Kaminer’s piece, Taxicab Confessions, written after the second day of a new cab-sharing program in Manhattan brought to mind some fascinating research I uncovered when working on a chapter about how relationships unfold.  It helps explain what makes sharing a small space with a stranger so intimidating and, at the same time, why we sometimes break all the rules and let it rip with someone we just met, even in a very short period of time. 

The Small Space Issue

Long ago, the famed sociologist Erving Goffman observed the many ways people have of defending themselves against strangers in public: putting belongings on an adjacent seat, burying your nose in a book or newspaper, and, more recently, talking or texting on your cell.  And in the absence of such props, we practice “civil inattention,” by staring blankly, acting as if we’re not really looking or listening. Kaminer hits on this in her piece, referring to an unwritten rule of cab-sharing: “shut up.  If anyone tries to speak, politely ignore her.”

But, as anyone who has shared a crowded elevator or subway car knows, civil inattention is a little trickier in small spaces.  Forty years ago, anthropologist Edward T. Hall theorized four human “distance zones” that correspond to increasing levels of closeness: public (twelve or more feet), social (four to twelve), personal (four to eighteen inches), and intimate (eighteen inches or less).  Some modern social scientists dispute Hall’s theory, because it doesn’t allow for individual variations in how close people stand in conversation.  But it seems to explain why most of us feel so uncomfortable in elevators, subways, or a shared taxi where we’re less than four feet apart from a stranger.

Indeed, Kaminer found that she couldn’t entice anyone to share her cab at first, even after offering to pay the full fare! And yet when she finally shares a few rides, she encounters the recent college graduate and others who are shockingly willing to share themselves and wonders,  “Why were New Yorkers so reluctant to share a cab and yet so willing to share everything else?”

Breaking the Rules of Self-Disclosure

Self-disclosure is the engine that drives new relationships. In the “initiating” stage,we size up the stranger and ask “safe” questions that we’re willing to answer ourselves–background, values, details of everyday life. As we move into the “experimenting”  stage, disclosure broadens–you touch on a number of topics. Depending on the circumstances and the two people involved, disclosure can quickly become “deep” and more revealing as well. It usually takes time to build up trust. Clearly, chemistry and common interests can hasten the process. But it also matters  where you are–and who’s next to you.

Psychologist Zick Rubin identified the aptly-named, “stranger-on-a-train” phenomenon, in which we disclose personal information to people we don’t know and probably won’t see again. We can talk about ourselves without worrying that it will get back to the people closest to us. Rubin also conducted studies in bus terminals and airport lounges that suggest we’re more likely to tell our troubles to a stranger if the other person opens up first. It’s like the old you-show-me-yours-and-I’ll-show-you-mind game that kids play.

Kaminer doesn’t reveal what she disclosed to her fellow riders, but perhaps identifying herself as a reporter was enough to get the ball rolling.  Or perhaps it was the cab itself.  After one of her co-riders tells Kaminer he sees “nothing odd about cab sharing,” he proceeds to reveal details of his life that she is sure he wouldn’t share with subway riders: “…he is on his way to his therapist’s office, which is on the same block as his wife’s therapist’s office and right next to their couple’s therapist.  Ever gotten that much information between subway stops?”

To be sure, such off-the-cuff sharing happens at the gym, in a cozy neighborhood bar or cafe–or in any type of public or commercial “being space,”where the environment is conducive to hanging out and chatting. Of course, we are more likely to open up to those closest to us, but relationship researchers find that we are also inclined to offer up bits of our private selves when we’re set apart from others, when we feel safe, and when we feel like we can get away from the other person if we need to.

So far, cab sharing in Manhattan doesn’t seem to be catching on. On the day of Kaminer’s experiment, the only takers were other journalists eager to write about the experience. Not to worry, you can still tell your troubles to the cab driver.

Why CS are now more important than ever. We’ve always had them, but today the world is too complex, our lives too busy, to depend on intimates alone.   CS impact health, success, and our sense of who we are.

