The subtle art of being lonely

Last week in Toronto, I was enjoying a classic combination of pizza and coffee on a bench outside, a hyped (bad) book full of Instagram buzzwords by my side, as a young woman walked by. She stopped when she saw which book I was reading.

“I just finished it”, she said.

“Oh?”, I said.

“Yeah.”

“Did you like it?”, I said.

“Hm, not sure”, she said.

We looked at each other, I gave it another beat to hear whether she was going to dive deeper into it and when she didn’t right away, I nodded and turned my glance back to the book while she slowly strolled away. In my heart of hearts, I knew that she wanted to talk about it, wanted to hear someone else’s opinion on it and maybe even debate it for a few minutes. I should’ve asked one more time: “What did you think?”

As a sometimes interviewer of tennis players, it’s what they call “asking the follow-up question”. In interviewing, it’s basically a crime to not ask the follow-up question.

Well, I didn’t ask the follow-up question. I wanted to, I really did, but something held me back. And within a couple of minutes, I knew exactly what it was. I had been on the road for about five weeks at this point and I had gotten used to doing everything on my own. I went for lunches for one, dinners for one and breakfast consisted of crackers and almond butter in my sad little hotel room on good days, and caramel cookies on bad days. I had forgotten how to make conversation. All conversation I’d had for a fairly long time, had been either ordering stuff or on-air and therefore “performed” in a way. And ordering stuff is basically rehearsed, too, isn’t it?

There was no need to fill voids or ask follow-up questions. I was working with professionals in gastronomy or professional broadcasters who are used to plaster dead air with the spoken word. So, instead of interpreting the young woman’s pause as somebody thinking about what they want to say next, I quickly jumped to the conclusion that she was done. Done with me, mostly.

It’s funny how quickly a person can get used to depending on only themselves. Which brings me to tennis players. Tennis players travel up to 40 weeks a year, surrounded by mostly people they pay and have to depend on themselves not only in their social life but also on court. If a couple of weeks on the road and in hotels can shoot my social skills into a million pieces, what does a life as a tennis player do to theirs?

I was on tour for 16 years, so while I feel quite confident in expressing at least some sort of insight, you have to keep in mind that I grew up and then joined the tennis circus in a time when there was no social media. Everything’s different now.

Earlier this year, Flavio Cobolli expressed how much he misses his girlfriend after he had a rough start to the season and, what do you know, the moment she shows up Flavio wins the Acapulco title. If you look at Ben Shelton’s titles in 2026 and the weeks his girlfriend Trinity was able to join him on tour, it would pretty much be a one to one exact overlay. Some people online were poking fun at Cobolli for wanting his girlfriend around but tennis is not a cutesy rom-com with probably Hugh Grant in it. There was no 360 tracking shot of them re-uniting. In reality, the tennis environment is a brutal, survival-of-the-fittest, every man for themselves kind of world and whoever can add a human touch to it (metaphorical or literal) will have a better shot at a long career. No team mates to turn to when in need, no team mates to keep you in check when you get drunk on your own Kool-Aid. You’re alone out there.

That’s why you see a lot of tennis players travel with their parents despite the fact that they are adults who should’ve moved out of their parents’ basement a long time ago.

No matter how many Instagram posts of your friends you view, how many TikTok videos of creators you think you know you consume or how many times the people you pay tell you that you’re awesome. There is nothing quite like the awkward pause between two people who want to talk to each other but don’t really know how to go about it. The touching of the hair, the side glances, the stuttering. If you think about it, the nerves of making small-talk and the nerves when flirting are practically the same. And if you’re a real genius, you can make small-talk while flirting and nobody will notice until it hits them two hours later.

Wait, were they …flirting… with me? You smooth little slime ball!

I’m working on it. Next time, I will most definitely, I promise, I swear, ask the follow-up question. This is where I’ll start:

“You, too, thought the book was shite? Great, let’s be friends now!”

Things that make me happy

I have three playlists on rotation for my workouts and a couple of days ago a song I was obsessed with when it first came out blessed my ears anew. I had completely forgotten about it and then proceeded to listen to it a million more times. Not only is the melody of Santé by Stromae an absolute killer, the lyrics really touch my heart because Stromae wrote the song during the Covid pandemic to show appreciation to the essential workers. He raises his glass to nurses and truck drivers, waiters and all kind of other working class personnel who had it toughest during that period in time.

Things that make me unhappy

On the note of small talk. I am currently watching the movie Four Weddings and a Funeral. I have made it a habit of watching movies like series where I watch about 20 minutes every night (weird, I know). The thing that makes me unhappy is witnessing all the witty comebacks in every dialogue in every scene delivered with all kinds of different adorable UK accents. Did people in the 90s really talk like this before social media turned it all into vocal fry and ruined it? Or is this just a movie script and I need to get out of my sad little hotel room ASAP? I guess we’ll never know.

When was the last time you made great small talk and what was it about? I hope it involved pizza and coffee and stop judging me for that combo. I know you are. See you all next week!

Yours truly, Andrea