I’m always running out of paper. Today I’m on the brink. I’m on a train in Munich. I just landed, my first day back in Germany. So I can continue drawing people, a kind passenger gives me a dozen more sheets. A small miracle. I can’t ask for more than that.

I draw a crying little girl who soon becomes a smiling little girl. I draw her sister, her dad, her uncle, her mom, and basically the whole family. I draw a Frenchman. I draw a German woman who lives in England. We get a good conversation going, half the train car taking part. A real conversation. I like curious people: they ask good questions. We talk about learning languages. I mention how wonderful it is to practice with native speakers so easily, when I can start a conversation through a portrait. German, Spanish, and Japanese especially, I mention, since it’s so hard for me to find. Not thirty seconds later does a young Asian woman board the train, and grab a seat directly opposite me. I had already drawn everyone else on the train, so of course, my two hands start to drawing her picture now. She watches her form start to take shape on the page: first her dark hair, parting at the front, falling at the temples. Then eyebrows, wide eyes looking, and slowly, a smile forms from a thousand pencil strokes. I ask her name in German: “Wie heißt du?” “Yumiko,” she replies. Yumiko? A Japanese name! What a coincidence! Immediately I break into what little Japanese I know. Yumiko, the stranger on the train, is instantly surprised. Here is an American on a German train drawing her portrait with both hands, while speaking (broken) Japanese!

I have a very small Japanese vocabulary. I know a few stock phrases. I can build new sentences with a few sentence types in my tool box, and the words demo (although), dakara (therefore), and to (and) go a really long way to me getting the most out of what I have. That’s a long way to say: you have to be very patient to speak with me in Japanese. You have to really want to communicate.

She does. We exhaust my store of stock phrases. We expand to new subjects. We speak of travelling. We speak of music (I’m a big fan of Japanese music, so that’s always a go-to topic for me). We speak of friends and school. When I don’t know a word, we search and find an English word we know in common. When we can’t find one of those, we find a German one. Even when all words fail us, we push forward to understand each other, without them. When words and phrases can’t be recalled, even the silence holds meaning. We just smile, and enjoy being two people on a train, honestly enjoying each other’s presence. It isn’t so much that we enjoy what we’re communicating. It’s that we enjoy communicating. It’s a moment of real, strong, deep connection—and plenty of grins.

My stop passes. I do not care. The next stop, too, comes and goes. I have a day-ticket, so twenty minutes out of my way is just twenty minutes more time to share. Twenty minutes more connection. Twenty more minutes to learn from this person in front of me. It doesn’t feel like she’s Japanese or I’m American or like we’re meeting in Germany. She could be from Lebanon or Italy or Brazil or Iceland and it would change nothing. We’re just there. No assumptions, no judgements. It’s…a ‘click.’ I’ve seen it a few times before. Once every two-hundred, three-hundred, portraits or so. These moments are always fleeting, I’ve found, so I want to savor this one while it lasts. We always part ways. I hardly ever hear from these people again. But we are both left with a memory, the knowledge that two human beings, perhaps from different countries, religions, languages, can sit down together and honestly want to learn from each other. That they can honestly enjoy each other’s presence. A small miracle, us meeting on a train. I can’t ask for more than that.

Sometimes there’s things you just do. I’m sitting on a train that isn’t moving. Work on the tracks. Half an hour delay. I have a small stack of paper with me. I really should save it for later, but there’s a kid sitting across from me. I pull out one white sheet and two pencils, and do what I always do. I don’t even have to think about it. It isn’t even a decision.

​“Are you drawing me?” Yes, I am. We trade names. We get a conversation going. He has a story to tell, I can see it in his eyes. He just graduated from high school. And he did it his way.

He stays with his aunt. She moves a lot. He went to five or six different elementary schools, three or four middle schools, and even a few more high schools. His mom didn’t have papers. When she went down to Mexico to visit his dad she wasn’t allowed back up. That was maybe…ten years ago. So now he’s only with his aunt. But there was a moment of stability in high school: for maybe two years he got to have friends. He got to know people well. He joined the track team. He was involved in school clubs and activities. And he loved it. It ended eventually. Senior year his aunt told him to say goodbye to his friends. They were moving. Their new home would be an hour away. He would have to change schools again.

Sometimes there’s things you just do. Change schools? He doesn’t even have to think about it. It isn’t even a decision. Yes, he has to move with his family. No, he isn’t going to change schools. For the next few weeks, he is consumed with finding ways to stay at the same school. He wants to stay with his friends. He wants to stay doing track. And yes, his school also has better college prep programs. He decides he’ll take this very same train every day. It’s a long ride. He has to wake up at 5:30 every morning to get to school in time. But there’s a hitch: his aunt won’t pay for the train tickets.

