I talked to people and wrote character snapshots.
Founder/Author
Conversation Grounds
Conversation Grounds was a social experiment meets self-improvement project meets writing exercise. The project was active from 2016-2017.
Knowing that I preferred deep conversations over surface small talk and was unlikely in a social gathering to be the first person to approach a stranger, I crafted a way to ensure I met others. By spending weekends in various coffee shops, set up at a table with a handmade paper sign with just the phrase “looking for a good conversation :)” and a blank notebook, I encouraged others to come talk to me. In between discussions, I took notes on mannerisms, physical appearances, and topics.
These were published as short stories with unnamed characters on a now non-existent website. The posts have been re-published below.
Day One: This Car Sure Is Comfortable…
“6/11/16 @ 11:30AM-1:30PM Self Dev: Coffee Convo Experiment”
It was official. There, on the calendar, Day One of my project (for which I was the sole guinea pig) was marked. The day that I would start breaking down my nervousness when talking to strangers face-to-face and engaging in small talk.
I chose a local coffee shop well-known for being attractive to, for lack of a better term, hipsters. I expected to find other bold souls who would ease me into the experiment with regaling stories and lavish praise for trying out such an exercise; it’d be the perfect place to start.
To get there at 11:30AM, I had to leave by 11:00AM. I didn’t. I kept miraculously finding more errands to do at home. What were the odds? A blunt calendar reminder got me moving. 11:25AM - I finally headed out, notepad and sign in tow, gray sweater and jeans donned for neutral approachability.
Nerves, nerves, nerves.
The pit of my stomach was roiling and boiling with uncertainty on the drive over. I was already uncomfortable thinking of sitting at a table with the sign up but now to do it? Dry throat.
Luck was on my side when I arrived; a black Ford Explorer pulled out of its parking spot immediately as I turned into the typically full lot. Score! With no one around to claim the open space, I parked there quickly and turned off the engine. It was show time.
That’s what my watch told me. That’s not what my brain told me. The fleeting questions in my mind during the commute flew back all at once now that I was no longer preoccupied with driving. I busied myself with texting the select few who knew about the experiment. I jotted notes about how the day started. I wrote in detail about why I made the apparel choices I did for this first day. I delayed. I stalled.
45 overanalyzed minutes crept by.
I reminded myself of the safety in anonymity. Whomever I talked to might never see me again. What did I have to fear? It was time to leave the comfort of my car. I packed up and headed to the coffee shop.
Upon first look inside: FUCK.
I hadn’t been there on a Saturday morning in years. My memory told me it would be relatively empty; instead, I was jolted by the din and disheartened by full tables. Was it time to abort mission? The car was looking mighty appealing at that point. I headed to the bathroom to think the situation over, even wondering if I should change the strategy and jump into people’s conversations (No! That’s not only dumb but rude; what if someone did that to me?).
Abandoning the flawed, unfounded back-up plan, I circled the area twice before settling on ordering a chai and waiting. Luck shone favor once more, and a table freed near the entrance. I hefted the very full mug over and prepared to take action.
The sign was nervously flipped in my hands a few times. A family of five (two adults, three boys) got situated to my right; the mother asked for the chair directly opposite me, and I obliged. The table now had two remaining chairs for someone to claim. Because the group was so close, I became self-conscious of the sign so waited until they looked away before I hastily put it up, facing the main entrance. The boys' stares bore into me.
I waited a breath. Then my efforts were thwarted.
A petite elderly Japanese woman interrupted my writing with a gesture toward one of the empty chairs. She gripped a brown Panera bag so I assumed she would take lunch. Then she toddled over to take the remaining chair as well, using it to hold her belongings (instead of the...table?). I groaned inwardly as she began to settle in, having glanced at my sign and ignored it. Though I originally had frozen up at her sudden appearance as I thought we would start speaking, I became irritated.
She neatly and rapidly devoured her sandwich. There was hope. She folded the paper bag with precision. Perhaps she'd leave. Then she pulled out a Japanese newspaper and began browsing while attempting to covertly use a toothpick on what lunch remained in her mouth. The page flipping sped by; hope resurfaced. A soft-cover book swiftly followed into her hands after the newspaper was folded away. Hope dashed.
I dashed.
I chugged my chai and retreated to an open bar seat in the corner, a terrible post for any type of engagement. From this vantage point, facing the crowds and hearing their animated buzzing, I had no way to show the sign properly. It hung over the bar's edge as I hugged the wall with my side. A few people lingered upon reading the message but moved along. No takers. I left after an hour and decided to try again later that day - I could not let Day One be a flop.
“I like a good pair of glasses, and she had great ones.”
They stood there a while as I wrote. Where I had set up in relation to the pick-up counter put many in my peripheral vision so I naturally assumed the couple was not there to engage with me. They were talking to each in low whispers so I was surprised when they spoke.
They had to call me twice to get my attention.
I immediately felt bashfully rude for not having heard them the first time. They were commenting on how they enjoyed my sign. The pair came closer with hot coffee cups in hand, dressed in simple t-shirts, comfortable pants, and wrinkled fanny packs. The first thing I noticed was the jovial look in their eyes – they were genuinely excited to join me, and I was genuinely glad to have them.
“Pull up a chair!”
