Four Conversations

"Who was that?" I would ask my father and mother after they finished a conversation with someone.

"I don't know," They would say. "I just met them."

So, I guess talking with strangers is just in my DNA. When I moved to Europe it was harder because my French wasn't up to it. Now it is. 

I've had four such experiences lately.

The woman with the sweater

The sweater had a farm scene with a barn, cows and a wheat field knitted into it. The blue sky featured a few white, puffy yarn clouds.

The wearer was gray haired and sitting alone at a nearby table in the restaurant.

I went over to tell her how much I liked the sweater.

"Would you believe I bought it over 30 years ago," she said. "In a charity shop."

Of course, I had to share how during the summer a stranger complimented me on a dress I was wearing. We were at a bus stop in downtown Geneva. I had to tell her that I had paid $1.25 for it in a charity shop in 1989.

The woman with the tulips

A woman sat at the Rive bus stop with a huge bouquet of tulips in delicate shades of yellow. "Your flowers are beautiful," I said as I sat on the bench next to her.

She switched to English. "Did you know to keep them longer, put them in a small amount of water and drop a copper coin in the water."

She was Dutch and said how much more the tulips cost in Geneva than in Amsterdam. No disagreement there. 

The Dog

Sherlock's double bounced over to us as we sat in the bank lobby waiting for the manager. The face, coloring, size...even the two circles of fur on his hind quarters made me think he could be Sherlock's brother. The only thing missing was the white tip of the tail.

He was owned by a Swedish woman who had a cane. She was thin and dressed in good jeans. The dog's name was Sunny, a rescue dog like Sherlock and we agreed on how much company they were. 

The resemblance was more amazing because both are combinations of many breeds from rescue centers in two different countries.

I did confess that we had had Sherlock's DNA done.

Aging

I admit looking older is annoying at best. However, I considered it an advantage when a nice looking younger man offered me his seat. 

I accepted it.

Then a young woman offered my husband her seat. He declined politely.

I don't think my husband looks old. He still fits the description that a friend gave him, The Silver Fox.

"I refuse to grow old," he said.  

The woman on the seat behind us laughed and spoke to us in English.

We talked about how lucky we were that we were still alive until we reached our stop.

These conversations are a gift, a bit of chocolate sprinkles on an ice cream cone, a rainbow. They take the ordinary out of a simple errand, a connection with humanity. I'm so grateful for the chatting-up-strangers DNA from my parents.