He makes a budget. He sells chips and soda to other students for their lunch time, skipping his. He studies on the bus. He sleeps on the long distance train. He attends classes. He helps out his uncle with a food stand after school to help with the train tickets. He studies on the train ride back. He arrives home and doesn’t even eat. He doesn’t even say ten words to his aunt. He just collapses into bed, exhausted, and before he even pulls the covers over, he’s already fast asleep. Sometimes there’s things you just do. You don’t even have to think about them.

This kid, he’s very sincere. I don’t quite understand what was so important about staying. But I know it was important to him. He‘s getting hardly any sleep during this time. He doesn’t like skipping lunch. But he does what he feels he has to. He doesn’t even have to think about it. It isn’t even a decision.
His track coach notices he’s coming to practice already worn out. “What’s going on?”

The kid explains everything to the coach, from the beginning. “Wow. You’ve been giving yourself so much hell just so you can stay at this school?” Yes. The kid gets called to the principal’s office sometime later that week. He isn’t sure what for. Turns out the principal had heard his story from the coach. It is a crazy story. But the kid had shown how much he cared about staying. How much he was willing to sacrifice to just study his last year at this same school. She decides the school can afford to pay the Metrolink train tickets for him. No more selling chips!

He enjoyed those last few months of high school. Not at just any high school, but his high school. And he graduated, on time, his way, no matter what it took.
                *   *   * 
To be honest, I don’t remember his name. I don’t even remember what he looked like. On the train, we continue talking after his story is finished. He’s a good guy, nice personality. I learn quite a bit from him. He gets off a little more than an hour after the train started. Turns out, this was the commute he took every day his senior year. This time would be the last time before college. This time, it was really to say goodbye to his friends. Because this time he was switching schools. This time to university. It had been a hard fought year, but it was his year.

One year later I still think about him. I still remember his story. And it never fails to inspire me. I’m writing it all down now, because I hope it can inspire you too.

The Boy

Mine is always the first train stop. I get on the train in a tiny town station, a few kilometers from where I live. There’s shelter from the rain; a café; a Turkish fast food place; an automated tobacco shop; a ticket machine. There’s a woman with short hair and glasses I accidentally drew twice. She prefers to stand to the end of the station, away from the benches. There’s a Black high schooler who always smiles when he sees me. He was one of the first I drew at this station, a few weeks ago. He points me out to his friends. And there’s kids, too, milling about the station. One kid I always see, is this boy.

​Mine is always the first stop. I get on the train, find a seat. I search for a place from which I can see at least two people. One stop: nine minutes. That’s time for two—hmm…maybe three—portraits. So I always have to choose. He’s seen me work before, this boy. It lights up his eyes. He’s with his sister this time. And this time the train is emptier. The train has more free seats, so he finds one right next to me. I draw a school girl across from us. The boy studies my hands. He looks up at the girl I’m drawing, then down at the paper, then at the girl again. Four minutes, done. I hand her her portrait. She smiles. Nine minutes, one stop—there’s time for one more. The boy takes his chance. He leans forward, swallows. This is it, it won’t come again. “Can you draw me next?” Yes. I’m glad he asks. This is the last week I’m commuting this way. I move to a new place on a different train line the following Sunday. We won’t have this chance again. I pull out another sheet of white A4 paper. He smiles like it’s Christmas. He wants to pose, but he can’t stop looking at my hands. He can’t stop looking at how his portrait is developing. He exchanges some excited words with his sister. Four minutes, done. After a few weeks of watching others get drawn, the boy gets his drawing. “Thank you,” he says. We trade names. He asks a few questions. I’m glad to answer them. But mine is always the first stop. I get off here.

He looks up and asks me “why?”

Why? I’ve stopped asking that question. I don’t know why. Just a habit I have. 4.700 crisp white sheets of muscle memory. These hands just move.

Why? Just the boredom. Riding alone without a book. Seeing new patterns in nostrils and eyebrow ridges, the slopes in the temples, the curve of an inner-earlobe, the curious and never ending varieties of dimples in a smile.

Why? Just the loneliness. We exist in the reflections of others. I exist in other’s memories. I disappear into the void when there is no one to verify my presence. So I want everyone to know me.
Why? Because more than that, I want to know everyone. There are so many countless human beings in this world. So many countless living, breathing, laughing, smiling, sharing, crying, hoping humans around me. I want to know them.

