talking to strangers

I had conversations with two complete strangers on the way home from Moshe's last night.

The first was very brief, on the bus to the train: someone got on, sat down near me, and commented on what a relief the air conditioning was. I agreed, and we chatted a bit about air conditioning and the difficulties of unreliable elevators.

Then I took the train into Manhattan, and talked to my friends. After Ed got off the uptown local at 86th Street, I played Bubblet on my Palm for a bit. Then a woman came in from the next car, carrying a bag, sat down next to me, and said she was glad of the AC--the car she'd gotten onto hadn't had any. I said something about them usually only having one bad car on a train. This went on a little; I wasn't sure I wanted to continue talking, since I was getting "not quite all there" vibes, but then she saw my tattoo, and asked what kind of bird it was. From there, she went to a dead bird she'd seen that afternoon, which I identified from her description as a young starling. So we talked birds for a bit, then she asked how much tattooing hurt. I gave the standard answer, which led to her complaining about the dentist having just messed up her appointment. That got us to 137th Street; she left the train, and I went back to Bubblet.

Language is a wonderful thing--I can identify birds I haven't even seen, and she satisfied her deep need to complain.

talking to strangers

I had conversations with two complete strangers on the way home from Moshe's last night.

The first was very brief, on the bus to the train: someone got on, sat down near me, and commented on what a relief the air conditioning was. I agreed, and we chatted a bit about air conditioning and the difficulties of unreliable elevators.

Then I took the train into Manhattan, and talked to my friends. After Ed got off the uptown local at 86th Street, I played Bubblet on my Palm for a bit. Then a woman came in from the next car, carrying a bag, sat down next to me, and said she was glad of the AC--the car she'd gotten onto hadn't had any. I said something about them usually only having one bad car on a train. This went on a little; I wasn't sure I wanted to continue talking, since I was getting "not quite all there" vibes, but then she saw my tattoo, and asked what kind of bird it was. From there, she went to a dead bird she'd seen that afternoon, which I identified from her description as a young starling. So we talked birds for a bit, then she asked how much tattooing hurt. I gave the standard answer, which led to her complaining about the dentist having just messed up her appointment. That got us to 137th Street; she left the train, and I went back to Bubblet.

Language is a wonderful thing--I can identify birds I haven't even seen, and she satisfied her deep need to complain.