I realize that the most boring possible things one can write about are: 1. food, 2. illnesses, and 3. tiredness. I’m pretty much writing about those three all the time lately. I have excuses, of course. Re. 1., I’m newly experiencing tasty food again. Re. 2., I have INTERESTING diseases. Re. 3., jet lag, full stop.
I do have other stories, though. Here’s a random one: when I was in
Colleague 1 (to me and Colleague 2): You two will have to share a car, but you are staying in opposite directions.
Colleague 2 (with friend standing right there): No, I’m going out to eat, so it will be fine.
Me: Where are you going?
C2: To eat pizza.
Me: Can I come?
This is not something I do. It is completely out of character for me. In one of my favorite books, the narrator says something along the lines of, “It was so far out of character for me that it’s possible that it circled right back around to being in character.” This was like that. It takes me a long time to invite people to do things even when we are clearly friends, let along inviting myself along with two people who I do not know and who have not so much as hinted that company would be welcome. It was in East Africa, though, and if there is one thing I’ve learned, it is that when my friends in
So we went to eat pizza. And here’s the weird part: in the course of the conversation, Non-Colleague (aka Colleague 2’s friend) and I discovered that we grew up in the same town in
“Do you remember that little ice cream place on the road to
“Yes! They had the BEST ice cream!”
“It’s still there! Well, the cement tables and stools are there. It’s not open, obviously.”
“I used to feel guilty every time I stopped there, because I knew the people who owned the ice cream shop in
You sort of had to be there. In the 1980s. In
Even weirder: there was also a Liberian woman, from the town where I grew up in
As one of my favorite colleagues from this
“The world is small and round and people always meet.”