I wish I were better at gauging others’ ages but lifestyle makes such a difference on every person that I am terribly awful at it. Perhaps they were in their late 60s based on body language and his distinguished white hair. We introduced ourselves, and she remarked on my name’s relevance in classic mythology. I liked them right away.
Soft-spoken in a gentle, deliberate way, she struck me as an introspective dreamer. I watched her clasp her coffee cup as we talked - she would begin every answer by looking down at her drink and then shift her hands protectively around the cup’s midsection. Her mindful responses and way of bringing in authors’ names smoothly into our conversation proved just how well-studied she must have been.
Her husband, like she, wore glasses in such a way to suggest he had been sporting them for years. The frames slid forward on his nose as he leaned forward and talked; rather than adjusting the spectacles, he would just talk over them to continue maintaining eye contact. Here was a man not shy about holding his gaze with whomever he spoke and because of this, I too found myself doing the same. When he listened, his eyes would widen frequently at interesting points; when he spoke, he asked stimulating questions and answered with winding stories that always managed to bring the conversation back to the issue at hand. The tempo of his speech was slower than his wife’s but he kept on par with the amount of consideration she would give each thought before she spoke.
Their eyes never stopped smiling, a lifetime of happiness well-worn into their features.
As self-proclaimed coffee hounds, the pair had come that early evening to reenergize after a long walk out together. They spotted my sign and wanted to know more about it – “Who was I? Was I gathering writing material? Was it a school project?” I hadn’t planned on detailing my encounters but she enchanted me with the idea, especially as she herself was in the middle of writing something. When I asked more about it, she deferred to Hemingway’s sentiment of not sharing works-in-process lest it doom future success.
"Doesn't do to talk too much about all this. Talk the whole thing away. No pleasure in anything if you mouth it up too much." (“The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber” by Ernest Hemingway)
They claimed my sign was yet another mark of serendipity in their lives. Both have repeatedly embraced the random events and signs they’ve come across and have found themselves in the midst of block parties, concerts, museum exhibitions, and the like by just saying “Yes!” to experiences. Two people with immense love for each other, thriving by living with the mindset of seizing joyful opportunities as spontaneously as they came. Every time she recounted an adventure, she would adoringly touch his arm and call him “Sugar” when he made an appearance in the story. They met at their university in the ‘70s.
“I’d never given my number to anyone but I gave it to him. I kept thinking over and over that he wouldn’t call but he did…”
“I like a good pair of glasses, and she had great ones. You do too.”
All these decades later, the couple was still basking in moments together.
Our talk did not last long as long as either of us wished it to. They had other plans that evening but insisted that we exchange contact information so that we could converse again. I made a mental note to actively commit to and pursue a second encounter as I said “Yes!” to their ask. It was the least I could learn from our conversation.
Two Introverts Sit Down at a Table…or Is It Three?
The room was full of studiers. Books and papers were piled on just about every table; several people huddled around each stack, engaged in active discussion or the comfort of concentrated silence. I had to claim a seat before I could place my order at the counter.
Directly behind me, a young woman with a loud, resonating voice (I didn’t mean to eavesdrop but it was unavoidable) hemmed and hawed over choices for dinner with her companion. It was hard to concentrate on my writing with their chatter going on. At times, I even wanted to butt in and say no to a suggestion because the restaurant wasn’t good. Whatever the decision ended up being, the pair left. Quiet returned. Now all to be heard were the grinding of coffee beans and murmur of study partners.
I thought that someone would stop by within the first hour but I was obviously mistaken. There was a brief moment when a tall man walked by so close to my table that I expected him to sit down but he kept on walking. More and more consumers banged through the door, grabbed their drinks, and left. Caffeine rules the world.
To my surprise, the pair that had left came back, just to see if I was still there.
“Is ‘this’ still available?” he asked as he gestured to my sign.
Introductions were made. They immediately hooked onto my name’s uncommonness and how it came to be mine. When I explained its significance to the theme of wisdom, he shot back, “And have you lived up to it?” The conversation was getting involved from the start. I liked that. On their way out to dinner, he had seen the sign and wanted to participate; she confessed that after having been in the coffee shop for more than five hours, she had tunnel vision and didn’t notice her surroundings. I asked what they had both been doing there so long.
“Figuring out what to do with my life,” said she.
“Figuring out what to do with my summer,” said he.
The young woman whom I had assumed was in her last years of high school or early years of college was actually applying for medical school. Despite hospital politics and aggression after medical school, she wanted the instant gratification of saving and changing people’s lives for the better. “You see the results.”
I heard mostly exasperation in her voice though as she talked about the process. Her tendency not to make eye contact as she spoke gave me pause to observe the rest of her. Straight black hair parted on the left and fell down barely past her shoulders; her cheeks were marred with minor blemishes, possibly souvenirs of teenage acne. Coincidentally, she was attired in similar fashion to me with a flowing black tank top and olive green shorts.
I found it more challenging to eke out a conversation with her as she tended to watch her friend speak and nod along rather than jump in with her own opinions. The moments she did sneak in statements, they were laced with bitterness as she lamented her lot in life. Side comments felt pained and came off snarky. While her friend had been intrigued by the sign and its potential, she pooh-poohed the idea as she would not want to be bombarded herself by people coming to talk to her.
