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Anyway, we were standing in line for food, and Clara "Opa!" Jane was really not so Opa! at the moment. She wanted to be gnawing on a whole lamb shank and the line was moving slowly. Behind us, there was another couple with a daughter slightly older than Clara Jane, who was asking why that baby was being so whiny and obnoxious. Not that she used those words, but her tone implied.

Somehow, this led to me having a conversation with the little girl's parents. We started out talking about kids, and naps. The other mom said that she was so glad when her daughter stopped taking naps. "I'm dreading that!" I said. "When she naps, I work!". Which led to her asking what I do. I dropped the name of the magazine that employs me. They fawned. The usual routine.

The conversation continued and eventually the man asked if we were native St. Louisans. I told them no, and it was almost like a wave of relief washed over all of us. "Neither are we," he said. "We're from New York originally."

"I had a feeling you weren't from here," I said, dropping my voice. "You don't have the local accent and you're both much too friendly." We all snickered and giggled.

We wound up sharing a table with them, but had trouble continuing the conversation. The music was loud, there were kids to be fed, and I got wrapped up in a conversation with the little Greek grandma sitting across from me, who was sweet enough that she might possible have been sculpted out of phyllo dough, nuts and Greek honey. When she asked if I was Greek, I refrained from saying, "No. I just have exceptionally hairy arms for a gal with my British lineage."

I did talk to the male unit of the couple, asking what brought them to St. Louis. A job, of course. B. wound up here for graduate school, and I came here because B. was here.

He mentioned that, although he and his wife have been here for 15 years, the majority of their friends are also transplants, and I nodded along empathetically. With a few exceptions, most of our friends are also transplants, or from the far reaches of the metro area.

"Yeah, apparently there's a law here that you can't be friends with someone unless you went to high school together," he said, rolling his eyes about the local custom/joke. The story goes that, when one St. Louisian is introduced to another, the first question asked is always, "What high school did you go to?. By answering that question, you can tell a person's ethnic heritage, social class, religion immediately.

We snickered a bit about this custom, and how hard it is to make friends as an "outsider" in this city. It's an old city, with many families who have lived in the same neighborhood for generations. It's not an easy place to be new. I've lived here for six years, and I often still feel new.

After we ate, we all went our seperate ways. But before we left, I saw the wife and daughter sitting at a table while the husband was in the baklava line. I fished in my purse for a piece of paper and a pen, since I've gotten out of the habit of carrying my business cards with me. I wrote my name and email address and stopped by their table on our way out.

I have a joke I stole from my friend PKB about how I'm not currently taking applications for new friends; please try again next time I make an open call for applications. I had told B. that I've been in one of those phases of late. And here I go, talking to strangers and handing out my email address. It could have been worse; I could have given her this URL, which probably would have scared her away. I just felt ... compelled.

I wrote most of this last night with a bunch of interuption. This afternoon, no sooner had I typed about how hard it is to be a non-native in this city, B. and I took Clara Jane to the park. After pushing her on the swing, we were slowly walking to our truck, loitering in front of the picnic shelter, where a Memorial Day barbeque was in full swing. The woman at the grill asked if we lived in ________________________ (the neighborhood next to ours, home to the park.). No, I said. We live a few blocks east.

"That's OK. We're having a picnic for __________________________, but you're welcome to join us."

We declined, since we were on our way to get ice cream. But it just figures. I compose a weak-kneed rant about how difficult it is to make friends in this city, and the next thing I know, strangers are inviting us to have some of their bratwursts.

Maybe our new is finally wearing off.