We went out for coffee this morning. You'll never guess the pleasant chap with whom we had a very nice conversation. He introduced himself as Mitch. He is a perfect charm of a gentleman.
As I've said before, I really like our Mayor. I admire him and the job he's doing. We didn't discuss that though. It didn't seem right for Sunday morning chitchat.
He was full of questions for us: "Where are you from? What made you move here? What do you do for a living? etc..." He had nothing but good things to say about Boston and seemed genuinely surprised that two people would leave it, even for the chance to live here.
He asked where we were living and I said in my pitch perfect Orleanian, "Terps-hickory." He said, "Terps-i-core."
"Now just a minute," I replied, "I used to say it that way and everyone corrected me." He said, "Really?" I said, "Yes, really. I think you're playing a trick on me."
He was bemused. "No," he smiled, "It's hard to learn how all the street names are pronounced." Shoot, if it's hard for this guy, I don't feel so badly about it. On this point though, I'll trust my mailman. It's "Terps-hickory."
He told us we are moving to a very pretty part of Esplanade Avenue, as if there are any ugly parts, and told us that it's going to be very busy come Jazz Fest. We replied that we are looking forward to it.
You can judge a man by his handshake and Mitch's was solid. After we parted company I asked the lady of the house if she knew who we spent the past ten minutes talking to. "Sure," she said, "I wonder if he's going to tell his wife that he met two people who didn't know who he was."
His secret is safe with us. You'll also notice I didn't say where we met.
No comments:
Post a Comment