Two cyclists decked out in racing gear greeted each other as we all stood waiting for our espressos at a coffeehouse in Davis Square. One told the other that he had been riding with John that morning. "Whoa, dude," said the other. "Did you keep up?" The first cyclist looked at him and said scornfully, "He's old, man." "Yeah," his friend said, "but he's Olympic old."
BARBARA CONE
Cambridge
COMMON TRACKS
Riding the Greenbush Line home, I met a man visiting from St. Louis. We chatted, and as we neared my stop, he asked my name. I told him, and immediately his face lit up with a big smile, and he gave me an enormous hug. He pulled out his driver's license to show me that he has the same last name. What makes this noteworthy is that I am white and he is black. Normally we might not imagine ourselves as family, though of course it's possible. Both of our great-grandfathers emigrated from Sweden; mine went to Boston and his went to Jamaica. Who knows? We could be distant cousins, reunited by chance on the commuter rail.
JUSTINE HANSON
Hingham
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