It was an unremarkably warm summer Tuesday night at the Everest Nepalese restaurant in downtown Colorado Springs. The drinks were cold, the curry was hot, and the dining room was quiet—aside from the constant tapping and swiping emanating from every booth and table.
Each booth and table was an island unto itself, the occupants immersed in their personal screens, communing more with faraway digital friends than with their present, in-the-flesh companions. Across the sea of downward-angled heads, even couples in romantic nooks sat absorbed in their phones, shooting off texts and emojis as substitutes for whispers and long gazes. Often, a quick glance and a furtive smile was exchanged before heads bowed down towards phones again.
An older gentleman, also the server, glided silently between booths and tables, taking orders with old-fashioned pen and paper. His wizened eyes smiled at the strange social patterns before him, so different from the bustling days when people chatted and laughed loudly in his restaurant.
As I observed this curious spectacle, a sense of detachment overwhelmed me. Eating and chatting on phones simultaneously seemed both impolite and unnatural. I yearned for the days when the shared experience of a meal meant engaging with one another, and not exclusively with virtual strangers.
Meanwhile, the giant framed photos of Everest and Annapurna adorning the walls went unnoticed by diners. Like prop decorations in a play, the images mounted high on the walls were lost on an audience with eyes only for their miniature bluelit screens. As thumbs and fingers danced not with forks and knives but with digital phones, meals grew cold.
But a few sublime moments occasionally surfaced. A baby's contagious laugh temporarily lured nearby adults away from their screens. Lovers' eyes would meet as forks dug into sizzling platters, their mouths curling into familiar smiles despite the surrounding silence. And a dropped phone never failed to turn heads, building brief camaraderie around the universal dread and fear of a shattered screen.
Yet as soon as plates were cleared, the spell broke once more. Diners dove back into their devices to photograph leftovers, rate dishes, check-in to share their location, seeking digital validation of a life experienced mostly through a filter. Smiles were manufactured and served up for idealized virtual personae, more concerned with Likes than human connection.
Many of the restaurant's patrons continued their device fixation after paying the bill, compulsively photographing themselves on the way out. More attempts at selfies on the sidewalk wove a digital trail behind them. Through park squares and pedestrian malls they wandered, gathering content, filtering life through tiny lenses aimed down at the ground as much as the open sky above.
As they eventually went home, the curation likely continued alongside binge-watching until eyes throbbed and heads spun, and the midnight hour had gone unnoticed. Somewhere deep down, didn't they feel something missing? Where within these guarded digital lives was the handwritten love letter, the impromptu dance, the raucous dinner party, the whispered secret shared under blankets?
Communication has become chained to devices capable of everything except the most human need of all—to reach out, to deeply connect. Thumbs and fingers could race across glass but not gently clasp a trembling palm. Messages flew unfettered, but eyes remained averted, mouths clenched shyly shut, ears plugged naively to the world's subtle songs.
This is the odd dichotomy we find ourselves in, where words and images have never flowed so freely, yet the spaces between us seem only to grow. Each day brings more data and details about others, yet less true understanding. We know the minutiae of acquaintances’ lives, but have forgotten how to bridge the gap to real friendship.
Sharing trivial details online breeds an illusion of intimacy, when in fact it often achieves the opposite. The digital natives among us are welcoming technological miracles, but losing touch with the magic of human experience.
Still, change starts in courageous lands—a gentle touch, a kind glance, a moment's unintended song. Small revolutions rumble in moments present, eyes engaged, smiles returned, devices set politely aside. The path back to connection winds through vulnerability, confronting fear to forge new understanding. This is the work of heroes in harsh lands.
Put your phone down for a little while. Enjoy the scenery. Smell the fresh air. Soak up the sun. Talk to people without your phone. Laugh and cry without writing a digital post about your emotional needs.
It will be the love we made, not the Likes we got, by which we'll be remembered. Our legacy rests in those we helped, not followers we gained. Hearts touched, not stats compiled. Moments shared, not posts Liked.
It’s OK to put your phone down for a little while.