Random conversations in Philadelphia

As many of the people who mighgt come to this page know, I am a transplant. Less than a year ago I lived in Kansas City. My husband and I owned our two-story house with a basement and garage. We owned two cars and we drove just about everywhere.

Now, due mostly to the gravitational pull of family and sense of place, we live in Philadelphia. We rent a two-bedroom apartment with a grand view of Center City. We have a storage locker and one car, which we use only once a week or two.

I loved a lot of things about Kansas City and now I love many things about Philadelphia. At the top of my list: the potential that any small errand or outing will lead to a remarkable, if not crazy, conversation with a stranger.

Maybe it is like this in all dense, walkable cities. People are out and about and they have time to approach a stranger and remark on the weather or the sports teams or whatever is on their minds. Or maybe it is “a Philly thing,” as they say here to explain any and all of the city’s many peculiarities. I’m leaning toward thinking it’s a Philly thing.

It is a winter afternoon and I am walking in a grove of sycamore trees near my apartment. I stop to look at them because they are lacy against the sky. A voice speaks in my left ear. “Are you looking for squirrels?”

It is a woman about my age, wearing an Eagles parka and an Eagles hat and walking a large dog. I tell her I am not looking for squirrels, I just like the way the trees look. Her name is Debra. Or Deborah, maybe. She starts telling me how her grandmother, who was blind, received messages from trees. How she knew from the way the trees rippled or felt that it was going to rain, or unexpected guests were going to drop in. 

I am here for this story. Just like I am here for the kid who is moaning and groaning while he takes my order in a coffee shop. “Is everything all right?” I ask. He explains that he went on a first date two nights ago and his date, a power lifter, proposed that they work out at her gym. I ask if he likes her. He says he does, and he would have to get in shape. I want to tell him that my son is also into power lifting and has found love with a personal trainer, but we are holding up the line. I wish him luck and move on.

I am here for William, the security guard at the exit door of the city’s main library, conveniently located a block and a half from where I live. He tells me I won’t see him for two weeks. He’s taking time off to try and get himself organized so he can complete some projects at home. I sense a kindred spirit. Although I am supposed to be going somewhere, I spend the next ten minutes or so talking to William about our mutual struggles with time management, especially in that window after dinner and before bedtime.

I may be a magnet for these random conversations. My husband seems to think so. “Everyone talks to you,” he says, but he is nice about standing by while I converse with the latest stranger about whatever. People are infinitely interesting. Everyone has a story and I’d rather hear it from them directly than scroll Instagram accounts.

I sometimes wish that these chance encounters were not so ephemeral. I regret that I didn’t get Debra’s phone number and ask if she’d like to have coffee sometime. I’ve looked for her and her dog in the sycamore grove but I haven’t seen her again. 

You had better believe, though, that I've been back to the library to check in with William after his vacation. I asked if he's cracked the code for getting a project started after dinner. Alas, he has not. And neither have I.