By Tom Robotham
Recently, I mentioned to a close friend that I would characterize myself as an introvert, and he was surprised. Like a lot of people, he seemed to equate introversion with shyness, and I can be quite outgoing at times.
To Carl Jung, who coined the term, it meant something quite different. Most introverts enjoy social interaction. They just prefer intimate conversations with like-minded souls to large gatherings filled with small talk. They also need lots of time alone, to recharge, whereas extreme extroverts draw energy from being around other people almost constantly.
When I read Jung’s theories on this many years ago, I said, yep, I’m an introvert, for sure. The older I get, in fact, the more I’m inclined to avoid situations in which I’ll feel obligated to mingle and make small talk with lots of casual acquaintances.
After my conversation with my friend, however, I decided to do more research, and I came across another characteristic of introverts that I’d not previously considered. Introverts, the article said, prefer deep experiences, whereas extroverts prefer broad experiences.
This struck a chord because I’ve been on the introvert side of this dichotomy my whole life. That first became clear to me back in the 1980s when the expression been there, done that was in vogue. I cannot relate to that sentiment at all.
There are people, for example, who, when planning a vacation, always want to go somewhere new. A friend of mine personifies this tendency in spades: to date she’s visited fifty different countries, and I have no doubt that she’ll visit a lot more in the years to come.
I admire her sense of adventure, but I don’t share her desire. By contrast, I’ve spent time in six foreign countries, and while there are a few others of moderate interest to me, they’re not high priorities on my bucket list. The same goes for states. I’ve been to 38 of them, and I would like to add Colorado, Wyoming and Washington to the list, but again, if I never get to any of them, I won’t feel any deep regret.
I’d much rather spend what time remains revisiting places I know well and have grown to love—places with which I have intimate relationships akin to those I have with the handful of people who are closest to me.
As you know, if you’re a regular reader of this column, Paris is among them—and not just the city in general, but specific cafés, shops and neighborhoods. Whenever I arrive in one of those familiar environments, I feel like saying, “Hello, old friend, it’s good to be home.”
The only other big city that makes me feel this way is New York, my home town—especially Greenwich Village, where I always pay a visit to Strand Books, then sit for a while in Washington Square Park, before going on to the Reservoir on University Place, a bar I’ve been patronizing for 50 years. (It used to be Bradley’s, and I miss the jazz shows they once had there, but the bar itself is the same, and it’s as familiar to me as my own living room furniture.) I feel an equally deep connection to other spots in New York: The Village Vanguard, the White Horse Tavern, the Morgan Library, and St. Bart’s Episcopal Church, to name a few, and I never tire of soaking in their atmosphere.
On the other end of the spectrum are a few places where I feel reconnected to familiar natural environments.
Ocracoke Island is one place that draws me back again and again. This month, in fact, marks the 40th anniversary of my first visit. It hasn’t changed much, due to the fact that most of it is protected National Seashore. Howard’s Pub did double in size some years back, and a number of new inns and shops have opened over the years. But I still stay in the same place—the same room, if it’s available—and still watch the fishing boats come in for the day as the sun sets over Silver Lake, just as I did in 1985.
It was in the mid-80s that I also visited the Blue Ridge Mountains for the first time—and fell in love with them. I love our Eastern mountains in general: the Adirondacks in upstate New York and the Green Mountains of Vermont hold special places in my heart. But ever since I moved to Norfolk in 1991, it’s been the Blue Ridge with which I’ve developed an intimate relationship. Throughout the ‘90s, I got to know the trails of Shenandoah National Park like the back of my hand, and sometime around 2000, I discovered Reba Farm, in Bedford County. For the next 2o years, I went there as often as possible to ride my favorite horse and relax in my regular room at the inn.
On occasion, I thought about exploring the Smokies or the mountains of West Virginia, but whenever I had time off, I thought, nah, why would I do that, when I’ve already discovered paradise? To me that would be like saying to an old friend, “I don’t have time for you because I’ve been there and done that. I need to meet new people.”
Don’t get me wrong. I enjoy meeting new people—and visiting new places. As for the latter, I’ve already mentioned a few places that I’d like to visit for the first time. In Europe, Florence would be next-on-the-list, and stateside, I’d like to explore more of Maine, since I’ve only been to Portland and other points south.
That said, in a few weeks I’ll be heading back down to Ocracoke. After that, I may head up to New York for a bit. Since I have the summer off, I could go any number of other places. Having just turned 69, though, I’m acutely aware of how little time is left—and when push comes to shove, I’d rather spend that time in intimate connection with places I already know and love but don’t see often enough.
