I was on a much-needed walk outside Boston’s Symphony Hall. It had been weeks since I last called home, and the distance between Boston and California felt bigger than usual.
Surrounded by unfamiliar routines and strangers, I felt unmoored – like a background character in someone else’s city. I needed a moment to breathe. That’s when I saw her standing alone at the crosswalk, scanning the street while clutching a lime-green tote bag.
As I crossed the street, our eyes locked. She looked at me with such directness that I reflexively smiled and waved.
Why We Wrote This
In a sweet, simple encounter helping a lost stranger find her way, our essayist discovers a central tenet of giving: The giver often gains more than the receiver.
“Hi, I don’t speak Mandarin, but how can I help?” I asked the older Chinese woman. She smiled at me as if we were family friends. “Close enough,” I imagine she thought.
She showed me a picture on her phone: the exterior of Trader Joe’s grocery store. I performed my best impression of a mime trying to give directions. Confused, she showed me the picture again. I realized my directions were getting us nowhere, fast.
“OK, I’ll take you there myself,” I said to her, gesturing for her to come along. She blinked rapidly before smiling and falling in step beside me.
Walking down Massachusetts Avenue, she said “xiè xie” every few moments. I whipped out Google Translate on my phone: “Thank you,” said the app.
She smiled. I smiled back.
I’m not sure why I was taking a stranger grocery shopping. Maybe she reminded me of my Filipino family. The family I left behind in California. Maybe it was simply that I knew I could help.
When we arrived at the store, I asked her whether she needed anything else. She scrolled to a second screenshot, this time of sourdough bread, and turned her phone toward me with an expectant look. I laughed and nodded, and she tugged me into the store.
As we entered, she smiled at me and raised her eyebrows as though I was her nephew and this was our weekly trek for groceries. It dawned on me that she was excited to be here.
We beelined for the bread stand, and she loaded up her bag with five loaves. I held her green tote in the checkout line.
The cashier looked between us. “Are you two related?”
I nodded. Easier that way.
My new auntie handed me a bag with a single loaf inside. I tried to refuse, but she insisted – pressing the bag into my hands until I accepted. The cashier, watching this exchange, smiled and let the 10-cent bag fee slide.
Saying goodbye felt bittersweet. She bear-hugged me and tried to give me more bread. I laughed and refused, for real this time.
Then came the selfies. The first one was normal. Then a second, where she motioned for me to hold up the loaf like a trophy. One more hug, and then she waved and walked away.
We never exchanged names or contact information. Besides the photos, all I had to remember her by was that loaf of bread – a small gift that felt like something much bigger.
As I carried that loaf home, I realized something had shifted. In helping her find her way, I found some grounding of my own – a reminder that kindness can tether us when we’re feeling most adrift.
And, as it turned out, even without a shared language, we understood each other just fine.
