Like two trains passing in the night.

When I was traveling through Paris to get to Portugal during my time in Europe, I was "flying solo" - on the trains, that is. I met many people during my journeys, the young folk seem to be, not inexplicably drawn to each other. In my first stop in Paris, I found an English Pub (because, Je regret, je ne parle pas francais. Pouvez vous parlez l'Allemande?) and hunkered down with a pint to plan out my strategy for seeing the City of Love. The bartender inquired why I looked so tired and if I was meeting anyone here. We struck up a conversation which ended in his kind offer to show me the city on his day off. We made a date to meet the next day, and I spent the entire day weaving in and out of the best spots in Paris with him.

I wish I could remember his name.

As one does while at a hostel, I'd conversed cordially in the cafeteria with other like-minded travelers. From every country and continent, we discovered our common interests and exchanged travel tips. I set out the next day with another traveler because we were heading to the same train at the same time in the same direction. We spent the ride to San Sebastián keeping conversation and company. But the connection that we had made, on that short journey, seemed more palpable than the summer humidity.

The photo that I took of him, as we parted, is burned into my memory.

Last month, a friend of mine was taking a few days in New England for business - I wasn't able to break away to meet him in an odd Manhattan neighborhood for lunch.

And not less than 20 minutes ago, another dear friend just posted his pictures he took while making a stop in New York. I recognized every place he pictured.

And I missed it.
I miss them all.

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