It's a small world after all

Saturday night I went to 111 Minna, a hip art gallery + bar lounge, for a Matador Travel party that raised money for CORO. There was a painter creating an interpretive painting of the city using the hot peachy colors of a dusk horizon. That movie The Neverending Story was being silently projected on the high gray wall behind the main bar -- Falcor was flying through when we arrived. The people-watching was impeccable, sassy outfits, colorful heels and men in tight(pant)s.

Just before heading home at the reasonable hour of midnight, I spot a familiar face. She was standing right next to me, speaking with a friend. I could hear her voice above the ear drum hammering band in the next room, and I knew I knew her. Camp Morehead. Yep. I remember her as a spunky 13 year old who would speak her mind and was a favorite of all the counselors. I decided life is short, and that I had to say hello. Knowing that I have an uncanny memory for faces, I tip-toed to the point. "Sorry to interrupt, but may I ask you a random, random question?" Politely, she says sure. "I'm from NC and went to Camp Morehead growing up, and I think I remember you from there..." Her face lit up and we went on to talk about where we went to college, when we came to the city and exchanged emails and numbers. Low and behold, she lives about a half mile from my apartment and we're both going to the Outside Lands Festival on Saturday.

We're planning to get coffee this week and go to a cook-out (thank goodness I found someone here that says cook-out and not bbq) together next weekend.