Where we find them. New York is filled with “being spaces,” some of which I’ve written about on this blog: “dog runs and other mini-communities,  the High Line park, an everyday bus route. Cafes, laudromats, OTB parlors, the new Times Square promenade, Brant Park–they’re all places where strangers can become consequential strangers.

How casual relationships develop (and sometimes deepen) – the role of gossip. CS meet each other on common ground–based on interests, local, or need.   Casual conversation, gossip, and mutual self-disclosure can move us along the continuum from strangers to soul mates.  What are some of the markers? Check out the  “Friend or Consequential Stranger?” test.

The future of CS relationships–on and off line, in our homes, schools, workplaces, and communities. In the last ten years, the Internet has grown and with it our consciousness, our connections, and our ability to collaborate.  In the first decade of the 21st century, we’ve already witnessed dramatic changes in the way we “do” relationships.

No one is too young or too old to understand the power of casual connections.  Here’s one of my favorite consequential strangers, Zelda, age 98:

It even inspires crusty New Yorkers to behave as if they were strolling down Main Street in a small town rather than striding the walkway of a hyper-urban park — routinely smiling and nodding, even striking up conversations with strangers.

“Here people tend to be more friendly,” Kathy Roberson, who is retired but does volunteer work with the poor, said on Saturday. “Those same people, you might see them someplace else and, you know,” she broke off, raising her eyebrows, “they’re kind of stressed.”

One of the best things about the park is that residents in the area are proud of it:

Despite the complaints about noise, gentrification and tour buses spewing forth their cargo, many locals have fallen so hard and fast for the park that they are acting as impromptu tour guides, eager to show off their new love interest.

I also can’t help but love the High Line’s history, because it exemplifies the power of consequential stranger relationships–people from different worlds coming together on common ground.  Referred to in another New York Times article as “something of a New York fairy tale,” the once-upon-a-time began ten years ago.  Joshua David, a writer, and Robert Hammond, a painter met at a community board meeting and discovered that they both wanted to save the abandoned railroad trestle.  They then founded Friends of the High Line and recruited others to help make their dream a reality.  The High Line opened in June of 2009, and even in this economic downturn, it is revitalizing the neighborhood–not to mention putting smiles on people’s faces.  Jane Jacobs would be proud.

In the face of $1.2 billion debt, though, the transit authority had to do something.  Besides, most of us don’t usually think of buses and computer trains as social space.  They’re conveniences.  Indeed, most of the uproar about the reduced services brought cries of “how will we get to work?” rather than “what about the people I saw every day?”  Which is why I found “The Last Bus,” an “op-art” piece by Miranda Purves, so refreshing.  Purves admits that when she first began to take the B75 in Brooklyn with her three-year-old son,  the trip was little more than a painful necessity–a way to get from here to there:

Initially, I resented this routine: crabby bus drivers; occasionally menacing-seeming passengers; the excessive lurching. But slowly, I became familiar with the other regulars: the old woman with the bad knees en route to her quilting class, the drunk in a wheelchair who still maintains a cheerful independence.

Purves also describes the single mother and her son– “doughnut friends”–who, along with other regulars, became part of her daily routine.  She and her son depended on seeing them, and they made the B75, as her son put it, “our bus.”

Realizing that a hundred other bus route and five subway lines were doomed, Purves decided to spend some time traveling with Jason Logan, a graphic illustrator to sketch out the social scene on other routes throughout the city as well.

Both Jason and I have always been drawn to this phenomenon of people, behaving for the most part civilly, getting from here to there, side by side. And we wanted to find some way to convey the less tangible costs of service cuts and fare hikes.”

Her article and his illustration appeared in the New York Times this past March (2009)–a reminder that public arenas, stationary or on wheels, are “being spaces”–places where strangers become consequential strangers.  The piece bears looking at…again.  (And don’t forget to click on the PDF of Logan’s drawings–even if you have a slow computer, it’s worth the wait.)