The Truth About the Cool Kids
A Real-Life Parable, for Substack and Beyond…
When I was freshly twenty-one, I traveled to Ireland for the first time.
I was a solo female traveler who had never done anything so bold, before, and the whole experience was incredibly eye-opening.
With no buffer of traveling companions, I had to make friends when and where I could. Lara, on the plane ride over, who had a deep Southern drawl and was excited to date Irish men. Brie, my hostel roommate, who ended up being my gateway into meeting other expatriates living in Galway. Sam, who was training to be in tourism. Jacqueline, from Lyon, who was my translator at a mostly-French breakfast table in the Aran Islands. Johnny, a sweet old man who sang “Imagine” for me on his guitar outside a pub, because he assumed as an American I would appreciate it. (I didn’t have the heart to remind him that John Lennon was British. He didn’t seem to care.)
But there was one social nut that I just couldn’t crack: the receptionists at the Kinlay House Hostel.
I’m telling you what: you’ve never met a more attractive group of international twenty-somethings. They were beautiful, confident, and had an amazing rapport with each other. You would frequently hear them laughing behind the desk, both with each other and with the frequent guests they had come to know. They were always civil and polite to us plebs, too, but there was such an aura around them. They were all well-traveled, had all lived in various places. They were amazing. I was genuinely starstruck.
Now, it should be noted that one of the reasons I found them all so amazing was because of my own insecurities. I’ve never been in the so-called “cool crowd”. The irony, of course, is that my friend groups throughout my school years were seriously wonderful; being in the “cool crowd” would have been pointless, and probably really boring. But I still thought of myself as terminally uncool, especially compared to these receptionists who had traveled the world and were working in such an amazing place.
I was twenty-one and hadn’t quite grown out of that teenage mindset.
During that journey, I had planned a two-week trip, spending the first week in Galway and the second week in Dublin. But there was a problem: I fell in love with Galway. Head over heels. And when I left it to go to Dublin, I just couldn’t get over the sorrow. I missed it. I missed the people I had met.
So, I played the freewheeling solo-traveler card and changed my plans. I headed back to Galway to spend my second week in the place I had come to love.
But something in that decision—my independent choice to change my own destiny—must have given me a boldness I hadn’t felt, before. It was certainly the first time I had ever done anything like that. Because when I got back to Kinlay House and checked back in, and the receptionists recognized me and welcomed me, I made another decision.
I’m going to befriend these people. Who says I can’t?
That night, my first night back, the hostel kitchen was empty, so I baked my favorite chocolate chip cookies, the ones I don’t even need a recipe for. Ruairi was the first to wander over from the desk, following his nose. He was Australian, and always a hilarious livewire of activity. I gave him a cookie, and he invited me to bring a plate back over to the other receptionists. Result! I met a handful of others, including an Italian named Matteo. We all chatted, swapped stories. They told me some nightmare tales about working at the hostel (serious horror), and even gave me free hours of hostel Internet for the rest of my stay! Cookies are powerful things.
And you know what? After that night, Ruairi and Matteo became not just cool kids, but friends. I wandered down the High Street multiple times to listen to them busking; they were both musicians. I went to the pub with them. I sat and chatted philosophy and religion and life with them. Later, after I went back to the USA, I saw Ruairi once more when he was traveling near Seattle, and even visited him in Canada. I still keep in contact with Matteo occasionally on social media.
Want to know the secret? In the end, befriending the “cool kids” was really easy, because the cool kids don’t realize they’re cool. They’re usually just living their lives, having a good time. They’re completely happy to widen the circle, if they know you’re interested in saying hi. They’re just weirdos who found fellow weirdos. Nothing more complicated than that.
Why am I telling you this?
In my wanderings around Substack, I frequently see folks talking about how Notes often feels clique-ish, like there’s a “cool kids” group, and it’s hard to know how to break into it, or whether they even should. And every time I see that, it reminds me of Ruairi and Matteo, these “untouchable” beings that, in the end, were more than happy to be friends with me, despite my fears that they would find me terminally uncool. They were also weirdos, despite their aura of coolness.
I promise you that nine times out of ten, the cool kids aren’t aware that they’re cool.
Let’s be honest: as writers, most of us grew up feeling like the odd ones out. We were likely introverted (though not always), and our solitary writing hobby kept us feeling a little less visible. Maybe even a little weird. We have to be willing to recognize that insecurity in ourselves for what it is: the teenager that lives inside of each of us, still feeling small and uncool.
Give that inner teenager a hug and remind them that the world is full of weirdos, waiting to connect over our mutual weirdness.
So, my advice? Reach out to the folks you’re interested to know. Try. Offer a cookie, if you’ve got one.
Sure, there are going to be some people you try to connect with who don’t have the bandwidth to connect, or they may forget to respond, or they may—in rare cases—actually be mean or dismissive. But those will be seriously rare, I believe, especially in a place like Substack.
The truth about the cool kids is that there aren’t any. There are just folks like you, who found other folks like them, and now they revel in those connections. You are invited to connect, too. Always.
You CAN befriend these people. Who says you can’t?
Written by S.E. Reid The Wildroot Parables (nonfiction) and Talebones (fiction)