About halfway through my internship in Buenos Aires this summer, I realized that in order to really immerse myself in Argentine culture, I'd have to stop hanging out with my American peers. Not having any Argentine friends, I began to spend a lot of time doing things alone. I would go to artisan fairs, art museums, malls, concerts, and even nice restaurants completely unaccompanied. I wasn't really alone, as there were always tons of people around me in the densely populated metropolis, but I was alone in the way we usually understand the word: without friends.

As you can imagine, when I began my lone ventures in Buenos Aires, I often felt deeply uncomfortable. Going out alone made me feel insecure about what other people would think of my solitude. This fear of being judged when I was alone led to not-so-subtle changes in the way I carried myself when I went out so as to reject other people's potential pity, astonishment, or other imagined reaction. My arms folded tightly to my body, my eyes avoided other people's faces, my walking hastened, and my mouth made a slight frown, so as to give the message to onlookers that I wasn't looking for friends and was perfectly fine being alone—I was merely busy. A smug and self-important solitude.

Because we fear other people thinking there's something “weird” about being alone, we avoid doing things by ourselves. And when we do go out by ourselves, we feel a discomfort that makes us more closed off to strangers in order to protect ourselves from that awful sensation of social insecurity. It's ironic and unfortunate that the very insecurity from being alone can lead to us to act in ways that discourage interactions with others. On the other hand, being comfortable while alone leads to more open interaction-inducing behavior.

This summer, I eventually became accustomed to doing things alone by force of habit. A fear of going to the movie theater by myself was gradually replaced by an eagerness to travel on my own. And once I felt comfortable enough by myself, I no longer disseminated subconscious messages that I didn't want company. Whereas my default expression had previously been a slight frown, I began to smile at people I passed on the streets; instead of marching through crowds to prove to no one in particular that I had things to do, I started to saunter slowly and openly to take everything in. Instead of trying to seem occupied by my phone and headphones, I opened my eyes, ears, and attention, leaving them available for others to borrow. Consequently, I found myself in more random and rewarding interactions with strangers, such as one night when a good Samaritan walked me through the deserted city streets toward a distant bus stop.

One my goals for the summer had been to feel like I had really immersed myself in Argentine culture. As such, it makes sense that I viewed my conversations with Argentine strangers as invaluable—they gave me direct exposure to Argentine culture and as well as opportunities to practice speaking Spanish. But they also made me feel more connected in a city whose large population can easily render it impersonal and indifferent. In this way, the ability to be comfortably alone is an incredibly valuable one. When we're willing to connect with strangers, we become more empathetic and generate social capital—creating a powerful sense of community based on nothing more than common humanity.

So while I am encouraging people to try doing things alone more often, I am not encouraging antisocial behavior. My goal, rather, is to encourage social interactions with people we don't know and with whom we wouldn't normally have occasion to converse.

Being alone need not signify misanthropy, introversion, or depression. We should instead conceive of it as a tool to break routine social life.

Grayson C. Fuller ’15, a Crimson editorial writer, is a Romance Languages and Literatures concentrator in Lowell House. He is studying abroad in France this semester.