Two years ago, in the pocket of time between Thanksgiving and the onslaught of holiday chaos, I spent a week with my grandmother, Mimi, at her home on St. Simons Island. She had been feeling a little off—her words, not mine—and welcomed the company.
Under her astute and vigilant direction, I cooked her favorite dinners, recorded a podcast episode about her life, and rubbed her feet while we watched TV procedurals in the evenings.
Mostly, she rested.
But on Thursday she got antsy. She wanted to go out to dinner.
So we did.
We ended up at a little island restaurant, the kind that serves truffle fries and salt-rimmed margaritas, where the tables wobble just slightly, so you prop them up with a packet of Sweet’N Low. We found a spot near a fire pit while we waited for said table, and my cousin Ashley met us there. The three of us laughed and gossiped about movie stars, family drama, the latest push for a hotel tax, and how it might ruin or possibly save the town.
Across from us, a young woman sat alone, her face illuminated by firelight and the blue glow of her phone. Every so often, she looked up and smiled—she was close enough that there was no real way not to eavesdrop.
As the server took our drink orders, Mimi turned to her and said, “Can I buy you a drink?”
The woman hesitated, then shook her head. “That’s so nice, but I’m good,” she said, setting her phone down on the arm of her chair, as if the conversation might be worth staying in.
And then? We talked.
She told us about an accident on the causeway that had trapped her on the island, about how she had just been visiting her boyfriend, who was a waiter at this very restaurant. She pointed to the handsome server passing behind us.
Mimi’s eyes widened with glee.
“Oh, Brian! He’s my favorite waiter on the island! He’s just dahlin’.”
Peals of delight erupted from all of us.
By the time our table was ready, the causeway had cleared, and the woman was free to go. Mimi invited her to join us anyway, but she shook her head, thanked us, and headed back down to Jacksonville.
Mimi glowed the rest of the night.
Later, curled up on the couch watching The Equalizer (Queen Latifah dispensing vigilante justice with aplomb), I asked Mimi what had compelled her to strike up a conversation with a stranger.
“I just thought she needed company,” she said. “And I guess I needed to meet someone new.”
Mimi squeezed my hand and sighed. That was a good night.
Last night marked two years since Mimi passed.
And yet, yesterday was, technically, a good day. A fantastic meeting about a potential new project. A positive review of my recent podcast episode. That electric hum of momentum, the fleeting and precious thrill of moving forward.
Lately, progress has felt rare. Like a lot of people, my husband, Geoff, and I are watching the ground shift under our feet, trying to steady ourselves in whatever this is. Environmental and humanitarian fiascos? Slow-motion economic collapse? The creeping instability that makes you wonder if you should start stockpiling canned goods. Or maybe move to Spain.
So when Geoff suggested we go out to eat—to mark the day, to escape the house, to just do something fun—I agreed.
We went to Continental Divide, where the line stretched out the door and the wait was over half an hour.
Now, Geoff and I talk to each other all the time. We work from home. The kids are grown and gone. We know each other’s stories, thoughts, and punchlines before they happen. And while that’s comforting, well, I won’t call it boring, but let’s just say we needed a little novelty.
Just then, a random man in line tossed a thought into the air.
“I heard this place was good, but I didn’t expect a line like this on a Tuesday.”
We caught it.
We talked as we waited, learning that this man (John) and his wife (Michelle) had just moved here from out west. They were in that strange, disoriented phase of settling into a new city—the hopeful thrill of This is exciting! colliding with the creeping doubt of What have we done?
When our name was called and they still had a long wait ahead of them, we asked if they wanted to join us.
They did.
And it was delightful. In fact, we closed out the restaurant.
There’s something about meeting a stranger and choosing, even briefly, to not be strangers.
So, the moral of the story is: Embrace the awkward – Talk to strangers.
Because Mimi was right. Sometimes, you just need to meet someone new.
And that was a good night.
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