The art of small talk

In the city, a glib smile suffices when it comes to interaction with any stranger that crosses her path. Yet a visit to Struisbaai taught Elizabeth Wasserman that small talk is no small matter

- Elizabeth Wasserman

I spent my childhood in a small and seemingly insignificant town in the middle of nowhere. But years of city living shrouded easy interaction with my fellow human beings in a stubborn layer of dust. Days, often weeks, may pass without a challenge to my primal skills of communication. I convince myself that no-one is interested in anything I may have to say anyway. Anybody who crosses my path can be sidestepped with a quick smile. Then we each carry on in our own direction.

This pattern of behaviour is familiar and safe. A sudden eruption of chatter – about the weather, personal health or relationship woes – is sure to send me straight to my therapist. Politics or the dismal state of the economy may necessitate even more drastic, possibly chemical, intervention.

In the city I compartmentalise my life in safe and comfortable units. Home/travel/work. I harbour the sweet expectation to be left in peace. I select the media I like to peruse, have my coffee in the cosy company of my own thoughts, and drive to work. My car is my personal dominion. I slip on some shades, switch to Audible and navigate the morning traffic like a video game.

I survive.

I am comfortable with navigating the wilderness at work without having to stumble into the realm of real conversation. The guy from the office next to mine may poke his head around my door and say something like: “How about those WSCIs for the past quarter?”

“Almost as reassuring as our SMDs,” I am likely to reply. “At least in comparison with last year’s relevant LMPs.” He will grin smugly and, fortified by the complicity of encoded information, proceed on his way knowing that the universe is safe.