I ask you: What was under your bed when you were a child?
In my 59th year, 2009, I divide my time between work, hiking, bridge and frequent travel. An avid reader, I decide to read Julie and Julia: 365 Days, 524 Recipes, 1 Tiny Apartment Kitchen. In this autobiographical work, a young woman living in an apartment in Queens, New York, sets about to cook one recipe every day from Julia Child’s book Mastering The Art of French Cooking. Determined, Julie struggles through the 365 days and all those recipes. What fun she has! I’m intrigued.
I’m also inspired. Never having quite enough on my plate, I decide to challenge myself to do something every day for a year, but what will I do? We’re talking day after day, the same activity. I consider quite a few options. I could copy Julie and cook something every day using a theme (soups? cookies?) but that doesn’t sound like I’ll actually get through it especially with all my traveling. Walk some set number of miles daily? Uninspiring, as I already walk at least five miles a day. Take my vitamins? I know I can’t be counted on to pull that one off. In the middle of the night I wake up with the simple notion of.challenging myself to meet someone new every day for a year. Aha! That will get me out and about, interacting with diverse folks I might not otherwise meet. I suspect this will enrich my life and be fun at the same time. As a basically shy person, it’s also a bit of a challenge. I’ll do it! I love a challenge!
With idle hours in numerous airports, I decide to look around at random people (aka potential targets) to talk with between flights. My unimaginative attempt involves picking someone out, approaching him or her with a smile, and starting or attempting to start up a conversation. It doesn’t take me long to figure out how helpful it is to let each target know what I am up to. I find myself enjoying telling them. I meet some fine folks with varied backgrounds from all parts of the planet, but soon this approach turns out to be just a bit too dull. Wanting to up my game, but not knowing quite how to do so, I ponder, then ponder some more. I decide on a new approach. I head over to Barnes and Noble hoping to find some assistance. I check out the writing section and Hallelujah, there they are. Stacked on the endless shelves are journals, empty save for the thought-provoking questions at the top of each page, designed to be writing prompts. Purchasing two of these journals, I return home, sit down at my desktop and type all those prompts into a Word document. Single spaced, 12 font, seven pages of prompts. Folding my four double-sided pages into my purse, I head out. All set, now dressed for success.
I tote my list of questions with me wherever I go, in town or traveling, never knowing when I’ll get the urge to reach into my bag and pull them out. When I eye a potential target, I observe him or her for a minute or three and then choose a question. It turns out this works rather well.
My speel: “Hi. Do you mind if I ask you a question? I’ve decided to meet someone new every day for a year and hope you’ll chat with me. Just a personal project, nothing else in mind.”
Smiling, I record the responses:
“Who are you?”
“Sorry, go away.”
“What kind of question?”
“Oh, I don’t think so.”
“Can’t I just tell you something about myself?”
“Sure, ask me.”
I don’t have much to say about those who decline, who grow fewer in number as I improve my approach. But those targets who bite certainly add depth and insight to my life and understanding. Here are a few examples:
Dallas airport, June. The target is a random young man, thin, well dressed and hip, longish curly dark hair, busy texting. A few intro remarks by me, followed by his agreement to participate. I consider a couple of questions: (1) What items of modern technology have most shaped your life? (2) Have you had any telepathic or paranormal experiences?
Baltimore airport, August. Entering the tiny bookstore filled with bestsellers, classics, magazines and candy, I find no one inside. Curious. A motion detector must trigger a buzzer in the back, for soon the owner/operator appears, a handsome man in his mid-50s sporting a recent haircut and a wild blue shirt. Ambling toward me, he asks if I need any assistance. “Well yes,” I say, “I sure do.” I need a good book.” This was in fact true.
He points out a few new works. He points to one. “Have you read this one?”
“No,” I reply. “Is it good?”
Approaching the cash register, I have an “Aha!” moment. He will be a target. I tell him what I’m up to.
“What things do you hear yourself saying day after day after day?” I ask.
Considering the query for a few moments, he responds with a smile, “I’ve read part of it.” I laugh out loud.
Somewhere over Idaho, November. After a mostly sleepless night, I am blessed with a free frequent flyer upgrade to first class. I board, settle into my window seat, and promptly fall asleep only to awaken at 30,000 feet. On the far side of the bulky seemingly impenetrable fake leather barrier built between first class seats sits a smart-looking 40-ish woman in a business suit who is deeply engrossed in her computer. How tempting she is as a target! After ten-ish minutes of contemplating interrupting her, she lifts her head and I summon up the courage to speak to her. “Uh-hmm.” Silence. “Hi.”
A glance in my direction with a return “Hi.” She truly doesn’t want to interact, is busy. Probably wishes she had sat elsewhere.
“Sorry to interrupt, but do you mind if I ask you a question?” I say.
A skeptical “OK.”
“I’m working on a project. I’m trying to meet someone new every day for a year. I have a list of questions and would like to ask you one of them.”
“No thanks,” she answers, shifting her focus back to her computer.
“OK, no worries.”
I return to looking over my questions, mostly just biding my time.
Then I hear, “Do you mind if I look at your list?”
“Well no, please do.”
Moments later, in a stern voice she says excitedly, “I want to answer this one: ‘What lines are you sick of waiting in?’” She’s getting pretty worked up. “I HATE waiting in line at banks,” she continues. “I’m there to give them my money and I don’t think I should have to wait to do this!” She rants on and on. I smile happily, and we both then enjoy a conversation about lines. For me, it’s long lines at women’s restrooms in public places where the men’s rooms have no lines. And grocery stores where I invariably choose the wrong queue. Don’t get in line behind me, EVER. Trust me on this.
Sacramento, later in November. The one who got away. Sadly, I never take the time or work up the courage to chat with Spiderman. Skinny in his shiny blue and red nylon costume, his bicycle balanced against the utility pole just behind him, Spiderman hangs out daily on the sidewalk at the corner of Morse Avenue and Arden Way in Sacramento, a busy intersection. Here, Spiderman dances fervently to the sounds that must be coming from his ever-present headphones, all the while wiggling one of those big arrows that say ‘Shop here.’ I procrastinate for too long: Spiderman moves on, is gone. I will always want to know Spiderman’s story.
I’m having fun. I’m meeting interesting people from all walks of life. I look forward to each new day and each new person.
Thanks, Julie Powell, for being the catalyst who got me started on this adventure, truly enhancing my life.
And so I ask you: What’s under your kitchen sink?