“You might as well get neon arrows and signs to point at you that say, ‘Talk to me!’” she half-joked.
While one part of the duo was less than excited about the near future, the other was ebullient by comparison. His PhD program started soon but before then, he had plans to leave for Paris to teach English to Chinese immigrants through a program his parents’ church provided. He was slender, wore glasses, styled his hair in subtle spikes, and possessed a hearty laugh which consumed his whole face and shook his body with each infectious chuckle. He had the habit of crossing his arms and clutching his elbows with every laugh as if he would explode otherwise.
Though he claimed to be introverted and that he would rather hide from than talk to people, he was rather expressive as we spoke. His quick and inquisitive speech made responses seem rehearsed somehow. The more interesting the topic we three spoke of, the more he would gesture about to emphasize his points.
“Are you a journalist?” he wondered.
I dove into the background of my project, citing introvertedness and a desire to improve. She shook her head, said she’d never do this because she was introverted too, and claimed he would be the type to try it; he strongly disagreed and impressed on us that the opposite would be the case. It occurred to me that they perceived their own selves differently from how they perceived each other.
He pushed forward to sate his curiosity. Had I considered turning this into a sociological study? Ah but the variables that would skew results were too many. I moved from city to city so the communities would change. Would this work differently were I male? Both eagerly wanted to know if the stories would be shared somewhere, and at the time, I merely dismissed the idea. I did, however, point out my own enjoyment in writing.
It turned out that he and I shared an English major origin but while I had pursued it further, he dropped that focus because it was not objective enough for him. That was precisely why I enjoyed it however because humans are not objective. No matter how much data you throw at them, they still take anecdotal evidence as basis of belief.
“At what point does anecdotal evidence become fact?”
When there is a large enough sample size without many variables which provides consistent results.
“Do you impose your belief in data to those when they’re standing by their anecdotal evidence?”
No.
“That’s interesting. Why not?”
Because people don’t like being told what to do, and I don’t like telling them. In fact, some may even stubbornly believe stronger in their own version of the story. I, on the other hand, delve deeper to know what to believe and why.
“You dissect news with information?”
Absolutely.
The scientific method was discussed. Ethics were touched on. We covered the power of people’s personal tendencies. We spent time on their outlooks for her life and his summer. It was refreshing to dive so deeply into a discussion that probed us all into defining our thoughts clearly to each other. As with all conversations in this pursuit, ours ended too soon but not before we were all reminded that great talks can come from even a small group of self-proclaimed introverts, as long as someone makes the first move.
Another New Thing Tried
“Do you make new year’s resolutions?”
Not a hi nor hello. No introductions. He had asked the question in mid-stride, crossing the store from where he had been sitting. It struck me as an odd question considering that it was the middle of summer when, for the most part, resolutions are no longer on people’s minds. I shook my head no and said I tended to make resolutions throughout the year as I needed to.
“Mine this year was to try new things. I like the convention of having a date to help me set a resolution on.”
The sign had reminded him of his resolution, and it took him a while to finally come over. He had been hesitant, for one, because he was at the coffee shop to meet with a couple and review the marriage ceremony process with them; he’d be marrying the two together in a few months. Despite the inability to carry on a long conversation, he finally did decide to come over and address his curiosity.
It turned out that I had already been watching his thought process from afar. The more I sit with my sign and do this in shops, the more accurate I am in spotting those who might take me up on a conversation offer. This older gentleman had set down his armful of books and notepads on a vacant table near the door before ordering a large vibrantly magenta iced tea. Hibiscus, likely.
His beige Hawaiian-style button-up shirt matched his loose olive green cargo pants and was short-sleeve, textured in thatches, and patterned with white Lauae fern leaves. His half-frame glasses were rectangular with thick black plastic bands on the sides. Musty brown hair and beard with gray peppered throughout were appropriate complements to his articulation. When he had been sitting across the room, he would frequently glance up from his papers at my sign as if trying to decide whether or not to come over.
In contrast, I had a zippered navy tank top, black military boots, chained earrings, and skinny jeans, topped by a head of dark purple hair. Likely not a person he would have normally approached.
I confessed that the sign was a personal development project to foster meaningful conversation; I felt that many speak superficially when first talking to someone. Surprisingly, he said his past self would have agreed with my sentiment but having adopted his year’s resolution to try new things, he would now disagree. Part of that journey led him to become a full-time Uber driver and in those rides, more than half of his passengers did want to talk to him in-depth. Perhaps anonymity and the knowledge that they may never meet again made people chatty.
Soon after he shared this, the couple he was to meet walked in the door so he had to leave. I realized we hadn’t introduced ourselves so I reached out to ask his name and shake his hand. It was a warm, all-encompassing grip that was kind but firm, just as I had expected a man of his stature to have. I was glad to have been that “new thing” for the day.
This is Not Something to One-Up
Well, this was unexpected. I was consciously trying not to get frustrated. It was difficult though. One part of it was my awkward fumbling in trying to find a common thread to keep our talk going but the other part was entirely his fault.
When he had approached my table at the start, he confessed right away that he was “really bad at conversations.” The honesty made me think “good for him” in taking the step to approach my sign. Unfortunately, what made the situation a burden to bear was that every few moments, he would stop mid-sentence and repeat that phrase apologetically.
