Approachable
“It’s something about your face I think. And you tend to smile a lot.”
I was telling a friend about a recent encounter I had with a stranger in the city. I am often approached in situations where, I think at least, I’m not doing anything but existing. I’m the person who gets stopped and asked if I can take the couples’ picture in front of NAME OF LANDMARK HERE. In most cases I don’t mind. I like to be friendly and helpful if I can. Just a few weeks ago I was out on a walk and I passed by a house where a woman was parked on the street, struggling to unload bags of mulch from her trunk.
“Excuse me, she said, “do you mind helping me take these out and carrying them around back?”
“Sure!” I said, though privately I was skeptical that the two of us could lift the bags. Those things are dead weight and I have the upper arm strength for bench pressing a peanut (unshelled). Then again, Superman never demurred slowing down a speeding locomotive because he was “feeling draggy,” did he? We hauled them around to the back of her house. The woman thanked me profusely. She seemed impressed with such a basic level of civility. But honestly it was such a small thing. Now, had she been trapped underneath her car. Different story. I might have turned up the volume on my playlist and suddenly become very interested in a cloud formation in the shape of Florida. I am approachable; I am not perfect.
I was in Boston on a sunny Saturday morning, strolling around with my camera, enjoying the city coming into its summer atmosphere. It’s one of my favorite ways to spend time, as the Simon and Garfunkel tune goes, “no deeds to do, no promises to keep.” I had wandered from the train station through Boston Common, to the Public Gardens where there are lovely flower beds and all kinds of greenery. It’s a very tranquil spot. There’s a small lagoon at the center of it with paddle boats outfitted to resemble swans. The Swan Boats are a Boston staple, operating since the early-1900s. For less than the price of a latte you can take a fifteen-minute ride around the lagoon in one of these, propelled by the steely quads of a college student on summer break. The Public Garden is an ideal spot to hang out with a book or a drink and just relax.
I was doing just that—sitting on a bench, looking through the photos I had just taken on my phone when I heard a voice say:
“Excuse me? Can I talk to you or do you just want to be left alone?”
I looked up. That was some kind of opener. The person behind the voice was a burly man, probably in his late-50s. He had dark hair, a mustache, and glasses. He wore a baseball hat, and was neatly dressed in shorts and a tee-shirt. He carried a backpack on his shoulders.
It was the backpack that gave me pause.
“Um..maybe…?” I said.
To me, the backpack was an immediate tell that the person was likely part of a church group or some other kind of religious group like The Cult of the Divine Jellyfish or something. I imagined this person dropped off from their bus early in the morning tasked with canvasing, recruiting, spreading the glorious gospel of a marine or some other fantastical deity to the masses. Be back on the bus by 7pm. As such you’ve gotta hump all your necessaries around with you in that pack: snacks, water, sunscreen, an umbrella, personal effects, a sign-up sheet, the obligatory pamphlets printed on that cheap, scratchy paper that feels like it could burst into flames simply by holding it too tightly, and some “fun” swag for the convert-hopeful like keychains printed with the church’s vaguely menacing slogan: YOU BELONG TO US!!!
The man sat down.
“Look,” I said. “If this is a religious thing, I’m not interested.” I was polite, but firm. As long as your beliefs aren’t weaponized to hurt other people and are helping you be less of a garbage human, by, for example, not parking in spaces reserved for people with disabilities or trying to get a convicted felon back in the White House, then I don’t have a strong opinion. I just ask that you don’t try and sell me your ideology. If I want to know more about your belief system I will let you know. And please don’t try and “trick” people into hearing your spiel: “You know who else thought living with his mom was pretty rad? Jesus.”
The man laughed. “No, no. I’m not doing that and I’m not trying to sell you something.” There was a pause. He chuckled. “Well I didn’t really plan out what I was going to say other than deciding to approach you.”
I could see a version of this guy at fifteen, at twenty-two—awkward, insecure, probably a bit lonely. He wasn’t asking me to lug a bag of mulch, just a little conversation. And I do like to be helpful, friendly.
When he sat I noticed his camera.
