There’s a special kind of friendship that only happens when you’re far from home. It forms fast — over bunk beds, train rides, and beers on unfamiliar rooftops. It doesn’t care where you’re from, what you do, or how long you’ve known each other. It’s forged by shared moments, not shared history.
So when I found myself sitting around a dinner table in London, three months after a whirlwind of travel, reunited with the same people I’d met across hostels, train stations, and beachside cafes — it felt surreal. Like the story had circled back in the best possible way.
The Dinner We Didn’t Plan — But Knew We Needed
We didn’t plan it like a grand reunion. It started as a few messages. “Are you in London next week?” “I’m crashing with a friend near Hackney.” “Let’s cook. Let’s not go out. Let’s just be.”
And somehow, without much effort, we were all there — six of us, spread across months and miles, now gathered in a tiny flat with a crooked wooden table and mismatched plates. The kind of place that feels lived-in, not decorated.
We cooked together like we had in random hostel kitchens, laughing over too many onions and fighting over who got to season the roasted vegetables. Someone opened a bottle of cheap wine. Someone else lit candles — too many, maybe, but that made it perfect.
And then came the vinyl.
The Soundtrack of Something Real
Our host — who we’d all met back in Lisbon, now living in East London — had an old record player and a collection of worn British vinyls: The Smiths, Dusty Springfield, a warped Bowie record that still somehow played beautifully.
The sound wasn’t crisp. It cracked, wavered, dipped in and out. But it filled the room in a way Spotify never could. It made the night feel like something out of time — warm, flickering, held together by music and memory.
Between bites and sips and song changes, we told stories. About where we’d been since we parted ways. About the guy from the surf hostel in Morocco. About the night train from Ljubljana. About the shared moments that only meant something to us.
And somehow, in that glow, the months we’d spent apart folded in on themselves. We weren’t reminiscing. We were continuing.
More Than a Meal
That night reminded me what travel really gives you. Not just places. Not just photos. But people — strange, beautiful, unexpected people — who stick around long after the flight home.
We didn’t take many pictures that night. No one was trying to post anything. The moment felt too full to document.
What I remember instead:
- The way the candlelight made everyone’s faces look a little softer.
- The smell of roasted garlic and cheap wine.
- The slight hiss of vinyl spinning through the pauses.
- The feeling of enoughness.
It wasn’t a fancy dinner. It was better. It was familiar, improvised, intimate — like all the best parts of travel condensed into one small London evening.
And when we said goodbye, we didn’t feel sad. Just grateful. Because some friendships don’t need constant contact to stay alive. They just need a table, a little music, and a reason to gather again.
Antonio P Argueta 
Deja un comentario