‘I Asked Her Name So I Could Thank Her for the Lovely Conversation’

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12 Minutes

Dear Diary:

I was waiting for an uptown bus to meet my mother at the Met. It was one of the first hot June days, and I was sitting on the bench in the shade when an older woman walked up to the stop.

“Twelve minutes?” she said, looking at the countdown clock and then at me. “I hope the new mayor fixes the buses.”

“I hope so too,” I said. “Sometimes that sign isn’t always right though. I always check on my phone.”

I showed her how I check the M.T.A. website on my phone to see how far away the bus is. I like to know so I can decide whether it’s worth waiting.

We waited together for what probably was 12 minutes. I learned that her daughter was expecting a child and lived in Brooklyn. She said she had gone to the store that day to get some items for the baby.

I congratulated her — her first grandchild! And a girl no less.

We chatted about art in New York City until the bus arrived, and we sat next to each other on the bus so we could continue talking.

I learned that the renovated Frick was beautiful, but that I should wait until the line calmed down before going. The woman also encouraged me to check out a photography exhibition at the Met. Photography, she said, showed life in a way no other type of art did. I agreed.

As we got close to my stop, I asked her name so I could thank her for the lovely conversation. She shared it, and I offered mine in return.

“That’s what I told my daughter to name her daughter,” she said with a smile.

“Then it’s fate,” I said as I waved goodbye. “She has to now.”

— Justine Baird

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Big Leather Chair

Dear Diary:

I was rushing to the subway one day when I passed a big leather chair lying on the sidewalk. It looked perfect for my closet-turned-office. Its weathered brown leather and slight scuffing gave it plenty of character.

I was three blocks from my apartment, and the chair was very heavy. I tried dragging it, but the legs wobbled precariously. I tried lifting it and walking with it hermit crab-style, two steps at a time, but its unwieldy bulk made me feel as if I would topple over.

Unsure what to do, I suddenly felt the chair’s weight lift before I got a look at the stranger who had stopped to help me carry it.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

I nodded down the street.

“I got you,” she said. And from there, we carried it down the block side by side.

“This was a good find,” she said when we got to my building. “Most people miss the treasures that are right before our eyes.”

“New York City is full of them,” I responded, gesturing in her direction.

— Sarah Gundle

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Not Lost

Dear Diary:

On a trip to New York from our home in Germany years ago, my husband and I were strolling on the Upper East Side. I am not quite sure which museum or other attraction we planned to visit at that time.

As we studied a map to figure out which way to go, an older man approached us.

“Are you lost?” he asked.

The question took us by surprise.

“Thank you,” we said. “Do we look lost?”

“Oh, no,” he said. “You look happy.”

— Ingrid Sandforth-Blanken

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‘Where Are You From?’

Dear Diary:

I live in a Washington, D.C., suburb, in one of those senior apartment buildings where almost everyone is from somewhere else. When neighbors meet, it is common to ask, “What is your name?” and “Where are you from?”

One day, after leaving a birthday party, I got on the elevator with another woman who asked where I was from.

I have several answers to that question. Sometimes I say North Carolina, where I was born; sometimes I say Harlem, where I was raised; and sometimes my answer is Buffalo, where I spent 25 years.

This time, when I heard my neighbor’s strong New York City accent, I didn’t give any of those responses.

“One Hundred and Fortieth Street and Convent Avenue,” I said instead.

“I’m from 149th Street, between Convent and St. Nicholas,” she said.

I was stunned.

“What was your name then?” she asked.

“Judy Trent,” I replied.

“I knew a Kay Trent,” she said. “We used to walk to school together.”

“That,” I said with a smile, “was my sister.”

— Judy Scales-Trent

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Central Park West

Dear Diary:

I was walking east on 72nd Street recently. When I reached Central Park West I overheard two women chatting.

One gestured to a nearby building.

“So I’m trying to string him along until at least November,” she said, “because, you know, this is where the parade starts.”

— Chloë Schwartz