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From Maria Trimarchi, Assistant Editor — Community: "You live in Williamstown? Again?" That's a question I hear too many times. You see, I grew up in Williamstown, so what the people who ask me this mean is, how can I live in the same small town in which I grew up — isn't that too familiar? Perhaps some of the faces are familiar — like seeing an ex-boyfriend in Dunkin' Donuts and my sixth grade social studies teacher in the bank — but what people don't seem to understand is that I run into people I know almost everywhere I go, so familiar faces in Williamstown are nothing for me to get concerned about. 
For example, just this past weekend I went to visit some friends in Boston. (I try to get out of
Williamstown very often, because, after all, I did spend my
formative years here.) Before moving back to Williamstown, I was living in
New York, and I haven't been to Boston in about three years. Furthermore, I
have been to only one liquor store in Boston — Blanchard's, and I think
it's actually in Allston. Anyway, I revisited Blanchard's this weekend,
which I found to be kind of strange since it's not like Boston has such a
shortage of places to buy alcohol that it's imperative to frequent the same
store.
So, there I am in Boston, in the parking lot of Blanchard's. I look around; this all seems like a bad case of deja vu. We go into the store, looking for some merriment, and I pass by the beer coolers and head straight toward the wicked good substances, like gin, rum, and vodka. I'm talking to one of my friends, and I'm not paying much attention to where I am walking. Suddenly, there's a man in front of me — he's in a hurry, and he's carrying a large case of beer. I glance over at him (after all, he did just cut me off), and I turn back to my conversation. Then, it all becomes clear: that man is no stranger to me. "I swear I know that guy," I say to my friend. "Sure you do," he replies. "Okay, I'll show you," I snap back at him. I walk over to this man, who is now just standing next to the coolers. "Excuse me," I say. "But, is your name Jeff?" It turned out, yes, this was Jeff, a good friend of my high school boyfriend. I hadn't seen him since 1991, but I had to come into the one liquor store in Boston that he manages. I could go on about reuniting with Jeff, but honestly, it wasn't that exciting. The best part was the oddity of the situation, not the meeting itself. We were never that close in high school, and I had a theory that he was afraid of girls, anyway. What writing this letter has really got me thinking is: Truly, I really do run into people in the strangest places.
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