A chance meeting

My trip to Seattle last week prompts this first post of 2006.

Was staying at the Hyatt Bellevue. And during my continental breakfast in the 23rd floor club, I sat facing another fellow traveler. We exchanged polite glances, but didn't interact more than the manly nod and pleasant, yet toothless grin. (The subtleties of how many teeth to display in greeting a stranger shouldn't be lost here.)

With only a few minutes before I was to meet my colleagues downstairs, I stepped onto the outdoor deck to enjoy a brief bit of solitude and scenery with my coffee and cream cheese-d bagel. What I encountered on this cool, cloudless Seattle morning was a jaw-dropping view of downtown Seattle – framed in the foreground by a evergreen-rimmed lake; the snow-capped Cascades served as the stunning backdrop. As I was soaking in this glory, I turned 90 degrees to my left to discover an exhilarating view of Mount Rainier, looming larger than life.

When I turned back to my right, there stood that guy I saw at breakfast.

He, too, was taking in the views. As we again made visual contact, I imagine he could see the wonder in my eyes. Probably saw the look of a visitor from a flat, featureless place scorched by springtime triple-digit temperatures.

"I'm trying to figure out why I don't live here," I muttered.

Immediately, he responded by pointing to the deck we were standing on, saying, "It's because you don't live here."

Touche.

A perfect and incisive remark to suppress my growing discontentment, which was based on a construct of unreality that comes with being catered to at a Hyatt on a dry day in Seattle.

And I left that chance meeting with a new appreciation of the impact we have on those with whom we speak – no matter how brief the encounter. To that guy, it was a throwaway line. To me, it was nothing short of profound. Exactly what I needed to hear.

Which led Mary to wonder, when I shared this exchange with her, if, maybe, that wasn't an angel I encountered on the 23rd floor.

Mind blowing. Could it . . . nahhh . . . he was a software salesman from Scottsdale.

I think.


Long live funegro.