I am doing this project to better my talking skills because, as I half-joke, I’m “bad at human-ining.” That trait is not something to one-up.
The coffee shop had one long main table where many were seated and focusing on their own work. The azure-shirted man had been reading at one end when the sign caught his attention. After multiple glances in my direction, he finally came over. He threw his backpack onto the chair behind the seat at my table as if establishing an escape route though; did he think it wouldn’t be awkward to flip to the other table should our chat not pan out?
When he sat down to face me, the first thing I noticed was how incredibly shiny the metal of his half-frame glasses were; they were distractingly reflective. His buzzed hair gave way down his sideburns to acne scars and rounded cheeks. He stammered, “I’m really bad at conversations,” as a hello. Following quickly after that was an excuse.
The man in his late 20s was a software engineer, secluded to a cubicle that did not encourage interaction with other team members.
I inquired further about whether or not he had opportunities to mingle with his coworkers and tried to show my understanding by relating my own annoyances about when I hear conversations go the way of typical water cooler talk. He cut me off before I could finish. “What I’m talking about is different. With males, it’s not like that.” It was certainly surprising to hear a person refer to men and women as males and females but I dismissed it to continue my train of thought.
I suggested he try a project like mine. “No. No one would come by. It’s easier because you are a female.”
I asked him what his passions were because those are often good starting points to stir up interest and chatter. He started talking about what he did for work – tracking customer internet activity and determining directed traffic flow.
That topic did interest me so I expressed my own curiosity into new technological advancements and analytics as a whole. This seemed a foreign concept to him though, and he vocally rebutted what I had said with, “No, females think differently. You don’t like this stuff.”
I could see why he had claimed that he never knew what to say to people. If I weren’t committed to my project, I would be disinclined to continue our conversation.
Not only were his preconceived notions of how “males and females” function and what they were interested in talking about off-putting but his frequent interruptions during our discussion to call attention to his ineptitude were wearing on my patience. However, I was determined to find a way to successfully navigate through a difficult conversation; it was part of the challenge in further developing my skills. I posed what I thought would be a stimulating, engaging question that would touch on his interests and pull forth deeper insights:
“What is the technological development of our near-future that excites you most?”
Here it would come – the unleashing of his actual passion and a verbosity I was looking for. I hopefully waited for his expressive response but he merely stated, “A.I. - artificial intelligence,” without elaboration. I attempted to get more out of that answer but he was not forthcoming, a product of what looked to be his suspicion of whether I would, as a “female,” know what he was talking about. I answered the question myself stating that I was excited to see the progress of virtual reality; this led to my talking about how I play video games frequently but his amused look of disbelief and unwillingness to contribute ended that topic quickly.
I inwardly sighed and tried to find another direction to take this. The simple question came out, “Why are you hanging out here today?”
He shared that he visited often to read. At home, his dog would be distracting. I lunged at the chance for a commonality when I heard that he had a dog as I have one as well. At this, he perked up and started praising the Chihuahua who kept him company. She not only hangs out with him when he is working on projects at home but (he proudly beamed) she is an excellent singer and sings along with him on his bed. I then realized that no, we were not similar just because we both had dogs. He went on in ways that they spent time together, and it sadly sounded like she was his only companion.
We both seemed relieved when my phone rang and signaled the end to our conversation.
I wished him all the best and thanked him for stopping by my table to talk. He told me he would be traveling soon for business and might give my experiment a try himself; perhaps someone would pick up on his sign and talk to him in a place where he knew no one. I genuinely hope something came out of it.
The Way to the Stars is Money
She did a cute lean and look before sitting down with a firm, friendly “HI!” and huge grin. In a loud voice, she gestured to her dad and told him to check out “this cool sign” on my table. His response was to grab his hot coffee, wave her off dismissively, and say, “Okay, you girls talk.”
I laughed with her as her dad hobbled off to check out the store’s free-for-all newspapers and turned back to the personality who had boldly taken up a seat across from me. She had an enviable tan and athletic leanness; a broad, smooth face that lent to her openness and easy-to-talk-to body language; and a natural comfort in herself that betrayed her ignorance of how pretty she was. It was a personality I discovered would easily light up a room.
A real “Girl Next Door” feel. Someone who could become anyone’s friend and genuinely would.
With wide eyes and honest curiosity, she asked about the sign before diving into how “brave and cool” it was. Her language and expressive, animated behavior alerted me to her youth, and her self-introduction confirmed it. A student at USC studying Accounting, my tablemate was pursuing the field to chase her dream of being surrounded by celebrities but she didn’t want others to be judgmental about her choice to be near the stars.
“I’ve always been interested in movies and just want to be on set, you know? I’m not an artist or an actor so I just want to handle celebrities’ money.”
She flipped her long ponytail around with her hands as she spoke and kept pulling up her strapless, multicolored dress that occasionally slipped as she fervently talked. The scrunched-top dress covered a neon red-orange bikini halter-top underneath. Her choice of drink was a large Frappuccino. Suddenly it struck me just how southern Californian this exchange was. Here was a young woman wanting to get closer to the idea of Hollywood in some way. The difference here, though, was that her method was also a backup plan because “if it doesn’t work out, I can still just do regular Accounting…” (though she stated this with a trailing reluctance).
