There is a story I haven’t been able to stop thinking about.

In 2007, The Washington Post asked Joshua Bell, one of the
world’s most celebrated violinists, to play anonymously near a
Washington D.C. Metro station during morning rush hour.

Three days earlier, Bell had performed to a full concert hall in
Boston, where some seats cost around $100.

This time there was no concert hall.

No audience waiting for him.

No expensive ticket telling people that what they were about to hear
was extraordinary.

Just a man in casual clothes with a violin while people hurried to
work.

During the 43 minutes he played, more than a thousand people passed
by.

Most kept walking. The
Washington Post

The music hadn’t suddenly become less beautiful.

The musician hadn’t become less talented.

But the setting had changed.

And, naturally, because apparently this is how my brain works, I
started thinking about men.

More specifically, I started wondering:

Is Dublin my Metro station?

Same Woman, Different City

I’ve lived in Dublin for years, and there are many things I love
about my life here.

But I don’t always feel particularly attractive here.

Not unattractive.

Just… less noticed.

I can put on a dress I love, do my hair, walk into a bar feeling good
about myself and somehow still feel like I disappear into the room.

I’ve wondered whether some of that is cultural.

Or simply a mismatch between the social language around me and the
one that comes naturally to me.

Flirting here often feels different to me. Eye contact feels
different. The way people approach each other feels different.

That isn’t a criticism.

And it certainly doesn’t mean every Irish man behaves one way, just
as every Italian man doesn’t behave another.

It’s simply how I experience myself inside those
environments.

Because then I go to Italy.

And something shifts.

Somewhere Between
Dublin Airport and Italy

I dress differently there.

Partly because the weather lets me.

A little dress.

Sandals.

Sunglasses.

Maybe some lipstick.

I actually feel like getting ready.

But it isn’t just the clothes.

I walk differently.

I look around more.

I make eye contact.

Someone looks at me, I notice him noticing me, I look back, and
suddenly there’s this tiny conversation happening without anybody saying
anything.

I understand that language.

I know how to play there.

And I like it.

I like the flirtation.

I like the warmth of the interaction.

I like feeling like a woman in a room and being aware that someone
else is aware of it too.

Whenever I’m there, I feel more attractive.

For a long time, I assumed that meant men in Italy simply found me
more attractive.

But lately I’ve wondered whether that’s actually what’s
happening.

Maybe they don’t find me more attractive.

Maybe I feel more attractive in Italy.

And those are two very different things.

What Happens When You Feel
Beautiful?

Because when you feel beautiful, you don’t only think
differently.

You behave differently.

You hold someone’s gaze for a second longer.

You smile.

You take up a little more space.

You wear the dress instead of deciding it isn’t worth the effort.

You walk into the room expecting to participate in it rather than
simply pass through it.

And then someone responds to that version of you.

Which makes you feel even more like her.

It becomes a loop.

Maybe attraction isn’t always something another person discovers in
us.

Sometimes the environment helps us bring it out.

Maybe We
Have Different Selves in Different Places

And then I started wondering how many other parts of ourselves work
like this.

Maybe there are places where you’re funnier.

Places where you’re quieter.

Places where you’re ambitious.

Places where you’re sensual.

Places where you feel intelligent.

Places where you suddenly make friends easily, even though somewhere
else you’ve spent years thinking you were bad at making friends.

We tend to treat personality as something fixed.

This is who I am.

Confident or insecure.

Social or shy.

Attractive or invisible.

But I’m not sure it’s that simple.

Maybe some environments give certain parts of us permission to come
forward.

And others don’t.

Not because one place is objectively better.

But because different environments ask different things from
us — and awaken different things in us.

The Metro Station Wasn’t
Wrong Either

There’s an interpretation of the Joshua Bell story that I don’t
particularly like.

That all those people were somehow incapable of appreciating
beauty.

I don’t think that’s fair.

They were going to work.

They had trains to catch.

Meetings.

Deadlines.

Children.

Bills.

Entire lives occupying their minds.

They hadn’t entered a concert hall expecting to listen.

They were commuting.

In fact, that was part of what made the original Washington
Post experiment interesting: it wasn’t simply asking whether Bell
was good enough to be noticed. It was asking what context does to our
perception. The
Washington Post

And perhaps human interactions aren’t so different.

Sometimes the people around us aren’t looking for the thing we’re
offering.

Sometimes we’re communicating in different social languages.

Sometimes we’re simply not in an environment where a particular side
of us naturally comes alive.

Nobody has to be wrong.

Italy Doesn’t Change My Face

I don’t think Dublin makes me less beautiful.

And Italy certainly doesn’t change my face.

I bring the same body with me on the plane.

The same nose.

The same legs.

The same personality.

The same insecurities.

The same me.

And yet, somewhere between Dublin Airport and an Italian piazza,
something shifts.

Maybe it’s the weather.

Maybe it’s the clothes.

Maybe it’s cultural familiarity.

Maybe it’s the way people interact with me.

Maybe it’s the way I interact with them.

Probably all of it.

But I think the most interesting part isn’t whether more men look at
me in Italy.

It’s that I look at myself differently there.

I become more playful.

More feminine.

More curious.

More willing to participate in that little game between two strangers
who have noticed each other.

And maybe that’s what I’ve been responding to all along.

Not simply being seen.

But becoming someone who feels visible.

Maybe You’re Not Invisible

Joshua Bell’s violin was the same violin.

His ability didn’t disappear because there wasn’t a concert hall
around him.

But context changed how people encountered him.

Maybe humans aren’t entirely different.

Perhaps there are environments that frame certain parts of us
beautifully.

Not because they make us more valuable.

Not because everybody else has failed to recognise how wonderful we
are.

And certainly not because we should spend our lives searching for
rooms where people applaud us.

But because something about a place, a culture, a group of people —
or even a particular relationship — can make certain parts of us easier
to access.

Easier for other people to see.

And sometimes, easier for us to see.

Maybe that’s why changing environments can feel so strange.

You can spend years believing you’re shy and then move somewhere and
become social.

Believe you’re not adventurous and meet people who bring that part of
you out.

Believe you’re invisible and suddenly find yourself somewhere where
you walk differently.

The value didn’t necessarily appear there.

Maybe the expression did.

And perhaps when we feel invisible somewhere, the question isn’t
always:

What’s wrong with me?

Maybe there are two more interesting questions.

Who do I become here?

And:

Who do I become somewhere else?