On the Upper East Side of Manhattan, my husband and I met a couple from the UK. Our tables at the diner were very close together, their distinctive accents left no doubt about where they were from. Over scrambled eggs and pancakes, we struck up a conversation. On a two-week trip, they had visited Canada, Vermont, Boston and then New York City. Some of their travels were done via train, keeping car transportation to a minimum as they struggle with driving on the opposite side of the road than they do at home. We talked about American football versus its European counterpart, as well as things to do in the Big Apple. They were flying back to England the next evening but would be back soon as they had found it relatively inexpensive to fly between the two locations.
In a t-shirt shop in Boothbay Harbor, Maine, a couple a little older than us also looked through the abundant piles of shirts in various colors and graphics. As Mister Rain is color blind and I only see blue, I asked the woman to tell me what color items were. The four of us began chatting, they were from Indiana and come to this vendor every year; their closets are full of tops from this seller. We shared that we are from outside of Philadelphia, they then told us a sorry about our home city. Their grandson is autistic and when he was a young teen, all he wanted was to go to Philadelphia to have an authentic cheesesteak. Shy about speaking up, when it was his turn to order he said he would have what his sister was having. She did not order caramelized onions, over ten years later he is annoyed with himself for not getting them on his sandwich. He is desperate to go back for a redo. His grandparents plan to take him again. The doors to the store were open, and a men stepped in with a dog on a leash. “Are you talking about Philly cheesesteaks?,” he asked. “We are!,” I replied. “My wife is from Philadelphia, we lived there for a few years. I miss the cheesesteaks. You see them on menus not in Philly and they’re terrible!,” he exclaimed. As quickly as he had appeared, he was gone.
While having lunch at a favorite restaurant near my home, a gentleman stopped by the booth where my husband and I were sitting. He said, “I like your shirt.” Both of us had souvenir t-shirts on, and since I couldn’t see his face to determine which one of us he was looking at, I replied, “Him or me?’ “You!,” he said. I was wearing my shirt from the Saguaro National Park in Tucson, Arizona. He then pointed to the outer calf of his right leg. He didn’t know I was unable to see, but he explained, “I have a saguaro tattooed on my leg. I used to live out there, but now I live here.” “It is truly the land before time, isn’t it?,” I asked. Silence but then I caught the up and down movement of his head. He continued on towards the restrooms, on the way back to his table, he said, “Have a good day.”
There is a big old world out there, full of people from its nooks and crannies. Travel is not just about where you go but whom you meet along the way. Say hello. Ask where they are from. Sometimes the best stories are the ones that aren’t yours alone.
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