The Real International Language

Last night, after a delicious Italian dinner of penne and red sauce, with the rockstar Felicia, I began the 12 block walk to the subway. It was dark, and the streets in the East Village were busy with people. I was walking fast, making long strides with my legs, and feeling a little flighty. Sometimes you can feel fine in a neighborhood and sometimes you don't want to dally. I was at 7th and 2nd, when a young woman caught me eye and began matching my pace. She said, "Excuse me!" I didn't stop, but eyed her, warily. The last time I was followed like this, someone was trying to sell me something. I didn't want to buy anything, or hear a sale's pitch, so I kept walking. But the young woman followed me for a few paces and then called to me in a German accent, "I just want to know--do you know--?" so I stopped, thinking she wanted directions. She said with such an urgency in her face, with sweat beading above her lip, "I just want to know where you buy tampons in America."

Empathy flooded me. I immediately told her that drugstores like CVS will have them. Then I noticed a corner market, and pointed it out to her, suggesting that sometimes they'll have a box of them near the counter. She thanked me and we parted ways, but I wished I had gone with her or helped find another store if that one didn't work out.

I remember all too well, ten years ago, banging on a dispenser that had eaten my change, in the women's bathroom at the MoMA. I was half laughing, half crying in panic, when I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned around to find a Japanese woman, who didn't speak a word of English, holding two pads. I remember the relief and the gratitude in that moment. I also remember being struck that even though we didn't speak the same language we understood each other perfectly.