So hey, celebrities out there, if you spot a vivacious Filipina accountant fresh out of school these next few years, give her a run for your money. She’s got a great attitude.
A Bold Meet to Cold Feet
They were speaking in Spanish to each other by the leather armchairs across from my table: she had on a demure ensemble of dark colors while he tightly wore a graphic tee and held a pair of reflective aviator sunglasses. The couple stood waiting for their drinks, an air of familiarity between them that was not romantically intimate. Siblings perhaps. She was easily the more reserved of the two while his built frame suggested a confidence and forwardness.
He with the impeccably styled hair and clean-cut face ended their chat quickly to make his way over. With a firm handshake, he fired off three comments:
His name
That he would have loved to do what I was doing or at least join me that afternoon
They had to meet friends for a movie and dinner
I joked that it was a missed opportunity if he could not spare five minutes and was surprised when he agreed. Spotting my writing equipment, he asked for my pen and pulled my notebook toward himself to write down contact information, stating that I should reach out the next time I was running the project. When I mentioned I was rotating between shops, he disclosed the city where he lived in case I would be nearby. The pair’s drinks were ready then so the goodbye was swift.
I looked down at the name and number written in very neat, clear print. Unexpected.
Once the day of conversations was done, I packed up and made sure to shoot over a text to thank him for stopping by. I actually did have plans the next weekend to set up shop at a spot in the same city he lived so shared that as well. He asked for the hours and said he’d pop in.
I sent off a reminder the day before that I’d be there. No response.
The project is based on spontaneity though so I left the situation where it was. He did not show the next day and hasn’t responded since. I wondered where the cold feet came from.
Advice from a Talker
I had been talking to her cousin when she came out of the women’s restroom and casually handed a tube of lipstick over to her with a feminine bend of the wrist. The fresh color on her lips was bright pink – bold, fun, and perfect for the summer. Her A-line white halter dress was splotched with multicolored, tropical flower prints outlined in thick black lines.
She seemed just as forward as her cousin and sat down without a question.
In fact, she didn’t even see the sign at first but assumed that there was a reason I was already talking to her cousin. Though her actions were strong and confident, physically she was petite and had a soft-spoken voice; compared to the other tablemate, she was pale and this was accentuated by her jet black sleek long hair that fell down her back. Her speech was staccato which actually made me listen more carefully to what she had to say as the rhythm seemed off.
The young woman had been a tour guide for nearly a decade but recently moved into an HR role with a nearby company. She brought up her occupation after I explained the project because she kindly disagreed with the purpose. To her, learning to talk more was not the key to becoming better at conversations and connecting with people quickly.
“It’s listening that more people need to do. That is very important. I used to talk too much but now I’m listening more.”
When the group she came with decided it was time to leave, she asked if I’d be at the coffee shop the next week so we could chat again. Hearing that I wouldn’t be around again, she came over to my side with her arms open. I stood up for her encouraging hug, and she told me, “Good job for trying this,” as she embraced me warmly. I hadn’t expected how great even a stranger’s hug would feel but I was immediately reinvigorated to keep on with the project.
They Know What You’re Doing
“Tell me something about what you do that others wouldn’t know.”
I had to ask him that question to get him started on saying something. I had seen him looking over at my table several times throughout the first hour that I sat there without any takers; he would smile with his eyes frequently and meet my gaze but not make a move. Perhaps knowing that I had spent the last 60 minutes sitting there alone spurred him on to finally come over. He first noted it was a “cute sign” and apologized that he was not “good at conversation” himself.
Then he was silent, smiling without showing teeth, expectant. I took that as a cue that he was looking to me to initiate. So, I asked him to share something I wouldn’t know.
Talking about work put him in a state of comfortable knowledge. As a software engineer for a direct broadcast satellite service provider, he created the capability for their company to possess intimate knowledge of their customer base.
“We track every decision you make,” he simply stated.
Every click a viewer makes, the duration it took to get to that click, the channels to and from switching, and other activities are tracked. The data gives targeted results that can be analyzed to determine promotions to run, success of programs, and ways to strengthen loyalty. As a marketer, I found this fascinating and though we as consumers know this happens, to hear it from someone who helps design the system was slightly unsettling. He was animated as he spoke, excited about the nuances in programming such intricate tracking because it was merely a problem to be solved.
“Now we know that if you were watching this channel at this time and then switched to this channel because of something you saw, we can keep showing you other like channels and get you to pay for some of the new programs.”
He even gave me tips about how to get refunds should I ever become a customer and laughed softly at how one could game the customer service team in such ways. I caught a mischievous twinkle in his eyes behind his short frameless glasses.
At a spot in our conversation that didn’t seem the right moment to leave it, he patted down his worn white-striped blue polo and declared again that he was shy. He got up and said, “Thank you for the chance to respond to your sign.” before walking, slightly hunched, to his original table. I stayed at the coffee shop another hour’s length and what was odd was that he was still there when I left, occasionally looking back at my sign.
Hydration is Key Before Entering Tall Grass
The “lean-and-look” is something I’ve started noting.
