Genetic talking

"How do you know them?" As a preteen decades ago, I had stood by and listened to either my mother or father talk-talk-talk with someone on the street, in a store, at an event, anywhere.

"I don't know them," they would reply. "It doesn't matter." They didn't say they knew them a little bit after the conversations.

This morning with my husband in London, it was my duty to walk Sherlock, who graciously waited until six.

Outside, the smells of baking bread and roasting chicken made getting out of bed worthwhile.

Vendors were beginning to set up their tables and stalls for the Saturday marché.

One vendor, a woman, looked at my pup and said in French, "He's so cute."

"Dis merci," I told Sherlock than wished her a good sales day when his tail wag was the closest thing to a thank you he could find.

After many pee-mails and sniffs around the village we passed the vendor again. "It's a lot of work setting up and taking the stuff down," I said in French.

"Yes, but I love it. I've been doing it 30 years."

We then chatted about how work can be satisfying compared to doing nothing, their freedoms as a self-employed despite the uncertainty... a week of rain can mean no marchés and if the veggies are already bought a double loss. She asked about me and I shared my checkered nationalities, my writing, my husband, where we lived here and in Geneva.

I talk to strangers regularly if they are open to it and most are. I kinda look for those that will be open. I have discovered fascinating snippets of peoples' lives which in turn have enriched my life.

I can't help myself. It's in my genetic makeup.