Cheers to Getting Ditched

It’s official; I have been stood up. Ditched, and ghosted, in a foreign land. Or as they say in Spanish, ‘plantada.’ Alone on this ornate wooden chair, a melody of local potatoes and colorful, hand pureed dips in front of me, drops of sweat beginning to accumulate across my frizzed hairline. Fascinated, but alone.

Naturally, I believed, then hoped, they would arrive, merely ‘almost there’ or ‘on a call,’ as we too often use as a buttress. But when a whiff of rare and peaceful silence infused the table, I contemplated whether being plantada was exactly what I needed. Not a moment later, my subconscious took a sharp leap towards modernity’s anxieties, my mind now fully preoccupied for their safety. What if something had happened to them, or a taxi ride had gone awry? A deep breath and long sip brought me back to sensibility, that is, until the waiter, drizzling pity, asked if he should remove the other settings. Which is when, mid eye roll, I noticed the table across the way.

Two gentlemen. One tall, lean and blond, likely Nordic. The other, a bit more round, with sturdy, horn-rimmed glasses and a thick head of impeccably grey hair. They are speaking to each other through a mix of broken English and even more butchered Spanish. Mispronounced words with hand motions supplementing the verbiage, their humanity acting as the intermediary. Fumbling along without phones, just two beings attempting to bridge their linguistic gaps so as to unite their mental fortitude.

The scene instantly brought me back to my teenage years in Madrid, long before I spoke any language other than English. Back then, struggling to communicate permeated me with the highest of highs; the feeling is still visceral. Whether it was ordering the most sugary pastry from the elder behind the counter or strolling with the extremely German Matthias, asking directions on the metro or delving into tapas with the dauntingly elegant Elisabeth from France, I knew, we all knew, that beginner Spanish was what we were speaking, and that the mistakes, the gaps, the dirty silences, is where we would learn. The struggle became a game with nothing to lose, unless an utter miscommunication resulted in being stood up, like I am now.

Stood up, or plantada in Spanish, translates into “being planted.” Planted, literally like a seed in the ground. Planted to grow, sowed into the earth to expand. In this light, being ditched is not so bad afterall. In fact, it is an opportunity to germinate, to burgeon, to start anew. A forced beginning to a fresh chapter, rooted as an extension of the ever evolving you.

As I sit here, alone and far from home, theoretically fluent in the local language but novice in their dialect and ways, I am reminded of those teenage years in the 90s when all I knew was how to be human. Conversations were not about the exact vocabulary or view, conjugation or circumstance; they were purely about being me and you, interacting as you and me. Nothing to lose and everything to gain, like me writing, and you reading, this piece right now.

Back then, the struggle defined the fun, the confusion cemented the victory. Getting lost was the goal, because only then could we find our way.

Frank Sinatra has begun to play on the speakers, an odd choice for the surroundings, a peculiarity the men across the way have, too, noticed, now shooting over a look of bewilderedment. I catch it, less alone at my table than before, knowing I have a chance to be replanted. No phone. No AI. No excuses. A vintage opportunity to engage in extraordinary conversation with no purpose aside from fresh seeds. Inevitable frustrations and memorable misunderstandings, genuine smiles and sympathetic struggles, unadulterated curiosity and newfangled learnings shall abound. And with them, a chance to trust.

“Yes, there were times, I’m sure you knew, when I bit off more than I could chew. But through it all, when there was doubt, I ate it up and spit it out. I faced it all, and I stood tall, and did it my way,” Sinatra croons.

No matter what the media, tech, or societal trends currently dictate, my way has always been meeting people where they are, dedicated to appreciating how we are similar instead of obsessing about how we are different. I suppose my way has been being plantada over and over again, always finding the adventure in it, and trusting that it will lead me in the right direction.

And so, I must head over and join their table, leaving you here, never alone, and always planting.

*Photo, Paraguay, IBD view 2026