When someone sees the sign, does a curious body or head tilt to noticeably appear more interested, and gives a slight smile, the action becomes the moment. It catches my attention and serves as a silent question of permission to approach. It occurs more frequently with younger folks. A group of three girls in their late teen years had stood to my left waiting for their drinks when the one wearing a shirt similar in style to mine (black, white, and red plaid design) did the lean-and-look and slowly, cautiously slid into the seat across the table with a smirk on her face and a drawn-out “Hi…”
She waved her friends over but the grinding of coffee beans was louder than the introductions of their names so I just nodded and smiled as they pulled up chairs around me.
Stylish caps and scrubbed-clean sneakers on, the girls were ready for the sunny afternoon. It was apparent they were amused by the situation. The initiator asked how “this” goes so I asked what they were up to, guessing that they either came from or were going to the nearby park for some outdoor activities.
“We’re about to go hunt Pokémon,” she said, unembarrassedly straightforward.
“I’m still clueless to these things,” said the tall friend in a white cap over thick, long black hair that hung down perfectly over her tight shirt. She wore gold-colored jewelry and thick make-up.
“I heard there were a lot to catch at the park,” said the mousey friend wearing a distressed maroon t-shirt whose plain face held eyes that darted about to avoid eye contact.
I immediately told them someone set a lure on the Pokéstop that the coffee shop sat on. Two looked blankly at me while the tomboy reached quickly into her back pocket to grab her phone. Then we all pulled out our devices and carried on our chat in the way many do now, head down, distracted. Half of our odd ensemble caught Pikachus in the game before we set our phones on the table to continue the conversation.
They asked if anyone had laughed at or taken a picture of me yet for trying this out.
“Of course.”
They asked about the weirdest moments and if I had encountered “creepers.”
“Not really.”
With no other exciting tales to regale them with, I soon became less interesting than their intended day’s adventure so they politely excused themselves to head out. They were only there to get drinks before wandering in the heat. Small strawberry waters in hand, the trio agreed we had had a good conversation so at least that part was taken care of. The tall one was impressed that it wasn’t as weird as she thought it would be. I wished them the best of luck covering ground and catching Pokémon, and the initiator noted she was glad it was coming back into style.
“What!? It never went away. Pokémon has always been good. It never went away,” insisted the self-proclaimed diehard fan.
She looked at me for validation, and I merely shrugged out a, “Hey, I still play too.”
A Short Stop Chat Before a Home Run
In the humdrum of jeans and t-shirts that populated the café, her clean black and royal blue softball uniform caught my attention. She’d been standing in line with her mom before being told to wait by the pick-up station with her container of crudités and hummus. That placed her right by my table.
With a smile and outstretched hand, the lean young girl excitedly introduced herself, “Hi! I saw your sign and see you’re looking for a good conversation! I’m ____!”
I liked her cheery spunk. It was complemented by a long braided ponytail pulled through a cap, summer-tanned face, and white healthy smile; her demeanor was eager, open, and endearing. I would have placed her in her late middle school or early high school years. When I introduced myself, she immediately exclaimed, “Cool! Like McGonagall! And the Roman goddess!” in reference to my name.
I praised the latter reference before she launched into how much she enjoyed the Harry Potter and Percy Jackson book series. We both nodded in commiseration with each other about how poorly made the Percy Jackson movies were. Then she continued sharing about other books and series that she enjoyed before her mother sat down next to me and told her to wash up. With a bounce, the enthusiastic girl went off toward the restrooms.
Her mom moved to the seat where her daughter had sat and said she’d been surprised to see her daughter talking to me. “She’s normally shy.”
I didn’t see that at all. In fact, the girl spoke like a typical young teen with halting, self-conscious pauses before spewing excitement in childish rhythm. There was, of course, little eye contact but that takes time to learn. Her mother was in a plain light pink t-shirt and looked quite tired. She asked a bit more about my project, and I asked if they were going to a game.
“It was a softball exhibition game where college scouts were going to be.”
The pair was not from the area but had driven the one hundred miles north to showcase her in the game. Only a freshman, the girl was already looking at colleges! I was impressed by the ambition but she shot back that it wasn’t only sports she was interested in.
“My friends on the team are just applying anywhere. I want good academics too so I’m a little more picky.”
I couldn’t help from offering my own experience as advice in some way seeing as I volunteered with my alumni group to interview prospective students. They both lit up after hearing that, and her mom told her own daughter to give this stranger across the coffee table her cell phone number. She even asked if I’d ever be down in their part of the state so we might run into each other again.
“I’m so glad we ran into you. I went to University of Chicago but that was a while ago. Even if I wanted to, ‘Mom’ can’t help as much as someone who was just in school, you know?”
Since the commute back was long, I urged them on their way and made sure to text the motivated athlete a few hours later to thank them for stopping by. It wasn’t only her drive that stuck with me after our chat though. I just loved how the two of them kept looking at each other with love and affirmation as they talked about the girl’s future. The mother looked tired but even more so, proud.
Suspicious Shouting Over My Shoulder
He startled me by yelling aloud, asking what my sign meant.
Donning a thin green polo, the senior square-jawed Asian man had been standing behind my left side so his question rung deeply over my shoulder. Since I had been surprised by his approach, I looked at him blankly first and didn’t answer. This prompted him to come closer and flip my sign over so that the words faced me upside down.
