I met two men late one night at Yonge and Dundas Square. We didn't know each other but our stories we did share. We sat for hours in the cold, warmed by our intrigue. Hearing of experiences we may never see. One of them, from Africa, is famous in his land. He spends each winter here, something most won't understand. While others flee our cold, and may swelter in their heat, he loves the polar opposites and drums to his own beat. He tells us of his wife, his daughters and grandkids, his sister and his parents, the family that's half his. Six months out of each year he leaves them all behind. He says he needs the space to empty out his mind. He loves being in Canada where he goes unrecognized. He can go where he wants without the gazing eyes. He's fluent in six languages yet he rarely ever speaks. He prefers his time alone to sit quietly and read. Every now and then he socializes in the streets. He shares his words of wisdom with the strangers that he meets. Eager to hear from others, he turns to the other man who tells us of his journeys and how he just was in Japan. He gives us a verbal tour and describes Italy and France, Germany, China, Spain, Greece, the list sure is advanced. He speaks eight languages and has lived around the world. He goes where life brings him yet still can't find a girl. Stuck living in the shadows of his older brother, he tells us how his dreams disappointed his poor mother. While his family wanted doctors, he has directing on his mind. He wants to work with Speilberg, films have always caught his eye. We continue talking, late into the night. Strangers sharing souls, discussing in delight. Finally it's time we go our separate ways. Hours passed in minutes, we could probably talk for days. We've been sitting in the rain and we notice that we're drenched. You never know what you'll learn from strangers on a bench.