Neighborly

Dear Diary:

I ran into a neighbor on my way out for another blind date. I was new to the building, so I was glad when she beckoned me into the elevator. I introduced myself as Kate, the name my recently deceased grandmother had called me.

I learned that she was Hungarian and that she had lived in New York for several decades. She described how she and her sister had helped their mother with her vineyard in Hungary, walking several miles every morning to get there.

I told her I had spent time living near the border between Slovakia and Hungary, and my mind wandered back to that place. I could smell the way the air felt my first summer there: the grassy, muddy scent of the Danube mixed with the smell of fresh ice cream from all the stands open for the season.

We chatted until I realized that I was late.

“Who are you going to meet?” Her eyes smiled mischievously.

I chuckled. A friend, I said. Her expression, the same one my grandmother would have had, told me she knew I was lying.