So much of life is a mystery to me. So much of life is a gift, a string of beautiful moments, each gone in a flash. And you will never find that moment again. Never. It passes right before you, so quickly. Hold your eyes open that you don’t miss it. Enjoy it when it comes. Why? Why not? Why risk losing the moment to a question?

​Why? Because I had no way of knowing that today he failed his driving test for the second time. That to sign up for another would cost him over one hundred Euros. That he still had a long commute home. That it was an April day that was pouring and cold and grey and overcast. That I had brought one simple good thing into his day. A little bit of light in a day that just wasn’t going his way. And so here we are: he, a downcast human sitting across from me in a blue plastic chair on a bus in the outskirts of Berlin. I, a traveler with a strange habit. A simple white piece of paper with pencil scratches arranged to be his reflection passed from my hands to his. He looks up and asks me “Why? Why did you draw me?”…Why? I’ve stopped asking that question. I don’t know why.

In college I decided to draw every student in my dorm. It was a huge project, but it sent me in a direction I couldn’t have predicted. I met so many surprising people. So many talented people. And I formed so many great memories. My dorm, the “I House” at UC Berkeley, had six-hundred students from eighty countries. I was lucky to have lived there. But not everyone can.

I meet a lot of people through drawing. Some of them don’t leave a mark in my mind. Others, I think about years later. It could be a ten minute encounter, but it can make a permanent memory for me. Drawing portraits with both hands has been a big factor in the way I meet new people. I sometimes use it as a crutch—when at a party where I don’t know anyone; when I’m depressed and want someone to talk to; when I need a small favor—but I’ve had so many conversations and connections because of it.

I’ve been meaning to get around to writing about a few of these encounters on my website. I just started a new job, so they won’t come out too frequently. I plan to write a few per month. I usually don’t remember the names of the people I meet through drawing, so everyone I write about is anonymous. That’s a good thing, because not everyone can live in an incredible dorm. Not everyone can live at the International House. But I want everyone reading to understand that decent, nice, even awesome people live everywhere around you. That you can’t tell them apart by their eyebrows or hairstyle. They don’t have a dress code. They don’t look unique. They look just like you and me. And they may be sitting right next to you on your morning commute.

​I called my first portrait series The People You Meet at I House. But I’m leaving this one open ended. I don’t plan to ever be finished with this series. I’m at 4,628 portraits and counting. So I hope you enjoy reading a few stories of The People You Meet...

   I still remember those eyes. I’ve drawn a lot of people. A lot of eyes. But this girl was especially different. She was intensely curious when she saw me going around the packed waiting room, every seat full, those eyes following me as I drew each person. She listened closely as I talked to the other patients, eyebrows furrowed, leaning as far as she could without leaving her chair. She wore a mask, the kind you see in Beijing. The kind that makes you think contagious air-borne disease, or dangerous air pollution. Her nose, mouth, chin, all were covered. Others in the room had bruises, limbs in casts, and illnesses I couldn't see. But she had a mask. I’ve never drawn someone with a mask before her. I never have since.

I put aside my fear of contracting SARS long enough to ask her if she also wanted to be drawn. She was too shy at first, and waited for me to draw a few others before she finally said yes. We got a good conversation going. The mask helped her breathe, she said. She had lots of questions. Not the usual ones. Not the “How did you learn how to draw with both hands?”…”Are you ambidextreeous? (sic)”…” Do you do this full time?” not that kind. She had heard me answer those with other patients. Instead, she asked real questions. Questions that don’t see me as a freak of nature, but as an honestly interesting person. She wasn't from that area, if I remember correctly. She was a bit older than I. She spoke with hints of a southern accent. She was a big fan of German rap music. She was really interested in foreign countries, their histories, their music, cultures, and peoples, but had never left her own.  She was a spring of curiosity. A spring of interest and attachment to moments, hidden behind a mask. I remember her eyebrows: thick and black. I remember her eyes: clear and observant. And her will: to go places, far away; to learn things school would never teach her; to realize that a moment with a stranger could be something more than that.

Some patients that day had been waiting for care for five hours. She had been one of the first arrivals that day, and still hadn’t been helped by the time I left the room. I drew at least fifteen people there. I had already drawn a dozen more in another waiting room. My hands grew tired, but I drew some more even after that. Like always, I left each person their portrait to keep. She has hers with her, wherever she is now. So I don't know anymore know what she looked like, this girl with the mask. I don’t even remember her name. Still, I remember those eyes. I remember the eyebrows. The baseball cap, the long black hair, the slim nose. I've drawn thousands of people's portraits now. But this one girl sticks out in my mind: #3,978, the girl with the mask.

I may be a bit off, but if I remember correctly, this girl was portrait #3,978.