Panera Bread, Rt. 9, Worcester, MA

I've been sitting at this table for a while now. Attempting work, but really just losing myself in the conversations floating around me and the commotion that stirs in a chain coffee house. This Panera is interesting. Unlike others I have been in, the clientele is extremely diverse-- college kids and grandparents, unprecedented amounts of different races and ethnicities for such a small space. Languages I'm not sure I ever heard are spoken around me as I sit with my feet crossed beneath my chair.

The girls behind me earlier talked ravenously about collegiate night-life. Stories of nights sewn together with threads of laughter, eye-rolling and jealousy. These girls love boys--a different one is the root of every long-winded account.

A man walks infront of me--tweed pants with LEATHER LINED POCKETS! How have I gone through life thus far without ever noticing such a bold fashion statement as this? His short turtle-neck pops up from beneath a maroon sweater. His hair is tussled like many younger, hipper dudes wish theirs was.
[Edit-it's a toupee!]

His gait is confident, steeped in time. I presume he's sitting with his granddaughter and wife as the two ladies are separated visibly by many years. The older of the two looks as if she used to roam long, winding wooded paths. Her hair's parted to the side with bangs casually pinned up to the side. She possesses a knowing face. The kind who can likely read the uncertainty or guilt in your eyes without really trying. Wry, pursed lips seem more aged than angry. Each wrinkle on her face and hands seems earned. Earned with gumption. Earned with patience.

The young man who sits over there, behind me, to the left, is a study. A septum piercing hangs from the middle of his nose and gaping holes hang empty in his ears. Surly punk rockers never seemed so sweet and intelligent. He speaks passionately to someone on his cellphone. Culture. Studies. Training. A sociologist of psychologist in training? Before stepping out to grab something from his car, he asks the young girls next to him to watch his things. Trusting, too? Later he returns still gabbing about societal norms and unrealistic expectations of women. The question I mull on is whether or not he is genuine. Has he taken a few classes or has he learned something? I'm intrigued as he taps his hands on the table like a heavy metal drummer. He hums as he grabs his order of food from the counter, hums as he walks back to his seat, hums as he spreads mustard on marble rye bread. Crunching chips, he clicks and clacks the keys on his laptop, working on some big paper for some big grade. The other question I have for him-- what's he listening to?

people watching is an art

I know some people who love to sit in airports. They savor every moment as a voyeur on the other side of a crowded baggage claim, or at the far end of a bar in an airport terminal. I don't know if I'd consider myself one of these folks. Rarely am I ever at an airport and I definitely do not frequent the mall. But there is something inherently romantic about watching people. It's a mindless task if you want it to be; it could be exhausting. Suppose it's how you go about it. To me, it's all in the details.

When I've got some spare time on my hands, I choose to spend it in local coffee shops and tea houses. There's nothing I like more than endless hours ahead of me and lots of people surrounding me. The problem has always been the imminent sensory overload. Being of the English Major persuasion, and stifling my love of writing out of practicality, I tend to get antsy when I spot some interesting people. There's so many little details-- so many things going on that most people probably don't recognize. Or maybe they do, but I can never seem to just watch-- my mind insists on narrating every encounter like a page of a novel. After a while, when you have other things to focus on, you begin to feel like your brain is mush. There's not enough room for all these adjective and adverbs on top of all my meetings, paperwork, homework, etc. So enters this blog. I've always got something to say about everyone I see and I want a place to sort of unload all of the descriptions that pile up in my head. Nothing earth-shattering going on here. Just an observant chick looking for an outlet to her overactive noggin. If you'll indulge me the chance to tell you about the strangers I see, I'll try to make it worth your time. I'm no poet laureate, nor am I an accomplished wordmesiter. But there's few things I relish more than to document the details of my encounters with strangers...it lends itself to long narrations, quirky assumptions and shallow inferences. Exciting, right?

So begins a new blog.


Best,
Leigh