SEE NO WEIRDNESS, HEAR NO WEIRDNESS . . .

There was a time when -- if I ever had a free chunk of hours -- I would hie myself off to a local bookstore and loiter (yes, loiter) in the cafe over a chai latte, a bottle of water, hot tea, then another bottle of water. I haven't had the opportunity to do that in a while, and I can't believe what I've been missing.

It never ceases to amaze me, the anonymity of being among strangers. There is indeed safety in numbers, even if you don't know who those numbers are. And there's a certain relaxedness that is different -- not necessarily better, but just different -- from the relaxedness that comes from being among the dearest, oldest, most loving friends in the world.

I, for example, can sit here and sniffle and blow my nose and slurp my chai, without caring that I'm bothering the person over at the next table. He, after all, is compulsively bopping his head up and down and beat-boxing softly to some unheard music ... and he's not wearing headphones. I can strew my belongings all over this wobbly table, then get up and go to the bathroom or browse books and magazines to give my legs some exercise without worrying about theft or peeking eyes. The lady over there, after all, goes on cigarette breaks every five minutes, all the while leaving her totally souped up G4 PowerBook on the table, next to her new Razr, her pink mini-iPod and her brown Gucci wallet.

The best part is definitely the conversations. No one censors themselves here. Me, I don't come with anyone, so I don't talk. But others ... dang, it's no-holds-barred, and thus hours of entertainment for yours truly. Check out the couple down the aisle discussing her sister's psychiatric problems and the medications she really should or should not be taking. Or these two ladies right next to me discussing the pros and cons of this temple or that temple, including the relative cuteness of the presiding rabbi and the ratio of single men to women. Or the dude listening to a wire-tap recording -- why would you take federal evidence out of the evidence room?! -- all the while chuckling to himself, taking notes, and alternately talking back to the stooges recorded on tape.

And then I have the distinct honour of looking up and glancing out the window, only to see a teenage girl unabashedly dancing a goofy little jig on the sidewalk in front of her friends. She suddenly and sharply reminds me of me. Me right after I hit that stage where I refused to be shy about anything anymore, where I understood that if I wanted to make a fool of myself on the sidewalk -- or rather, if I wanted to be my young and carefree self on the sidewalk -- then I could. Where a friend's smile or joke would make me so happy that all I could do is dance around, only narrowly avoiding the window and passing patrons. Those were the days.

And there are the moments when I catch eyes with someone and I just can't look away, even though social rules tell me I must after 1.8 seconds. But the girl in the jean jacket with the low-slung backpack, waiting forlornly on the curb for a ride that was supposed to come and get her eight minutes ago ... she can't be more than fifteen years old, but she has the stooped weariness of an elderly woman, and the vacant eyes of someone who has just had enough. What, I wonder, has brought her to this, standing alone on the sidewalk, looking up impatiently and a bit fearfully at every car that passes, that should be here for her? What the heck is in her bag that is so heavy as to bend her shoulders forward so? What torment does she face in school that when a gaggle of teenagers strolls by, she bows her head and turns away? So many curiosities ...

And now, simply because I can't have a conversation -- even with myself -- without somehow injecting bathroom habits into the mix, I must mention that bookstores always make me poo. So ... nature calls, and I heed.