Nice to see you ... who are you?

Today, at the grocery store, this pretty mom with a long pony tail and a little boy in tow smiled, said a cheery hello and asked if I’d had a nice Thanksgiving. She used my NAME. It was one of those normal chance encounters that local people have all the time in public places; you run into someone you know and you chat briefly about kids or weather or work. It makes you feel like you belong, like you’re part of a community.

It’s the type of encounter that you miss when you move. Something as simple as grocery shopping can be a lonely experience. In another country, when your kids shout, “I FOUND THE FLOUR MOMMY!” and everyone else stares because you’re speaking a foreign language, it can also be an embarrassing experience.

So, as I said, this mom said hello to me in the grocery store and I felt that instant warmth of belonging, of community, or newly blooming friendships. That is, until I realized that I didn’t know who she was. I mean, I drew a complete blank. Up in the old noggin’ I could feel some very old clerks brush themselves off and shuffle over to the internal file cabinets for a quick look-see through the folders. They tried SCHOOL. Nope. They opened a few other drawers. They checked under DOG. They checked under WORK. Nothing.

I stalled. I asked about her Thanksgiving and mentioned the fine weather we were having. The clerks were searching the folder titled NEIGHBOURS when she threw me a bone. She asked if we were excited to spend our first Christmas on the street. Ah-ha! She IS a neighbour. Okay, now we’re getting somewhere. Finally, it clicked. I remembered her, her kids and even what house she lives in. Whew.

You don’t know how important those chance encounters are until they’re gone. You underestimate the importance of belonging – to family, to friends, to a school, to a street – until you belong to nothing. As humans, we try to integrate quickly into some kind of group. I don’t think we can help it. I think it’s a basic human need.

The first step is not knowing or recognizing anyone. Then, slowly you anchor yourself by obvious eccentricities around you. In your rootless state, their behaviour makes you feel less unusual. This was particularly true in Belgium where we were foreign in every sense.

You start to take comfort in routine sightings. In Brussels, I’d see the same old guy in his worn slippers and threadbare housecoat standing on his front step every morning like a dog who’s not sure why he was put outside. Mr and Mrs Grey, as I called them, were the old couple – she was easily half his height – walking purposefully into the main square every morning. Where do they go? Then, along comes the same tipsy old lady, with mismatched socks and high-heeled shoes, tottering along to do her daily shopping.

Next, you notice people you might like. The problem is getting them to think the same thing about you. I always embarrass the hell out of my kids because I talk to people. I often make the first step. I think it’s an obsessive need to make connections – to belong to the human race, you know what I mean? Anyway, I stopped to chat with a lady recently on my street here in St. Louis. She was walking a young Scottish Terrier. Apparently, she lives close by and, within the first few minutes, I liked her. We arranged to get our puppies together for a walk or play.

Dogs, I’ve discovered, are an instant ticket to meeting people. Much more so than kids, although when they’re babies, you do make connections at the park with other new moms. But, I’m beyond talking about the number of poops or when Johnny said his first word. When you walk a dog, everyone who owns one (or has any kind of remote affection for them) will stop and pet it and ask its name and its breed. They will coo at it and say, “aren’t you so cute?!”

This morning, right on time, the dude with the long grey hair passed by the house with his five dogs, three of which are blind, deaf and partly lame. I waved. Later, as I walked my dog, a few neighbours rolled down their car windows to say hello, ask how the puppy was doing, and comment on how chilly it got last night. It’s a new club – this dog one – but I’ll take it. I belong!