“It turned out we were about ten blocks apart.”

Table for two

Dear Diary:

I was in the East Village and went to Veselka, planning to grab a quick lunch. I was disappointed when the hostess said it would take 15 minutes for a table for one.

As I pondered what to do, an older woman in line ahead of me leaned toward the hostess.

“If we're together, can we sit down now?” the woman asked.

“I think so,” said the hostess, looking confused for a moment.

I said I was game, and we were led to a table. On the way, my new companion turned to me.

“Conversation is optional!” she said.

That, of course, was the start of an hour of non-stop chatter. It turned out that we lived about ten blocks apart in the same Brooklyn neighborhood and our kids went to the same school.

We talked about our families and shared travel tips. By the time lunch was over, we split dessert.

“One check,” I told the waitress when it was time to pay. Then I moved on to my lunch date. “It's my treat.”

–David Kramer

Kitchen windows

Dear Diary:

I often get up early for a 6:30 a.m. gym class. I turn on the light in my kitchen, where the window looks out onto the kitchen windows in the building next door.

As I pour coffee into my thermos, I see the man who lives right across from me in his kitchen. He also makes coffee.

We turn off the lights, go out the door, take the elevator down and walk out onto the street at the same time. He has two terriers. We both say 'hello'.

“Looks like you're back in town these days,” he said one morning last fall.

Yes, I responded. We had spent most of the summer on Long Island, but were back for the winter.

I told him he had new neighbors downstairs with two young children. (I can see into that kitchen too.)

Yes, he said, they are really nice. The building has had a lot of turnover with new families, he added.

Ours too, I said.

We got to the corner, wished each other a good day and I turned right towards the gym.

We've lived across the yard from each other for fifteen years, and we still haven't exchanged names.

– Erica True

Looks spiffy

Dear Diary:

My wife and I recently attended a performance of opera music at Carnegie Hall.

As usual, I wore my old-fashioned uniform: navy blue blazer, bow tie, pocket square and French cuffs.

We took the elevator to our seats and shared it with another couple. The man looked somewhat disheveled.

When we got to our floor, the elevator operator turned and pointed at me.

“Sir,” he said, “you look very chic.”

I was overwhelmed.

“My wife dressed me tonight,” I replied.

The other man's wife turned to him.

“I guess your wife didn't dress you tonight,” she said.

—Tom Harvey

Day off in Manhattan

Dear Diary:

The first time I visited New York City was in June 2001 as part of a youth group working for a week at a church on Staten Island.

During the trip, we spent most of the week at church, but we planned a day off in Manhattan. It was my only purpose to go.

When the day arrived for our trip to Manhattan, we were all asked what we wanted to see. I asked to go to Chinatown. My father had immigrated to the United States from Hong Kong and spent some time in Chinatown before moving south and meeting my mother.

The group leader agreed to add my stop to the list, and off we went.

After taking a tour of several other tourist spots, it was time for Chinatown. I was looking forward to busy walking paths, street vendors and maybe a quick snack at a dumpling restaurant.

As we walked up the steps of the subway, my excitement was crushed when another girl said she couldn't stand the strong smell coming from the shops where the fish was displayed on the sidewalk.

We quickly got back onto the subway at Canal Street. Our next stop was one chosen by the girl who had objected to the fishy smell: a big box store in Midtown.

I live in the city now and have never gone back to that shop, but I have eaten a lot of dumplings in Chinatown.

– Ginger Lau

The 37

Dear Diary:

I was recently at a market in Morningside Heights for grab and go lunch.

An older woman in line behind me asked what I ordered.

I said I hadn't decided yet.

“They have at least 157 different sandwiches here,” she said, pointing to a stack of menus.

“My husband liked the 37,” she added.

I checked the menu: roast beef with fig jam, Parmesan cheese, hot peppers, tomatoes and other ingredients. I decided to try one.

Having lost a husband myself, I asked the woman out of sympathy when her husband had died.

“No, he's fine,” she said. “He just doesn't like the 37 anymore.”

–Martin Goldensohn

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Illustrations by Agnes Lee