“What does this mean?”
The hostility was clear so I attempted to defuse the situation with a smile. “I just want to have good conversations with anyone.” He must have seen my sign earlier and decided to address it just now.
He was suspicious and aggressive with his retort, “Not Christian? About Christianity?” I smiled and denied it so he wandered off, mumbling a little. That seemed to be the end of our interaction.
Fifteen minutes later, when I assume he was done with his drink, he swung behind my left shoulder again and asked loudly what I ‘was’ which I presumed (from previous experiences of being asked that by older Asian folks) meant ethnicity. I explained that I was Chinese but born in the States.
Loudly, “Not mainland China?!” He walked away gesticulating and muttering, “How should I know if you’re Beijing/Shanghai/wherever?” and left.
Take Hold of Your “Merry-Go-Round” Moments
9:59AM – The phone rings. It’s him, making sure I could still make it and with directions on where to park.
11:59AM – I’m parked but need a little time to walk over so I call to let him know. He doesn’t pick up.
This was new. I had never agreed to meet anyone a second time after the initial impromptu conversation in the coffee shop but it felt appropriate. He was of the couple that had been together since the ‘70s. Shortly after our first encounter where we realized we worked near each other in our 9-to-5s, he called about getting coffee one lunch hour.
I hustle over to the coffee shop, and he immediately sees me as he has chosen a table by the window. Politely, he stands up until I walk through the door and we’ve properly said our hellos. Seeing as there were no other customers present, he leaves his sunglasses case on the table as we walk to the counter.
“Whatever the lady wants first,” he gestures with a smile.
I wasn’t ready so let him go first. His simple coffee pick is starkly lower priced than my eventual ice-blended drink order. He asks if I’d like to go Dutch or if he may treat me; though I prefer to pay my own way on every occasion, I graciously accept his politeness. My guilt takes ahold and forms itself into a joking “But you have to let me get the next one” before we sit down.
As the only folks in at the time, our names are called quickly. He gets a small cup to split his coffee into and tells me that he typically walks back to the office with a capped cup for sipping throughout the day. Generous amounts of milk go into his cups before we retreat to our corner.
He begins by talking about my culinary-focused website, writing ability, and how both he and his wife couldn’t find my most recent magazine editorial in print so they searched and read it online. It was obvious they had delved into it too because of the references he made to each of the restaurants I had visited. Unfortunately they had never been to any of those but enjoyed the stories nonetheless. Rather than traipse around town searching for eateries, they would rather walk and visit museums, particularly on free museum days. In fact, they had tickets for an upcoming pterosaur exhibition which I was secretly envious of – what a sight that would be.
“When we saw your sign that day, she reminded me that it was a merry-go-round moment. That’s what she calls those. They’re ‘why not?’ situations. We never want to miss those.”
That sentiment was likely why I took him up on the coffee invitation after our first chat. As I think on that point, he switches to asking how I stay active. My answer is half-embarrassed when I recount the days of running track that have devolved into a few runs here and there. He shakes it off, sharing how he used to run half-marathons until breaking his leg on three separate occasions forced him to stop. How? One incident was from skydiving. Now, he and his wife just choose spots to walk and spend quiet time with each other. He offers to walk with me on another lunch break sometime when I become available again.
Now I’m curious to learn what he does, given how many offices are in the area and my assumption that he was past retirement age. He taps his black cap with its recognizable logo, claiming to be an IT/Systems Analyst for various automobile companies over the years. Occasionally, he also is a technical writer. It seems to be a comfortable role for him; commutes are spent on his wife’s motorcycle (his is too powerful for stop-and-go morning traffic) and breaks taken by walking outside. He was wearing a worn brown polo with jeans and walking shoes too. Not knowing his actual age, I didn’t broach the topic of how old he was but perhaps this role gives him a familiar structure and his employers trust him enough to be lax.
“So what’s next?”
I suggest lunch or dinner which makes him suddenly nervous. He frankly tells me that my restaurant choices (based on my past written work) are above his and his wife’s budgets. I assure them that we were simple, hole-in-the-wall people so he softens a bit.
We choose a time and date later, over email.
Suggestion: Try Different Adjectives
Pentagonal lenses. I’d never seen those before in a pair of eyeglass frames but there they were, in front of cheery blue-gray eyes that held steady eye contact.
The man was 60 years old and spoke with a gentle but firm voice housing the hint of a drawl. He’d moved to the area for work a few years ago but the job didn’t serve his needs properly and adjustments had to be made.
“I opened an agency. I didn’t expect to start up my own business at my age but then again, I’ve never sliced experience by age.”
Though I was out on the weekend, he was still working and wanted to toss “at least one conversation” my way before leaving the shop. He shook my hand three times during our brief talk and each handshake was just as warm and well-meaning as the last. A thin blue and black plaid scarf draped untied over his casual black sweater and achieved a classic look that was complemented by his impressively full white hair, beard, and moustache.
“Are you a student?”
Not at all. I work full-time. Marketing in tech.
“So it’s true. Marketing folks just tend to find each other somehow. My business is a marketing agency.”
