So this package shows up outside my apartment door. It's from the laundry service, it's labeled "Taussig 629" in two places, and it contains a purple flannel sheet set I have never seen before. I sigh, imagining the package sitting on a laundry room shelf for the next two years waiting to be redeemed by its mysterious owner, and take it down to the laundry service.
I was expecting the conversation to go, roughly:
Me: "This isn't mine."
Laundry guy: "But it says your name on it."
Me: "But it's not mine."
Laundry guy: "Well, where did you get it?"
Me: "It was left outside my door."
Laundry guy: "That's probably because it's got your name on it."
Me: "But I've never seen it before."
Laundry guy: "Well, what do you expect me to do with it? It's got your name on it."
Etc., ad infinitum.
But no, this is Terwilliger Plaza. The Hispanic man on the other side of the counter thought for a moment, then said, "Oh, I know whose this is. It's the woman who had your apartment before you, she's in the medical treatment center now, I'll make sure she gets it back. Thanks for bringing it down." 350 people live here, and he knew me, the woman who preceded me, where I live, where she lives now, and what her sheet set looks like.
Things like that (and the fact that the class on Socrates this morning almost didn't have a chair left for me to sit in) make me really glad I live here now.