The sky was a cerulean blue, the clouds barely visible between the high rises that rose like waves over the hills of San Francisco. I was sitting in Portsmouth Square in the heart of Chinatown, watching the old men play chess and the wispy-haired ladies practicing tai chi. Watching the women move in synchronicity, I was reminded of my grandmother, who would get up every morning to do this ancient martial art. This park was a place I used to come as a child, and very little had changed.  I was reminiscing, watching the scene while listening to the clack-click-clack of the mahjong tiles and the din of kids in the playground. After a while, I noticed a man making his way through the crowd, until he arrived at the bench I was sitting.

"Hey there pretty lady!”

"I haven’t got a dollar.”

"Whoa, whoa, hey, hey! Now what makes you think I was gonna ask you for a dollar?”

"Because you just asked four other people for a dollar.”

"Oh. Well. You got one?”

I looked at the man in front of me. In San Francisco, if you do not live a reclusive life, if you take public transport or walk any place, you’re bound to have a conversation like this. It is so common an occurrence that you learn to accept it and develop methods for responding to it.

To give or not to give money will always be a dilemma. It’s rough, but it’s a personal choice. Everyone has an opinion, and I try not to judge. Every situation is different, and every human being complex. For the amount of alms I give out in proportion to the amount of salary I earn, it’s a wonder I haven’t tried to get a tax deduction. However, my modus operandi most of the time, after living in quite a few urban cities, is usually not of the financial kind. In all my time, I have found that one thing, and one thing only, truly bridges the distance in these circumstances: talking to people.

Being broke, being homeless, and being destitute have one thing in common – loneliness. I’ve seen it enough, known enough people and had my own lows to know this to be the case. I cannot pretend to know anything about the woman sitting on the bus next to me, nor should I pretend to know anything about the guy who asks me for a dollar. I may not be able to give him money now, but if possible, I can give him my time. If he doesn't want it, and would rather have a sandwich, well, you do what you can. Yet often, the need for human interaction is so basic that we overlook it in our race to get to our homes, our jobs or our partners. We forget that we are all tangled up in the same web and so seek solace in the things that make us secure, and rigorously avoid the things that make us uncomfortable.

"I can’t give you any money," I said. “But I’ve got some time if you want to talk.”

He smiled broadly. “Can I sit here?” he pointed.

“Sure.” I moved over. “What’s your name?” I asked, extending my hand.

He shook it. “Ray. Yours?”

“Mei-Ling. How’s it going?”

Ray shrugged. “To be honest, I’m just bored. Nice to meet ya.”

Ray had an amazing singing voice. He reeked a bit of some non-descript alcohol too, but it didn’t stop him from belting out some soulful tunes to the admiration of a few people passing by. I told him so.

"Thanks. You know, my grandmother was always singing. At home, in the kitchen. I got it from her, I think.” I could see a glint in his eye as he revisited her memory.

Here we were, two strangers sitting on a park bench in Chinatown, thinking about our grandmothers.

Ray continued to talk, and I continued to listen. A carpenter by trade, I learned how he came to be in San Francisco. He was a skilled craftsman, but in all the questions I asked, I never probed about how he ended up here on the streets. I believed that if he wanted to tell me about it, he would have. 

Weeks later walking in downtown San Francisco, a guy passed me on the sidewalk. I did a double take.  

"Hey, Ray!” I called. 

He turned. 

"Hey Mei-Ling!” He shook my hand. “How’s it going?”

We met like old friends, though we had barely shared more than fifteen minutes of our lives together. But seeing him again made me realize that the world had become a much smaller place. A little less isolated – for the both of us. Perhaps our brief encounter gave us more than a dollar ever would have.

Humanity costs nothing. The lack of it comes at much higher a price.