Sitting on the bus, walking on the street – no matter where I am, I will never initiate a conversation with a stranger. The most I dare to utter are the words necessary in a coffee order. When I realized this, sitting in a cafe full of 30 other people, I suddenly felt extremely lonely. A group of friends sitting at a table nearby began to squeal, congratulating one member for his admission into a master’s program. Despite the fact that almost everyone in the room heard the news, not one other person offered a word of encouragement. He was a stranger, after all.
When I think of talking to strangers, I think of my father. I see his friendliness, his ability to strike up conversations with anyone no matter the circumstances. Often, I have pulled on his sleeve, urged him to stop talking – not because the receiving parties seemed uncomfortable, but because I was projecting my own feelings; if I do not want to speak to strangers, strangers do not want to speak to me. I wonder if it is a generational thing. Have we become too insular?
…if I do not want to speak to strangers, strangers do not want to speak to me.
Modern social insularity is a hot topic, from studies referring to growing rates of loneliness to recent online discourses about “third places.” The sociological term, coined by Ray Oldenburg, refers to social environments that are neither the home nor the workplace, such as cafes, parks, or gyms. These locations allow for engagement within the community and enhance local connections, creating opportunities for people to mingle and interact with each other in ways that they might not otherwise be able to. A chance encounter for a pleasant conversation, or the development of something deeper. In recent decades, urbanists have criticized the lack of investment into accessible and affordable third places, especially within suburban neighbourhoods – a phenomenon some refer to as the “Death of Third Places.” Paired with strict loitering laws, living without a third place hinders the ability to meet new people and talk to strangers. Enter social media.
20 years ago – all the way back in 2004 – Mark Zuckerberg launched thefacebook.com. Today, in 2024, the world continues to reel from Facebook’s entrance to the internet. Being one of the first social media platforms and the most popular to date, Facebook inspired a slew of subsequent social media over the next two decades. The internet now operates as a third place – and, arguably, has become the most pervasive.
Online, these perimeters dissolve, creating a third place indiscriminate to anyone…
Recently, there has been a proliferation of young girls spending their free time in Sephora or other makeup stores, purchasing anti-aging products that have gone viral online amongst older women. Here, social media as a third place has begun to encroach on the physical. Traditional third places have a tangible perimeter: here is the coffee shop, here is the kid’s playpark. While anyone can enter either, there are implicit social protocols that engender one’s entry: an older person should not hang around a kid’s playpark, just as a child should not go to a coffee shop alone and order an espresso. Online, these perimeters dissolve, creating a third place indiscriminate to anyone, meaning a product placement in a video meant for adults can just as easily be accessed by children. Directed to buy certain beauty products, these Sephora ten-year olds then post videos of their cosmetic hauls just as their adult counterparts do, attempting to merge into the online community’s third space culture. What occurs online has tangible consequences for real-life socialization.
Third places being usurped by the Internet means that social engagement is increasingly dictated by monetary transactions. The attention economy begs us to interact online instead of in person, to find our enjoyment in peripheral social circles through algorithms rather than in unknown connections. Money rolls in with every lost conversation, every stranger unmet. Whatever need I have to interact with people outside of my inner circle can be fulfilled online; I can learn the opinions, life habits, and personalities of complete strangers without uttering a single word. I need directions? Recommendations? A funny story? Reviews? Friends? A love interest? One simple answer: the Internet. Accomplished with ease, without the potential complications of social interaction and lining the pockets of a select few in the process.
Talking to a passerby might not feel like much, but the accumulation of these interactions amassing to null leaves a large empty space in the all-too-human need for community.
One time, when sitting in the park with my roommate and her boyfriend, an older gentleman walked up to us and asked if we would like to buy one of his homemade macarons. My roommate and I immediately shook our heads, smiling enough to wave him along but not incite conversation. He was a stranger, after all. Her boyfriend, however, readily presented his cash and began asking questions. We found out that his granddaughter was doing a clothing sale elsewhere in the park, and he was donating the money he made from macarons to her cause. As he walked away, I felt a vague sensation of guilt.
Guilty because the bridge between strangers has grown so wide that I refused to engage. Guilty because I would never walk around a park, approaching strangers to sell them homemade baked goods. Guilty because I would have been more comfortable to order macarons online and have them delivered. Same outcome, right? Wonderfully easy, and yet incredibly lonely. Talking to a passerby might not feel like much, but the accumulation of these interactions amassing to null leaves a large empty space in the all-too-human need for community. How can I combat this alienation when it is bolstered by a multi-million dollar industry?
