Short Story 5 - The Art of Fitting In

I have been studying this person for a while now. She has become my personal obsession. Not for the obvious reasons, not at all. Of course as women go, she had her charm and beautiful smile. One piercing glance of her large, expressive eyes, and most men would be at her feet. I’ve met women with such charm before. Powerful creatures. But no. Those weren’t the qualities that made her special. In fact, her uniqueness lay in one simple talent: she could be anybody while being nobody at the same time. Bear with me here. I can explain. I think. 

The first time I met her, she went by a different name. A few years back, I was traveling through Europe. Oh, the lovely backpacking days. Another day, another city. The city of my choice during that particular week was Paris. I had been backpacking for some time now, learning about people from various countries, the languages they spoke, their traditions. By no means was I an expert. Yet, I knew enough.

Or so I thought. 

It was a typical hostel night out. Some beers at the bar and clubbing later in the night. I remember approaching this little group, chatting away happily about one thing or another. They seemed mixed enough, I’d fit right in. A couple of people were speaking French. Pure, fluent, French. I was used to finding more foreign nationalities at these get-togethers. I was curious, what part of France did they travel from. I remember broaching the subject once I sat down next to them. One of them, the guy, promptly answered that he was from Marseille, simply visiting for a weekend. He had friends staying at the hostel. The girl seemed a bit uncomfortable upon being asked. It’s a long story, she sighed. As she spoke I took note that her English sounded quite flawless as well. Was she American born? 

I told her I had time, I was even more curious now. Instead she just waved my question aside by saying, it matters not, but I’m not from France or anywhere around here. And at that she dropped the subject and resumed speaking with the Frenchman. I was baffled. The people I’ve met on my travels love to talk about where they’re from. As the alcohol intake increased and I continued asking around, her story got more confusing. Some said she was from South Africa (but her Dutch was almost perfect!), others thought Lebanon (she did speak some Arabic too), a few were convinced she was American. Who was this mystery woman and how couldn’t these people tell where she’s from? My fellow travelers shrugged, she does look like she could be from any of those places. Before I could ask her again, we all headed over to the club and everyone got lost. By the time I returned, all thoughts of the girl were put on the sidelines. 

The next morning I saw no sign of her at the hostel. She mustn’t have been staying with us. Was she living in Paris after all? I’ve thought of her striking personality and convoluted background since. However, it would be a few years before I saw her again. 

Madrid would be our next meeting place. I had moved there for a few months, pursuing a Spanish language course. One particular lesson, our teacher introduced a guest speaker. A person that had successfully mastered the language and how they did so. I could not believe my eyes when she walked in. She barely looked older, still as striking as I remembered. Strangely, she introduced herself differently. The last name she went by sounded, more French or Italian? This one seemed more, Dutch? I did remember someone mentioning to me her Dutch was flawless. Maybe that’s where she was from. Sadly, she did not give that detail away to the class. Instead began her long and inspiring story of learning Spanish and everything about Spain’s unique culture. After the lesson she thanked the teacher and simply left. This time I followed.

"Hey, I remember you!" I called out. 

She turned around, staring at me quizzically.

"Paris, 3 years ago, one of the hostel nights, we met, spoke for quite some time." I was being such a fool, of course she wouldn’t remember.

"What language was I speaking when we met", she asked. I pointed out that it was mainly French. 

She smiled. In the case you met a different person, she stated plainly.

I stood there, flabbergasted. 

"But you just asked which language you were speaking how could it have been someone else", I accused. To which she only responded by shaking her head.

"Come for coffee, I’ll explain". And so she did.

This woman, whoever she was, did not reveal any one identity. There was none. She was a multitude of people combined in one, seemingly plain, person. Her looks were universal. She could have been almost anyone. American, Russian, Italian, Greek, Turkish, Arabic, Latina, French, Spanish you name it. For most places, she just worked. Yet, she wouldn’t be the go-to look for any of those places. She explained how unhappy she was with her one personality growing up. And how reinventing herself had become a hobby. A way to be content with herself. She reinvented herself with multiple personalities. Almost like a self-aware schizophrenic. 

None of the personalities were the same. She assumed the main characteristics associated with the primary culture the language was from for each. For French, she acted like a stereotype of a Parisian woman. For Italian, her favorite was Milan. Everything would be flawlessly copied into her persona, along with the relevant slangs and accents. Each of the personas had a different name. To the point that she did not remember which one was the original. They were all her. Without HER being a single one of them. She just didn’t know. 

I asked how quickly she switched between them. Instantaneously, was the answer. Although she wouldn’t remember all of the details of interactions had by different personas. They have almost started living their separate lives. The schizophrenia thought wouldn’t leave me throughout the entire conversation. My final question was, why did she switch. 

Because she liked being a part of everywhere. Of fitting in. She finally belonged. Wherever she wanted to. 

She left me no contact information before leaving. No hint. The strange woman (women?) simply told me she enjoyed our conversation and walked away. I wanted to know more. 

Some time has passed since that encounter. I have searched for her through every social media and network available. Looked for mutual friends. Followed up on old leads. Nothing. The woman is untraceable. Multiple accounts under different countries. All a dead end. I can only hope that one of her multitude of personas gets bored and decides to find me. Maybe it’s the only curious one from all of them. 

Wherever they all are. 

Searching for another candidate to add to their ranks.