Since my cell phone didn’t have an American calling card – and I did not want one, it was my month off, right? – I asked him to give me his e-mail address. E-mails I could check whenever there was Wi-Fi. I handed him my pen and my journal and turned it towards him. There was a fresh first page ready for him to write on. Exactly where the top and the second quarter of the page met, he wrote down his e-mail address. He could have been writing Chinese calligraphy instead; that’s how meticulously he held the pen, let it touch the paper, and lifted it after each stroke. Long and rhythmic strokes, his expression focused, present, there was a spell around him. A few seconds later, his name and e-mail address were one with my journal. ‘We should meet for a coffee,’ we said, followed by ‘Goodbye,’ and then he left.

What a lovely start to the day this had been. What a delightful twist it was that once having conquered my initial fear, the day had revealed such pleasure. Before I went on, I once more went to the ladies. Now, there was some construction going on in the men’s. It was noisy and a little dusty, and a bag filled with tooling equipment was lying in front of the door.

‘That can’t be possible, can it? Good choice!’ I thought. Poking out of the tool bag, there was an impact drill from the company I had worked for. Years ago, I had written my thesis on that tool – Measures to Increase Brand-Differentiation within a Multi-Brand System, Using the Example of the Professional and DIY-Impact Drill Lines in German Specialized Trade – and now it was calling ‘Hi, there!’ from within a man’s toolbox at a SoHo-restaurant, way across the Atlantic.

‘Hello!’ I smiled back.

While I was getting my camera ready to take a picture, I heard someone coming down the stairs. Standing in a narrow corridor in the first place, the tool bag didn’t make it any bigger, and I squeezed into the door next to me, making room for the man coming down to pass.

“Is it closed?” he asked, pointing to the lady’s sign above me. He had a look on his face as if he was ready to fetch bobby-pin and gum to unlock the door in one, two, three, just like MacGyver would have.

“No,” I laughed, “No, it’s all fine. It’s just… I’ve seen that tool in there,” pointing to the bag, “and I’ve worked for that company, and I’ve written my thesis on it, and now I see it here, it’s just… I just needed to take a picture.”

He smiled, and we chatted for a bit. I had the impression that he was impressed, or astonished, or irritated, at least.

“Did you get a good one?” he finally asked, pointing to my camera.

“Yah, that’s a good one,” and I felt as proud as a kid having won a trophy.

“What’s your name? I’m Scott.”

“I’m Maribelle,” I said. Again, happily giving my name to a stranger.