over backwards to restore peace. He was quick to share his mind. “Look at love like it’s a glass,” he said airily, like some ancient proverbial sage. “When it breaks, you throw it away and get a new one.” I imagined myself, crunched down on the kitchen tile, light and liquid on a shattered vase, my hands blood-stained as I piece the shards together like my grandpa’s jigsaw puzzle. When do glue and good wishes suffice? “Promise me,” he said, “that you’ll only give 90% of yourself next time. Save that last 10% for yourself.”

Kevin’s advice certainly has its place; self-preservation and “guarding your heart,” however trite the phrase, are important to maintaining well-being. Not everyone is trustworthy, and there are times when, despite how much I want to hold onto a relationship or a memory, it’s in my best interest to let go. I’m still learning where the line is, when the glass can be repaired. As much as I want to give everyone a second chance, it’s not always the wisest option.

However, I do believe that the other 10% is valuable: whether it’s the last step of vulnerability with a friend, the final push to move to a new city, sacrificing your time to help someone you love—giving extra is allowing yourself to feel in fullness. It’s trusting that you have something to gain from a new experience or relationship; we’re all still trying to make better informed decisions, and new experiences help us in that process.

I think often of the scene in Sing Street when Raphina tells Conor, “You can never do anything halfway!” referring to a rock-and-roll music video, but I think, with a few grains of salt, it can be applied to life more generally. I want to be someone who gives her all when it matters. I want to be someone who trusts more than she doubts—who, as Rilke said, lets “everything happen to you: beauty and terror.”

One of the deepest acts of intimacy is allowing yourself to trust another, and the moments I feel most human are when others afford me this honor. Truthfully, I was chuffed that Kevin shared so much of his soul with me. If I ever see him again, I’ll thank him and divulge that sometimes, I steal conditioner too.