The beauty of perfect strangers

October 2025, I set out on a somewhat-impromptu road trip. After puzzling through various ways I could transport marketing materials to the Fulbright conference in Miami, I decided to drive. I gave myself three days to reach Miami, three days there, and then ten days for the leisurely trip back to Gettysburg.

The first thirty minutes of that journey took me through Catoctin Mountain Park (National Park Service), always relaxing, always breathtaking. In the hectic of our days, we can enjoy the labor of FDR’s Civilian Conservation Corps and the Works Progress Administration, as they built modest cabins and created trails in the North Maryland wilderness.

Once I emerged on the other side of that mountain, I faced two days of difficult driving. Constant rain—downpours—sheets of rain that restricted visibility. Eighteen-wheelers whizzed by at 70 mph. In the rain. A white-knuckle, high-stress trek.

After a miserable first night in a hotel that had not fully disclosed the extent of ongoing construction, I nearly skipped the second night hotel. Perhaps it would make more sense to have a single second, grueling day to Miami? Then a full day to recover?

Exhaustion convinced me to abandon that alternate plan. I took the exit for Jekyll Island, Georgia.

Jekyll Island had been my third choice, after friends Gwen and Clare told me about barrier islands they had enjoyed in their travels. Their favorites were too far north for my route, so I’d settled on Jekyll Island. Its Wikipedia article sounded like it would be small enough to explore before leaving the next morning. Still, I had low expectations as I headed east on GA-17, bound for the causeway.

The first nice surprise came when I found the Hampton hotel I’d booked. This was no cookie cutter Hampton. It reminded me of the Hampton in Lake Placid, New York, more of a resort than a mid-range hotel. Its staff reflected that same dedication to resort ambience. I felt a weight lifted from my shoulders the second I entered the lobby.

After stretching out for fifteen minutes or so—balcony door open all the way to savor the breeze—I set out for the beach. It’s a five minute stroll on a wooden boardwalk, through dense forest.About halfway there, I bumped into a pleasant gentleman waiting on his wife. She was a few minutes behind him. We struck up a conversation. Turned out they were from Chattanooga, which was a stop on my trip home. He said they liked to spend a week or two every autumn at Jekyll Island, had been making this their vacation spot for years.

When I asked what he thought the best restaurant on the island was, he didn’t hesitate: Zachry’s Riverhouse! We chatted a bit about Zachry’s best dishes, when to go, where to sit. His wife still hadn’t caught up with him, so somehow the conversation drifted to politics. Not current politics, but Jimmy Carter, George H.W. Bush, Bill Clinton, Barack Obama. I still don’t know whether David (that’s his name) was Democrat or Republican. We focused on the reasons we liked those politicians, the shared viewpoints that drew us together as a nation.

“Look for Carol and me at breakfast tomorrow,” David said as his wife came into view. “Oh, and here’s something to remember Chattanooga by.” He reached into his pocket and fished out a sand dollar. With instructions to ‘let it dry out so it will keep longer,’ he helped Carol down the stairs where we’d been talking.

I ambled to the beach, surprised by the serenity, the magical quiet. No one for miles around. Sun on skin, the faintest of breezes, crashing of waves. There’s nothing like it. I found a spot in a nook of that boardwalk, closed my eyes, and exhaled.

After ten or so minutes, an older couple wandered by, not talking much. They ventured out to water’s edge, away from the boardwalk. The woman soon took up a seat near me while her husband stayed by the water.

We sat in silence, almost an awkward silence, especially following the pleasant chat with David. Finally, I asked if they had just arrived. She nodded, looked down the beach towards her husband. More silence.

Eventually she said that her husband’s son had only recently died. She had met her husband—nodding to the man on the beach—after the death of her first husband. He—again nodding to the man on the beach—had helped her through that deep, painful grief. “Now it’s my turn to give back to him, to give him space to grieve.”

We didn’t talk much. I did learn their names, Larry and Caroline. Quiet people. Modest. Self-effacing. Grieving. All she needed from me was to sit there without talking and share her grief as she shared her husband’s.

As the sun began to sink and the ocean was transformed from blue to gold, I took my leave.

Before heading to Zachry’s willy nilly, I checked them out on Yelp. A prominent review stated that Zachry’s flew the Confederate flag and was a hangout for MAGA. Concerned, I called the restaurant to ask. An exasperated voice stated firmly, “No! We do not fly the Confederate flag!”

I can only think that a competitor posted that spiteful review. The U.S. flag was proudly waving from the front porch of that unpretentious eatery. There were no empty tables on the porch (David’s recommendation), so I took a seat inside. The café was packed like sardines, noisy, boisterous, fun.

My server, Blair, took my order quickly, almost curtly. Zachry’s cooks everything fresh, so it’s anything but fast food. When it was time for key lime pie, the place had almost emptied, so Blair was less stressed. I told her about the Confederate flag review. She seemed genuinely incensed that someone had written that about her employer.

The conversation with Blair went in a remarkably unusual direction. Not knowing what to expect, I asked what her long-term goals were for life. She said she wanted to be a journalist, to get things right, since that wasn’t happening any longer. But since she didn’t have a lot of money, she was waitressing while going to community college, so she could save up for a degree from a four-year university.

It took everything in me not to cry over her goals, over her sacrifice to achieve those goals. So many trust fund babies have life handed to them on a silver platter. And here’s Blair, working, going to school, all because she’s as sickened by mainstream media as many of us are. Gen-Z, Gen-Jones, common cause. If I were rich…

But since I’m not, I simply tipped an additional $20 towards her college aspirations.

The next morning, I overslept, so did not get to breakfast with David and Carol. Nor could I explore Jekyll Island as planned.

I stopped by Zachry’s to pick up a sandwich and salad for the road. Three hours later, as I sat in Titusville, Florida, I mused over those chance encounters with people I will likely never see again. Our ships passed on a single, brilliant afternoon in a lovely place.

That, perhaps, is the beauty of these encounters with perfect strangers. We are granted a glimpse into the United States that still exists, a country where there’s still openness, there’s still the happy happenstance of sparkling moments here and there. Where we can still find flashes of pure joy, not to be replicated, but forever engraved on our souls.

This beauty is worth fighting for. It’s worth every effort to preserve.

Note about Titusville, Florida

A brief comment about Titusville: I stopped at this town because its name sounded familiar. I couldn’t place why until I exited. The town formed part of the aerospace complex around Cape Canaveral during the heady days of the space shuttle.

Once that program ended, Titusville spiraled downhill quickly. After Hurricane Irma roared through in 2017, it hammered a second nail into its coffin. Floridians didn’t rebuild much in Titusville after Irma. I bought a cup of coffee and a pink drink from Starbucks (mainly because I badly needed to find a restroom!). It was filthy.

Driving down the main drag to find a park to eat my Zachry’s sandwich and salad, I encountered one shuttered strip mall after another.

Finally, once I was back at I-95, I spied a Hampton Inn tucked off to one side, surrounded by a mixture of closed and rundown storefronts. I ate in my car, watching a bird build a nest in the Hampton’s hedges.

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