“Is that a 35mm lens?” The question only reached me after I had already made my way past him. Under most circumstances, spontaneous interactions such as these go ignored. Especially in large cities, people are generally in a rush, wear headphones blasting music (or, in the case of San Francisco, I assume informative podcasts about anything AI), or simply don’t feel like it. All of these circumstances are fair, by the way, and I have definitely been guilty of each of these in the past, and I’m sure I will continue to be in the future. Today, though, I wasn’t quite going anywhere anyway, and my only plan was to simply follow the city noises and feel its vibrations reverberate through my soles.

I turn around and come face to face with a man who I later find out is named Ron. Within the next ten minutes, I learned more about Ron than I could learn of a fellow Dutch countryman in, give or take, five months. Americans tend to wear their hearts on their sleeves and you will often be pulled into the most unexpected stories. Speaking about this with my Egyptian friend, I have come to find that this is a general observation non-Americans tend to make about Americans. “You guys truly like to talk!” I proclaimed to a girl from San Clemente I met a couple of days later. She had to stop herself in her track and could do nothing but agree.

Ron and I briefly talked about the camera which, although I am slowly considering it as my closest travel partner, I admittedly know very little about. He asked where I’m headed and when I’m from and we quickly found a few similarities to bond over. “I’ve been to the Netherlands!” he shared excitedly – I find Americans are more interested in countries beyond the U.S. than what we tend to give them credit for. I briefly talked about my plans to travel further south to make my way across the U.S. and glanced over my previous experience in the hot, so hot (so! hot!) city of Vegas, which is where he had some family currently residing. Once we reached the topic of Phoenix, he continued to tell me about a long-time high school friend of his named Eddie Murray who had had a phenomenal sports career and had landed his name in the Hall of Fame. What this had to do with Phoenix, I don’t quite recall or I simply never caught it. Around us, the chants of hotel workers striking for a better healthcare plan echoed through the air, and Ron had a tendency to take a few paces back every now and then to clear his throat so some of our dialogue unfortunately dissolved in the space between us.

I did learn that Ron was originally from Maryland but relocated to California sometime during high school due to his parents taking on a different career path. During his own career, he had worked for a U.S. airline company which had taken him on assignments all across the world. I asked what his favourite destination had been, curious to hear more, but he simply couldn’t pick – and much more easily offered up his least favorite place. This had been Israel on account of people being rude and unwelcoming, despite them all having to work on the exact same thing. To an extent I could resonate with the sentiment, although I have been lucky enough to experience the opposite. Although the U.S. is far from a perfect place, the hospitality of (some of) its people make up for it.

We quickly jumped from talking about nazi’s fleeing to north and south America post WWII (and was recommended to watch The Boys from Brazil) and dived into the state of current world affairs – a conversation that is perhaps not most suitable in front of a Jack in the Box one block off from Union Square. “It’s a horrible world and terrible days,” we concluded, solemnly and saddened. We wished each other the best of luck, and determined we were friends now. I ended up scurrying off deeper into SF and left him at the same lamppost where we’d initially started our conversation. I briefly spoke to him again three days later, to show him the photo I’d taken and offer a meal. He wasn’t doing too well, sleep and malaise set in his face, but he remembered me, “his friend from the Netherlands”. After I had picked up some iced water for him, I returned to find him awkwardly trying to catch a few seconds of shut eye with his newly acquired beanie drawn over his ears and his oversized sweater hugging his frail body. I put the water down, made sure not to disturb him and once again continued onwards. We often feel powerless in the face of inequality, and to an extent I think we are, but there is strength in connection. I am aware it is far from enough, but sometimes it is all we have.

I never ended up asking how he had landed on the cruel streets of San Francisco, as it’s not my right to ask. I have slowly come to realise that knowledge is shared, never demanded. Especially not as an outsider, whose entire time here is a testament to privilege. And as much as Americans like to talk, there will always be things that remain private and theirs. Maybe they’re not so different from the Dutch after all.