It started icing on my way home from the gym this evening. A little earlier than expected, this icing business. I put my hood over my double-touked head. I wear two hats after I work out, mainly because my head is still a little damp with sweat. The underneath hat serves the dual purpose of keeping my head warmer at the same time that it protects the top-most hat from getting smelly. By the way, they aren't really touks, these hats I wear. They're just your normal everyday winter hats that fit snugly over your head and ears, but I like to call them touks. It's a thorw-back to my Bob and Doug McKenzie, Great White North days . . . eh?

So there I am, walking in this slushy, slippery stuff and I'm thinking, should I take the 42 bus tonight? I'm thinking, should I take the 42, 'cuz it would position me closer to my apartment at the other end and less walking would be good on a night like tonight. I'm thinking, if I take the Metro, which I've been doing lately, then I'll have to walk further. And my shoes are slipping, slipping. A taxi honks its horn. I keep walking. Some people are walking closer to the buildings to avoid this crunchy ice. Sure the bus might drop me closer, but I might be waiting for it longer. Last week I waited 35 minutes for it. So I get to the Metro entrance and I'm thinking that the train just seems more appealing than the bus. I can smell the DC underground, and it's pleasant and comforting. And that's strange, isn't it, that the smell of the Metro tunnels triggers these feelings in me? So I'm riding the escalator down and taking out my wallet to pull out my Metro card, and it's quiet, for the Metro, and there's a woman in a black overcoat in front of me reading a newspaper as we descend.

Keep in mind, I could have taken a different route. I could have gone a different direction. I could have taken the bus. These aren't just choices. These are life directions. Sounds extreme, doesn't it?

I sit on the cold, stone bench and wait for the train. Blinking lights in the floor signify an arrival. The air becomes static with wind and noise and anticipation, and there's a deep whirling rush that gets louder. The train stops far short of where I'm standing and I have to walk a ways to board the first car. I push my way into the car, grab the rail in the ceiling and wait. This was definitely a better decision. Two stops and I'll be in Adams Morgan. I might still be waiting on the 42 if I had gone the other way, the way of the bus. I might be up there waiting in the cold and realizing that I just probably missed the train and . . . damnit. But thats another direction and that's not what happened.

I notice this guy out of the corner of my eye. This guy, he's next to me, and he kind of looks like Dave Matthews. I look twice. I do a double-take. No it's not Dave Matthews, but I'm thinking you know it also looks like Istvan, who I went to school with. I turn away. I want to look back, but I wait. If I say something to him, and I'm wrong, there could be an uncomfortable period where I apologize and stand next to this guy who isn't Istvan for at least another Metro stop. The train leaves Farragut North. My curiosity overrides everything else. As the train slows down at Dupont Circle I turn back to this guy and am able to get a better look. Yep. That's Istavan. Definitely. I look him in the eye.

"Istvan?"

"David." He says it like Istvan would say it. A half-smirk sort of expression. His tone is confident, almost princely. He's much taller than I remember. Istvan always had this noble quality about him. He wore it well, actually. It's hard not to have that air about you when you're a genius, which he is, certainly. He was quite serious in school. Usually spent most weekend nights studying. I know this because I often did the same thing. Not that I'm a genius or anything. I guess we just had a common work ethic.

We shake hands. He proceeds to tell me that he's just in town for business and staying in Woodley Park. This makes it all the more amazing to me that I actually ran into him in the Metro in Washington DC. That he's exiting the same exit as me. Tomorrow morning he's heading to Atlanta, and from there it's back to Hungary, where he lives. Our paths intersected at this one moment. Strange.

We chat for several minutes on the train. We get off at the same stop and ascend the grand escalator at Woodley Park station. We talk about friends from school, jobs, wives . . . things that have happened since 1998, when we last saw one another at an alumni weekend. We walk to the corner. The ice is really coming down now and it crunches loudly beneath our feet. He pauses and tells me he's going to stop in Chipotle to grab some dinner before heading back to his hotel room. I say farewell. We shake hands.

"Always a pleasure," he says.

"Good to see you. I'll see you at the ten-year reunion?" I ask.

"Yes. Definitely," and he hands me his card.

I cross the street and head toward Taft Bridge and I'm thinking if I had taken the bus I would have missed seeing Istvan, this guy I know from college. If I had gotten on the 42, Istvan would have stood next to some other guy on the Metro and it would not have been me. And I would have sat next to somebody else on the 42. And maybe I would have known that person, too. Maybe it would have been another person I know from college, but it's likely that it would not have. So I would not have had this blast of memories. No, I would just have gone home alone in the ice and snow on the 42.

But here's another weird thing. If I had not know Istvan, if I had not gone to college with Istvan, and I had gotten on the Metro, which there's no reason to think I wouldn't have, then I would have just been standing next to a stranger on the Metro, not this guy I know as Istvan. We might have nodded at one another as a polite social courtesy, but most likely we would have just been two random people on the Metro standing next to one another.

But for some reasons our paths were supposed to cross in life. Me this guy from Houston, Texas and he, this guy from Hungary. Our paths were supposed to cross not once (during our 4 years of college), but a second time, on a Metro from Farragut North to Woodley Park in Washington DC, almost 8 years later.

I guess the same can be said for all the 'perfect strangers' we run into each day. For some reason our paths are meant to cross. And it's easy to call it chance, but I like to think of it as something else.

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