Chicago

I was leaning against the bus station wall when she stopped me. In a heavy French accent she asked if I knew where the trains to Albuquerque would be leaving from.

"I'm sorry, but this is my first time here. I've only been in Chicago a couple of weeks," I replied.

"Ah, I am jealous - I was only here one day. I wish I could stay," The woman lamented.

I'm usually not one for small talk, but her travels and naivety endeared me to her immediately.

"Well, it's funny you say that - I'm actually leaving tomorrow. I'll be driving, though - I'm here to pick up my sister before I go. We're headed west, just like you," I explain.

She smiles, and slightly shakes her head. "I suppose we all are part tourist."

"Are you doing all your traveling alone?" I wonder aloud. She is beautiful, and has already struck me as educated. She is an active listener and curious presence, listening to every word I say with purpose.

"I'm leaving some people I love along the way, but meeting new ones too. In fact, I was just thinking about meeting people like you; strangers in public places."

"By the way," She asks. "Do you like jazz music?"

Now I am the one who smiles. "I like listening - but writing is my kind of art."

She gives me another deep look - I can't tell if it is one of reverence, sadness, interest, or a combination. "I write, too."

For some reason, I'm not surprised at all. I realize there's one more thing I'm missing from her.

"Excuse me for not asking earlier, what's your name?"

"Simone," She replies. She glances at her watch and realizes her train is arriving in minutes. She gives me one last kind smile and a wish that we meet again along our journeys.

Reflecting, I realize my last two interactions on my long road have been with fellow writers: Sal, and now her. Very different, yet in many ways strikingly similar. What is it about writers and the road?