The Sublime Art of Avoiding Conversations (and Fellow Countrymen)

I just booked a diving liveaboard in Egypt (my third one so far), and shortly after wiring the payment, a question crept into my mind:“Will I be lucky enough to NOT find any Italians onboard for the third time in a row?”

Statistics teach us that the probability of a series of independent events occurring together is the product of each individual probability. And the more events you string together, the less likely the streak continues. So here I am—having already twice enjoyed the subtle and profound pleasure of a week at sea devoted solely to reading and contemplating nature—now shivering at the prospect of an uncontrollable event: the presence of fellow countrymen on board.

I asked ChatGPT, who reassured me: this isn’t really about binomial distributions, but more about logistics. As long as I keep booking trips with English-speaking operators rather than those catered to by Italian tour agencies, I stand a fair chance of avoiding the diving club from Caserta, who come equipped with watermelons and a portable speaker blasting neomelodic singers at full volume—or the Milanese crew, bringing their Gucci-branded BCDs with embroidered names, while “Giampi” and “Susi” exchange crypto investment tips on eToro, dropping a “figa” every third word.

To be fair, it’s not just the Italians. On my last trip, I had the dubious pleasure of sharing the boat with ten South African farmers who, during surface intervals, blasted Boer folk music and sang in chorus. But at least I didn’t feel compelled to make small talk.

But honestly—what’s more beautiful than admiring a reef bathed in turquoise waters as waves ripple gently above it? Or watching the sun set over the Red Sea, a warm breeze brushing your face? Or a barracuda darting through the light under the boat, hunting after dusk?Must everything be ruined by some forced, artificial merrymaking?

Some travel to explore the world.Others—more realistically—travel to take a break from their own country.I belong to the latter. And I practice a precious, underappreciated art: the art of staying away from people.

The language barrier is a wonderful filter. A protective curtain of silence and discretion. A perfect excuse to avoid bus-stop banter that somehow follows you even 10,000 kilometers from home.Hiding behind a “me sorry not understand” is by far the most effective way to build a wall between you and anyone attempting casual conversation.Not having to answer is a form of mental hygiene.That phrase—“you’re so quiet”—uttered by some overexcited Canadian on deck or a Denver lady with a bob haircut, is a badge of honor.I don’t need to explain I’m not “quiet”; I’m selective. I speak when it’s worth it—not to fill silence with the echo of nothingness.

The myth of human enrichment

There’s this mantra repeated by those who send postcards of themselves on Instagram:"Travel makes you grow, it opens your heart, it changes you inside."Nonsense.

Travel exposes you. And what you find, in the vast majority of cases, is a dull, predictable, tediously enthusiastic humanity. People who ask where you’re from without really wanting to listen to your answer.

Yes, occasionally, you might meet extraordinary people. But that’s the exception.A rare gift—like finding Bruce Chatwin on board.Far more likely, you’ll end up at dinner next to someone explaining how many liters of gas they consumed on each dive.

Introversion is not a disease

Traveling without socializing is a freedom.Remaining silent while the world buzzes around you is a privilege to be protected.And if that means taking refuge behind a language barrier, or the apparent coldness of a “I’m not fluent, sorry,” then so be it.

Travel is not always about encounter.Sometimes it’s about escape.About silence.Observation.Disconnection.

And really, if your itinerary includes everyone but yourself, maybe you’re not traveling at all. You’re just touristing.

Want to really discover the world? Start by choosing whom not to travel with.