The big city can be a lonely place. It is full of people who are isolated from each other, who do their best to pretend that the jostling bodies around them aren’t quite as human as they are. They walk in streets like shadowy figures incased in invisible plastic bubbles. These bubbles allow people to function normally while protecting them from the recognition of so many other human beings. They can observe and communicate through the plastic, but their individualities remain safely locked within, so there is no risk of real personal contact. The bubbles touch occasionally—when a man gives up his bus seat for a child, or when a store clerk offers her help with a genuine smile. But there is seldom any penetration through the bubbles—rarely any interaction of personalities. Everyone is imprisoned in their own little worlds and behaves as though they could care less about the fellow earthlings around them.
The bubbles are erected for many reasons. One of their major functions is as a defensive barrier to shut out the artificiality of the city. Everything in the city environment— buildings, traffic lights, fire hydrants—is a direct or indirect reminder of the presence of man. City surroundings thus constantly force one to face the concept of several million other human beings, each a fascinatingly complex individual in their own right. This awareness is just too overwhelming to grasp. The natural reaction is to detach oneself from this mass collection of humanity and retreat into one’s own private, sheltering bubble. Along with this detachment comes depersonalization, and a backing away from any human warmth or understanding. Cars are regarded as cars, not as people-driven machines. The waitress who forgets your coffee becomes a faceless enemy instead of a tired teenager with aching feet. And people on street corners studiously avoid looking into each other’s eyes. They look at their feet, fuss with their purses, stare blankly off into space—anything to avoid eye contact. They are frightened that the slip of a smile or human gesture will tear the surface of their protective bubbles, allow some of their own personality to escape.
Bubbles are also constructed for simple convenience. It’s bothersome to try to say hello to every Joe Schmoe on the street, since the moment after you pass both of you are swallowed up by the confusion of the city. You will never have to depend on old Joe for anything, and will most likely never see him again. So it seems futile to make contact with him in the first place. Paradoxically, this very anonymity provides enough of a cushion for the gingerly brushing-together of bubbles. Light chatter in shopping lines and gas stations is made possible by the universal, unspoken understanding that the contact will be brief and have no strings attached. After this slight contact, the other person will fade off into oblivion and the bubbles are unthreatened. Once they are built, it takes a real effort to break through the bubbles—and with no real reason to do so, the simplest action is to remain silent and comfily isolated.
But by far the strongest reason for avoiding personal contact in a city is plain fear. A city is a perilous place, and staying locked away inside the bubble is the most obvious way to help avoid the danger. “I don’t want to get involved,” is the favorite phrase of a city person. They don’t want to risk rupturing their cozy bubbles by reaching out to another human being. And so unconcerned cars whiz by an upraised hood, a scream at night is dismissed as a game, and a street-side mugging is gaped at in a zombie-like state. Few people are willing to risk their own security for the sake of strangers.
Fortunately, the rural countryside and wilderness are a completely different matter. In these areas, one is not constantly surrounded by the evidence of mankind—there are other things, such as mountains, trees, and toadstools which let one temporarily forget about all the other people in the world. Human contact becomes precious, not something to be avoided. Since there are so relatively few people around to deal with, the protective bubbles are discarded naturally. It is no longer necessary to remain imprisoned in a sheltered private world—the fear and confusion of thousands of immediate contacts are gone. And so one is free to embrace the entire world as one’s world, free to reach out to other people without fear. Country people think nothing of stopping to help fix a flat tire for a stranger. Neighbors who live miles apart generally know and depend on one another. There are closeness and sharing between people. so that although rural folk may be physically separated by great distances, they are far less lonely than city dwellers. The city numbs human warmth through its sheer numbers of people—we need the country and the wilderness to remind ourselves how other human beings should be treated—as interesting, unique individuals with much to share if we only allow it.