His open body language gestured at a creative mind, and he confessed to also being a techie of sorts that sought like-minded collaborators. “Plus, you can work anywhere these days.” A friend had bought a farm on Prince Edward Island but still did voiceover work for him; the recording studio sat in his barn where he went after harvesting potatoes.
“It’d be interesting if you filmed these interactions like Taxi Cab Confessions does. By the way, I have another call to make but wanted to stop by. Maybe the other times you do this, you could change the first part…ask for a ‘crazy’ or ‘depressing’ conversation. Good luck!”
West Coast, Best Coast?
To get to the cashier, he walked past my table with earbuds in, fast-paced and determined, it seemed, to get in and get out. The sign slowed him down a moment and I heard him mutter curiously to himself, “Looking for a good conversation?”
The well-groomed man with slicked-back hair was naturally tanned, very physically built, and conventionally handsome. His short beard and moustache ensemble looked meticulously maintained, and his physique filled out his navy polo well. I suspected he’d be another one of the people who’d scoff at the project from afar because of his appearance; many in a rush and (to be honest) seemingly more socially confident tended to avoid the chair in front of me.
But he sat down and was both friendly and attentive.
“I’m running to see a movie but I can stop for about 20 minutes,” he said as he glanced at his phone.
“Ah, what are you watching?”
“Not sure. Something with a friend. I’m traveling here and tomorrow’s my last day.”
He was from Los Angeles, and this visit to the area was to see if he’d enjoy Austin. The verdict: no. Having lived in southern California myself, I had to know why it was a definitive answer already after just a few days in the new city.
“There is nothing to do. I don’t drink, and everyone does that here because there are no other weekend activities. Also, people are too ‘relaxed’ and comfortable. They’re all the same – nice, but that’s it. Cars are everywhere. Look around – no one’s going to come talk to you because everyone likes being inside Monday through Friday and not changing. Maybe it’s fine to raise a family but not for someone like me who is alone. Good luck with what you’re trying here. It’s already hard for a man to come approach a woman like I did to talk to you but it’s even harder in this town to approach anyone.”
I was surprised. My previous interactions with those who lived in Los Angeles were defined by their ulterior motives in any communication. I had grown cynical of everyone’s true intent in talking to me there and found many seemed insincere.
“No. They’re not fake. They’re happy. Even in Hollywood, they might be looking for help with their career but otherwise, they’re happy. There’s something to do every day of the week. Cost doesn’t matter. Money has no value if you’re unhappy with nothing to do with it. I’ve traveled the world and nothing is like LA. Nothing is like Santa Monica. People need to change, be dynamic.”
After living nine years in Boston where he helped with his family’s restaurants, he’d moved to southern California where he’s been for nine years already. And he loves it.
“I have even lived in Hawaii and it was ‘beach, mountain, flower, beach, mountain, flower’ – you get sick of it. Like what the fuck is new??”
He wanted to add me on social media before leaving for his movie – it was easier to hand the phone over to me, and when I picked it up, the Arabic keyboard threw me off. I had him switch it to English while he told me how inconvenient it was that one would have to fly a few hours from the area to do anything exciting, rather than driving 25 minutes.
“Look, it’s just like this. West Coast = best, Central = good, and East Coast = worst. Simple.”
I Tell Myself It’s Important
(A few weeks into Conversation Grounds, I jotted down some thoughts about my experiences since the start of the project. They follow below.)
What I am discovering as I embark on each outing: my initial reaction is that I don’t want to do it.
I began trying this out for many personal reasons. One inspiration was a friend who he engaged in-person with strangers just for the sake of it through multiple means such as rideshares, dating apps, etc. I kept thinking that I could never be so brave. I don’t tend to talk to others without reason. While I have a knack for the written word, finding my voice in open conversation can be difficult. I become self-conscious. My mind whirs a mile a minute. I am less composed and articulate on the spot.
I also find that I am quick to judge whether or not to pay attention to people.
“That’s terrible!”
I know.
Recently re-reading Dale Carnegie’s How to Win Friends & Influence People reinforced the belief of the value in paying attention to others. Who knows what can be learned? I cannot let myself live on an island of observation from afar without paddling into the shallows a little bit. What if my world was actually part of a whole archipelago? (Yep, I did write this unnecessarily lofty metaphor down. Ask to see my notebook. It’s there.)
It’s easy to stereotype. Yet what do I get out of doing that? Do I learn anything? Stereotyping is just preventing me from getting to know other people’s stories.
Another reason for all of this was a realization that as a whole, people rarely have deep conversations anymore. Why don’t we? We all want to express ourselves. Even those who say they don’t like talking about themselves have opinions. Would you express yourself under the safety of anonymity? It can be cathartic. Talk to a stranger; she wouldn’t know you well enough to judge you.
“Hi, I’m Minerva.”
Honestly though, before each episode, I resist. I actively must convince myself to go but waiting there in my seat for someone to approach is an anxious activity. I wonder if anyone has taken a picture and joked I was some woman desperate for friends. Have I been shared on social media? Has my sign made rounds? The longer I wait, the more self-conscious I become because our share-happy world is a shaming world. (But does it matter?)
Then, when someone sits down in front of me, a different type of nervousness kicks in, and all I know is that I just need to focus, focus, focus.
Pay attention, Minerva. Everyone has something important to say.