Being alone not necessarily lonely experience.

Byline: Chris Bradley 20Below Team

Imagine sitting on an empty bench under a warm sun far away from crowded walks and passers-by. Are you at ease and restful, captivated by the call of the blackbird in the tree behind you, or feeling isolated and lonely, fighting the urge to pull out your cell phone and talk to someone?

I'm betting on the latter.

Appreciating yourself and life's little wonders seems to be going the way of the once-mighty dollar, replaced by constant motion and connectedness in today's high-powered American culture. Pagers may be gone, but in their place are cell phones, text messages, e-mail, instant messaging and many devices that combine them all. So unless you are swimming with the fishes or sleeping with them, people can reach you.

This communication net may be comforting for some, but it also can be suffocating. Why should everyone have the right to know where you are at every moment? And perhaps the more important question: Why would you want them to?

One of the greatest things I learned during my time abroad last year was the value of solitude. I went to Italy to learn about its history and culture and to eat its food. But I did not count on the heavy dose of introspection that the trip would provide.

Overnight, I was 6,000 miles away from anyone I knew, and only by a complex series of country codes could someone call me on my cheap European cell phone. E-mail was there, of course, but I found that once things such as e-mail journey around the world, they lose much of their relevance and urgency.

As all of the social walls around me suddenly collapsed, I expanded like a gas to fill my new domain of freedom. This feeling peaked during my winter break.

I was the only student staying on for two semesters, so during the interim I knew hardly a soul in the entire town. My best Italian friend had left for the holidays, as had my Chilean exchange student buddy. Even my program director had packed up and headed off. I still knew where to find my pizza guy and my produce vendor, but strangely, neither of them wanted to hang out.

And so I was like Superman, enclosed in my own Italian Fortress of Solitude. For a week-plus, for the first time in my life, I was truly alone. Yet it was one of the best weeks of my life, and it taught me more about myself than any horoscope ever had.

With nobody around to influence me, I could do anything I wanted, and I learned what I really enjoyed. I woke up late each day, cooked breakfast, struck out into unknown reaches of town, wrote Pulitzer-worthy lines in my journal in an obscure park, and finally returned home to make dinner and fall asleep to the dulcet tones of a dubbed Sylvester Stallone on Italian TV channel Rai Uno. Going into my period of isolation, I thought I would want to travel to pass the time more quickly. But instead I found myself marking off with regret each day until my new cohorts arrived.

As I had prepared to go abroad, advisers hammered into me the idea of culture shock, and in so doing created the expectation that I was going to feel out of place and start missing people. Why should a person always have to miss someone when going off somewhere?

Maintaining a connection is fine, but when you dwell on where you aren't, and with whom you aren't, you miss out on where you are.

Of course, the kind of isolation the Italian campagnia provides is unrealistic in normal life, but even a taste of it can be eye-opening. It helps you realize that although some moments are meant to be shared with loved ones, there is a legitimate need to cache a piece of each day for yourself. It is OK to dial out those around you for a while and turn inward.

So tell your friends you are going out for the day, turn off your phone and go exploring. Find a new part of town, settle on a comfortable bench and dive into yourself. But make sure to allow for some time, because you may not want to hurry back out.

Chris Bradley is a junior at the University of Oregon. Check out his slideshow or submit a comment at www.registerguard.com.