365 Days Of Love. Day 67

Until a few years ago, my grandparents owned a restaurant in our hometown. The first time I worked there, when I was 14, I often handed a coke to someone who insisted on drinking pepsi or was oblivious to the many varieties of ways an egg can be cooked. I felt uncomfortable and insecure at work and I approached the people I worked with fearfully. After a couple years of faulty serving, I decided that perhaps I’d be suited for a different job. So, throughout high school, I earned spending money babysitting and holding part-time jobs at local businesses. It wasn’t until the summer before my senior year of college that I returned to my grandpa’s restaurant to work.

At the time, I had bounced around to four different colleges and lived in 5 cities and had gathered that humanity was incredibly kind. So, as a 21-year old, I lacked the fearfulness that staggered my initial serving experience. The second time around, I approached the people who entered the restaurant eagerly, excited to hear stories of their travels. My new approach proved decidedly rewarding.

I met a group of women from Washington State who left me with their address and telephone number and a invite to stay at their house if I was able to swing a trip to the Vancouver Olympics I referenced in our quick conversations.

An older man recited Chaucer to me in Old English.

This wonderful elderly woman, who ordered the exact same thing every time she dined with us, invited me to accompany her children when they came to visit.

Two younger boys, about my age, were en route from London to California and nearly out of money. I bought their breakfast and they insisted I take 10 dollars to buy myself a beer after work. Their carefree story inspired me.

Another group of hippy looking men I met were English teachers. Although promising that they were highly professional during the school year, they hungoverly sauntered into the restaurant, unshaven and adorned in burlap sacks converted to sweaters. I insisted on serving them because unknown to some, I have my own burlap sweater. We talked about Hemingway and Walt Whitman and concepts of Literature. It was if I was afforded a college-level literary discussion, I felt learned and enlightened.

That summer created slews of stories., told to me by weary travelers or hometown regulars. That summer taught me something too, though. That summer taught me that humanity wants to be heard. Stories aren’t meant to be secrets, kindness isn’t reserved only for those in a tight-knit circle.

That summer, at my grandpa’s restaurant, I learned that loving is trusting humanity and then, listening.