Are strangers really so strange?

One day I was walking with some friends...they were strangers actually... Well, one I had met once, introduced to me by my roommate, who also happened to be a complete stranger, but she's more like an old friend I haven't seen for years. The other two were complete strangers. One was a russian- a gypsy, who lived in his van and wore sequinced scarves tied around his forhead. The other is a hippie, who calls herself raven, who is a self professed rapper... who can freestyle like nobodies business... I know, because she broke out into several raps along the way.
So myself, and this new band of eclictics meander down to the georgetown art walk. It's a gorgeous fall day, and our moods are light. We stop to eat some Dim Sum, and a buttered pastry. We continue on to frolic through the chinese market drooling over the delecious foods, trying to work out what some of the foods where, and petting the massively disugsting cucumber fish living in a massive tank... I then get to witness my first episode of Ravens rapping talents unfold, right there in the chinese market. I desperately try to hide the fact that I am actually quite shy and rather polite due to my southern christian upbringing. Yet I am not one to stifle any artistic expression, even if it is very loud, in public, and might be hurting someone elses feelings... So I stand and observe as this wonderful hippie chic preaches to the crowd about sustainable fishing, greenpeace, and love and kindness to all... even to the big slugs in the fish tank... right on sister... I stand awkwardly extremely jealous that I can not jump in, providing some sort of beat boxing at least.... ah who I am I kidding... I am me... and she is she, and I am happy we are friends/strangers.
We then make it down to the beginning of the art walk. The warehouse stands bleak and alone dressed with broken windows and chipped Brick. It's delapidated rooms have been taken over by artists, turning its darkness into action, and it's gloom into passion. what was once deserted and left to waste is now alive with color and ideas moving the stagnent energy, and stirring up old tales long embedded into the bare walls and rusty pipes. As we walk through I allow the expession of each piece to take me on each artist's emotional journey... from Bright Canvases portraying the pull of the Moon and the healing attributes of the Sun, to the use of tangled barbwire, peering into dark faraway places. One artist painted faeries. She said that the faeries appeared to her as they played games around her studio... tricking her, and turning things over, spilling paint... not to mess her up, just to give her a new perspective... delightful I thought. I too wanted to play in her studio tipping over paint cans, and smearing them all over the walls to see what new perspectives I could come up with.... but i didn't, as I am not so mysterious as a faerie... and would have to deal with the consequences of ruining a legit studio. Faeries get away with everything, Humans nothing. Instead I simply said... "Love your work, thank you for sharing."
We stumble into a side room, nothing formal or labled. Just a man sitting at a lone desk in a dark room, working on a man of wire. He has 4 or 5 small pieces hung. Incredibly detailed incredibly wrenching and chaotic pieces. Yet the man who produced these immensely painful images, sits there... calmly. All thoughts are tucked away from the average mans stare. He offers us a can of Beer, and we all except, thank him, and sit on the cold wooden floor at the feet of his workshop desk. We don't know what to say, nor was there any need to say anything. The work said it all, and his solemn glare and steady hands reaffirmed our questions. He finally mutters "got to drink this beer cold or it tastes like shit." we all nod, make remarks about cold american beer, and fall silent again. Beers are finished, we are cold, and we say our farewells. I praised his work and shook his hand, he keeps my hand for what seemed like an hour, and looked deep into my eyes. He had soft blue eyes and a orange beard, with soft warm hands. which i thought strange, since he worked with wire, and drank cold beer in a cold warehouse room. He had a profound sadness about him, the sadness of the world, of it's future and it's past. Yet he seemed to be completely at peace. He reminded me of an old tree. A tree that has witnessed many wars, many storms, and many deaths. Yet remains kind and generous, providing everyday through out his long life... rooted. solid. wise. I will always remember that man who shook my hand for a very long time.
We leave that room, and come across A great Big Space with Japanese Lanterns and Screens, and Old trunks, and Rugs, and Pottery... and Kimonos.
Everything is stunning, delicate, intricate, ancient. I am mesmorized by everything I see. But above all, the Kimonos. The satin flowing satin robes, oh so delicately painted. Ohhh sigh. Must try one on.
So the Electronic DJ, the Russian Gypsy, the Raven Rappper, and myself pile into the Kimono dressing room area. Raven has already picked her Kimono out. It's beautiful, it's delicate, and it's authentic. While the japanese ladies flutter around Raven dressing her like a japenese princess, I go on a search for my Kimono. The Gypsy, says in his thick russian accent "Emily, Come Eeer.... Let me look at your eyes" I go over to him and he pulls me dramatically towards him with both hands on my waist and touches my nose with his.. "Ah yesss, Blue. Eeer... this is yours. YOu must put it on." So I slip the robe on and look in the mirror, and I do, in fact feel like a goddess. He comments with an all knowing gaze in my direction "See eets Blue, Like your Eyes." Meanwhile Raven is decked out with all the accessories that go with a Kimono, and she is rapping out how beautiful it makes her feel although she has always felt she had more of a muscaline engery. Of course the ladies love her, and as we both gluide out of the Japanese Antiques Art show wearing our Kimonos they enthusiastically wave us goodbye standing shoulder to shoulder in a line as our gentlemen friends follow behind. I promised myself right then and there, If I am ever nominated for an oscar, I will wear my Kimono on the red carpet. Raven shook hands with me. and so it is.

All I can think is- how long does a stranger remain a stranger. Does a stranger become an acquaintance after a handshake? Do they become friends after a drink? How about a smile, a shared joke, or a connection. I understand the definitions of friend and Stranger. But I suppose, that we are not all so strange from one another. Maybe we are more connected then people care to admit. Or are we as Rilke states "unutterably alone" disconnected beings floating aimlessly about. Therefore, remaining strange forever...