Transit talks

There is something about being in transit that loosens people up. On long-distance train rides, on planes, in lounges and lobbies, people talk in relaxed ways they rarely do otherwise — a particular kind of openness emerges.

You could say it’s inevitable when you’re seated close together with limited personal space. But I’m not referring to logistical chatter or small talk. I mean those random encounters where two strangers slip into unexpectedly profound conversation or share an experience purely because of circumstance and timing. When we know we’re moving in the same direction for a limited amount of time, with no agenda of continuity, our usual instincts to withhold go. Our pasts don’t overlap and our futures possibly won’t either — so in that gap between places, there is a different quality of attention, and things flow.

Some of the many, refreshingly open exchanges I’ve had while travelling happened along the way.

On a warm summer morning, while queuing to enter Monet’s museum in Giverny, I was chatting with a Canadian woman completing her art studies in Paris. We ended up receiving the same entry slot, so continued talking throughout the museum visit, the gardens and the water lily pond. It had already been a fun morning when I later waited at a crowded shuttle stop. Beside me was a couple from the United States who had taken the same service train from Vernon earlier that day — a small, cutesy shuttle train without proper doors — the kind you expect to see inside theme parks rather than navigating village traffic. That morning, the guide had narrated stories about Monet and pointed out sights along the way.

As we stood waiting, we exchanged polite smiles and casual remarks about the shuttle running late. It didn’t take long to realise that if it didn’t arrive soon, we would all miss the last train back to Paris for hours. A few people around us looked visibly stressed, already opening taxi apps. We shared a glance — a silent “last chance before we do the same”.

Then the shuttle finally scurried into the parking lot. As the crowd rushed to board, the guide stepped out and began slowly handing out tickets, making cheerful conversation. I quietly mentioned that most of us were trying to catch that one train back to Paris, and she actually pivoted instantly. The driver stepped on the pedal. The sightseeing commentary disappeared out the window as we rattled through town at a daring speed. The ride was anything but smooth — carriages cranked, seats shook, even the automated audio was sped up, giving the whole thing an almost cartoonish energy — but everyone was grateful for the ride, so we held on.

We finally arrived at the station, leapt from the shuttle, ran through the station gates onto the train platform — just as the train doors narrowly slid shut behind us. There was a collective exhale “we made it”. Perhaps it was the slight absurdity of that ride, or the low-stakes drama of nearly missing a train, but it got us silly laughing.

Myself, another male passenger and the couple then talked for the rest of the journey. Some wonderfully openminded people, we discussed art, taste and an eye for beauty — fascinating stories and personalities shining through. When we arrived in Paris, time had vanished. That entire museum visit would have been very different, had I not been open.

A different time, flying out of Geneva, a tired businessman next to me stowed away his laptop and turned to me — without preamble — asking whether I thought I was in the right career. It felt rhetorical. What followed was a release, he poured out his reflections, far from a superficial chat between strangers. He spoke about ambition, exhaustion, stress, relational tensions and work that drains versus work that sustains. I listened. We talked quietly and thoughtfully, facing forwards, until the plane landed. The conversation ended as abruptly as it began. We said goodbye, went in different directions, and the spoken words stayed back in the cabin air.

On another occasion, in a high-speed train between Florence and Milan, I sat beside an Italian tech entrepreneur who had recently launched an AI-focused agency. He was returning from an investor meeting. I had recently stepped out of a role in digital and we fell into easy conversation — European tech trends, tools, what progress looks like when the speed of evolution in artificial intelligence is still ramping up. He talked about his concern for sustainability, about staying on top of possibilities without being consumed by it all. Again, an exchange of substance held in transit, as if the forward movement itself surfaced innovative thoughts.

I could go on. There is freedom in that stretch of time between departure and arrival. No shared obligations, no history, no expectations to manage. Transit creates a neutral, anonymous canvas, and on it, people tend to show up real.

When we are not rushing ahead to where we’re going, or replaying where we’ve been, what remains is the present moment — time that can make us available. Temporariness removes the pressure to perform. When people curate themselves less, something warmer and more recognisable surfaces — as if the nowhere brings out authenticity. Some conversations are not doorways but windows, looked through for a moment, then left behind. They simply exist, then and there.

Travel often promises encounters on arrival. But some very interesting moments can happen before or after, when we are not there yet just briefly meeting as passersby.