“Getting some good shots?” I asked. He relaxed and we proceeded to chat for a while about photography and the city. He had taken the train from a town about 40 minutes west of the city to take advantage of the good weather and the time of year. I explained that I was sort of doing the same; my husband and I lived not far in one of the suburbs. I showed him some of the pictures I had taken and mentioned a few of my favorite spots to explore.
After a while there was a natural dip in the conversation. I said, “It’s been nice chatting with you, but I’m going to get on with my day.”
“Yeah! Same. It was great to talk with you. I really, really enjoyed it.” We both stood. “Hey, are you familiar with the traveling Vietnam Memorial?”
“Yeah, it’s like a portable type version of the one in D.C, right?”
“Right, yeah. I, um, have caught it a couple of times. I think I read it was coming back to the area this summer. Maybe we could go see it?”
I smiled. It felt less natural and more etched. The kind of smile you give to a coyote that suddenly appears in the middle of your path. I held up my hand.
“Take care,” I said. “Enjoy the rest of your day in town.”
I began walking fast with purpose, hands stuffed into the pockets of my jeans, head down, making myself a little less approachable.
Lens Zen!
Last weekend I visited the Kelleher Rose Garden, a gorgeous little slice of paradise tucked away into a part of Boston called the Back Bay Fens, which is also part of a chain of green spaces called The Emerald Necklace. Making the city as confounding as possible is our own form of blood sport.
The Kelleher Rose Garden took shape in the 1880s as a section of tidal flats around the Charles River were developed into clean estuaries and green space. Capitalizing on the “public rose garden craze” (real thing) that was sweeping the nation in the 1930s, the renowned landscape architect Arthur Shurcliff installed a formal, circular rose garden, open to the public, on the other side of the Museum of Fine Arts. The aim was for citizens as well as rose enthusiasts to enjoy and learn about the fragrant blooms. The garden was an overnight success.
The garden was officially named the James P. Kelleher Rose Garden after the Boston Parks and Recreation Department’s Superintendent of horticulture in 1975. The garden design consists of a series of cocentric circles broken up with trellises; a long rectangular “lawn” bordered by rose beds; and a fountain surrounded by four cherubs.
I could smell the garden before I could see it because, of course, the superstars of this space are the roses. The Kelleher is home to more than ten classes and 200 damn varieties of roses! It made me wonder what you have to do to get a rose into the garden—probably harder than getting into the Pope’s bathroom. Part of the pleasure I got from wandering through this page out of a fairy tale book was eyeballing the names of the roses, which included: Teasing Georgia, Morden Fireglow (a C-list Harry Potter character, clearly), Sexy Rexy, and Super Dorothy. That last one is going to be the name of my riot grrrl group. I’ve decided that I want the gig of naming roses. A few to consider: Midnight Tryst, Tahitian Sunrise, Lusty Rebel, and Earl. DM me for my reasonable rates.
For me, part of staying curious is connecting with others while respecting boundaries. As a result, I have random encounters with people all the time.
Here's one: I used to ride a commuter train to work and would see this older gentleman (it turns out he was in his 80s) accompanying his younger (I assumed) spouse from our stop in the suburbs each morning. Eventually I decided to walk up and engage in some small talk, because the journalist part of me wanted to know their story.
As it turned out, they had just moved to the DC area from New Orleans, where Ed had been the editor of the Times-Picayune and later a journalism professor at the University of New Orleans. He also had been a bureau chief for the AP in the 1960s and covered JFK's assassination.
It turns out his wife Renee, whom he had met at the newspaper, was 25 years younger. Both were divorced, and they started dating. She got a job in Alexandria after they married and he moved here with her, taking a job sorting mail in her office at the age of 80 and carrying his little lunchbox every day on the train. I later introduced them to a friend of mine who had grown up in New Orleans, and we continued to stay in touch. Ed died at 91 in 2015 and Renee moved back to New Orleans; I hope to see her when I'm there next week.
My wife constantly gets approached by people in public, too. She's always telling me about random conversations she has with strangers at the store or wherever. And yeah, she gets her share of dude's being overly friendly.
I rarely get accosted in public. I assume I have resting scowl face, probably because I'm out in public.