Not long ago I was attending a cultural festival that was in an neighborhood unfamiliar to me, and frankly, a bit outside of my comfort zone. As I waited in front of a pawnshop for the trusty Metro Bus to take me back to the rail station, I opened up the book that was in my bag and began to read.

Absorbed in the history of Marie Antoinette, I noticed that a man was approaching me. He had exited from a vehicle that was now parked in front of the pawnshop so I didn’t think that he was coming to wait for the bus, which immediately caused my “single female in a strange neighborhood instincts” to heighten.

As I prepared myself to fight or flee if the need arose (thinking all along that at least I was reading a heavy book) my instincts were proven wrong. He stopped short of me and commented that it was nice to see someone reading a book in the neighborhood, and warned me not to get too involved in the text. He chuckled and said that he has missed many buses that way!

I thanked him for the “warning” and wished him a good day. Just goes to prove, you really can’t judge a book by its cover.