Rachel, Elizabeth and Kennedy

I ask the girl sitting at the box office what they have on tonight.  She tell me that two of the shows are sold out and the other is a stand-up comedian.  She doesn't look enthusiastic and I decide to give it a miss.

'Lichtenstein's pretty cool though, huh?' she says.  She has seen the poster of an exhibition that I am carrying in a transparent bag.  'Yes', I say.  She has long dark hair.

'We're art students so we love that kind of stuff', she says.  She gestures to the girl sitting next to her whose hair is frizzy and strawberry blonde.  She has piercings.  'Yeh, I loved it', she says.  On the other side is a skinny boy with an exaggerated quiff and big black glasses.  I ask if he is an art student as well.  'I do nothing', he says.

The four of us discuss the exhibition with enthusiasm.  We talk about the progression of his work and painted versus printed media but there are other customers approaching.

Quickly, I ask my question.  Efficiently, they each give me an answer.

Shawan

'Hello', says the security guard standing by a stained glass window in a modern art museum.  She is a big black woman with short back and sides.  The top is an diagonal asymmetric fringe.  She is wearing a white shirt and black waistcoat.  'Hello', I reply.

'Where are you from?' she asks.  I tell her.  She shudders.  'That's what got me into trouble the first time', she says.  'My son's father was from Birmingham'.  I ask if it brings back bad memories.  'It just makes me wanna choke you', she says taking two steps forward.  I take two steps back.  'Sorry', I say.  'No, no', she says, 'I'm over that now'.  'I'm not from Birmingham', I say.

The tension averted, I ask my question.  'What's yours?' she asks with suspicion.  She gives me hers in exchange.  I ask where it comes from.  'My mother just made it up', she says.  'Just like my first name'.  We introduce ourselves and shake hands.  'It's nice to meet you, Richard', she says.  I go to look at the stained glass.

(An hour later we pass again in the main hall.  She puts up her hand and waves her fingers.  'Hello Richard', she says.  'Hello', I reply.)

Raouf, Alexander and Mark

Three guys are outside a bar having a cigarette.  One looks at me as I pass.  'How you doin'?'  he asks.  It is late and I haven't yet got a middle name so I seize the opportunity.

'I've got the best one', says the guy by who I was greeted.  I have to ask him to spell it.  'What kind of fake accent are you using?' he asks.  'Australian?' suggests one of his companions.  'It's British', I tell them.  'Sounds South African', says the other.  'My new year's resolution is bustin' people with fakes accents', says the middle one.  'I need to see ID', says the first guy.  'Do you know what a bloke is?'

I tell them I'm from London.  They seem satisfied.  'Well, you act like an English person and you dress like an English person so I believe you', says my middle name.  His friend offers up his as a back-up.  'In case you forget his', he says.  The third gets in on the action.

'Wait a minute', says the original.  'Are we on candid camera?'  We shake hands and wish each other well.

Charles

Accosted on the street by a man who wants to give me a massage, I pause for long enough for him to give me his spiel.  He has a big smile, tanned skin and grey hair with a moustache to match.  He is wearing opaque-rimmed sunglasses.  The lenses are only slightly tinted.

He is offering a fifty-minute massage for only thirty-nine dollars but I am in a rush.  He gives me a leaflet and I say I will think of him if I find myself tense during the week.  I ask my question.  He gives me an answer and asks for mine in return.  I tell him.  'What?  Were your parents some kind of hippies?' he asks.  'Not really', I reply.

Louisa

Watching a comedy show in the outskirts of the city the girls sitting next to me says, 'Are you alone?'  I detect a English accent.  She tells me that she prefers to think of herself as 'solo'.  Originally from Basingstoke, she is on a trip before starting work in Milton Keynes.

Taking the opportunity of companionship we go for a post-show drink in a local bar.  The barman, with Irish roots, recommends we see some jazz at his favourite nearby joint.  We do.

'This is so Chicago', she says as the saxophonist croons.  Her middle name is after her great-grandmother.

Jean

Waking up in a new city I take shelter from the rain, if not the wind, in a neighbourhood coffee shop.

'Do you think it's going to go away?' I ask the lady behind the counter.  'I think it's going to rain all day', she says.  'And it's supposed to thunderstorm this evening'.  She is large and friendly.  Around her right upper-arm is a brightly-coloured tattoo.  On her head she wears a blue-patterned bandana.  I order a coffee and a slice of apple cinnamon cake.  I sit in the window and watch the weather.

Half an hour later and it seems to be abating.  I go to pay.  She asks where I am from and what I am doing in the city.  We talk about childhood enthusiasm, baking cakes and rain.  I ask my question.  'It's after my grandmother on one side, and also on the other side', she tells me.  I say that I'll be back to try a different cake before I leave.  I go out and brave the elements.  I get wet.

Michael

It is hot and I decide that something advertised as a 'snowball' sounds appealing.  I approach the counter and am faced with a bamboozling variety of flavours.

'This is how we decide', says the man behind the counter handing me a plastic teaspoon.  Into it he pours brightly-coloured syrups which I have to taste before he reveals what they are.  I try ruby pomegranate, cucumber and melon, chocolate, sour apple and egg custard.  I chose the sour apple.  The server, who is young, wears a dark green apron over a lighter green polo-shirt.  His hair is a short buzz-cut and he has metal-rimmed glasses.  His eye-contact is slightly squiffy.

'Okay then', he says and proceeds to shave a block of ice into tiny shards.  'Hold out your hand', he says and gives me a handful of the powdered ice.  It does feel like snow.  'That's what it's like', he says.  He fills a cup with the snow and copious quantities of the viscous emerald green liquid.

Ten minutes later I pass the stall again.  'How was your snowball?' he asks.  'Very good', I reply because it was.  I ask my question.  He tells me his first name first and then his middle.  He is from a nearby state and recently moved to the city that needs ways to cool down.