Last week, I visited a cemetery.  It was my second cemetery in two days—because that’s where you go to meet new people.

My passion for cemeteries began many summers ago alongside my grandmother with a penchant for genealogy.  I wasn’t here to locate a long-lost family grave, though.  I was here for a nature walk in Boston with a friend, enjoying the crisp autumn morning and vibrant fall colors.  Because this cemetery was no ordinary cemetery—it’s closer to a botanical garden thanks to its lovely old trees, sculptures, and flowers.

I was striking out toward another tree with jewel-tone foliage when my friend commented, “Look, there’s someone painting over there.”

I turned back, and it took me a second before I spotted what she had observed.  In a grassy alcove a few yards off the path, she was right, there was a painter.  His gray hair was tied back in a ponytail, he wore a faded baseball cap, and he was intently focused on a small canvas on the easel in front of him, capturing the splashes of landscape color with his palette knife.

Even from where I stood, the painting captivated me.  I could tell it was the vibrant, Impressionistic style I’m always drawn to.  I could feel its magnetic pull, calling me.  I wanted to get a picture of it, but what to do?  I wasn’t sure if he would let me.  Was he perhaps a professional with a website I could browse later?  Did he sell art prints or postcards?

Then, my memory flashed back to another encounter with a stranger on the cliffs of La Jolla, where, while I was busy pondering which art print or jigsaw puzzle to buy from a local vendor, the friend I was with somehow ended up entangled in a lengthy conversation with a creepy old guy hanging out at the artist’s tent—she even had the stranger’s little white dog in her arms by the time I turned around after only having my back turned for a few seconds.

You know how all the fairy tales warn you about the dangers of leaving the path and talking to strangers?  I hesitated.  I took one step forward, into the soft grass, then back onto the pavement, then forward again—this time having made up my mind as I headed toward the stranger, my friend trailing behind me (and probably wondering what I was doing).

“Hi, may I take a picture of you as you paint?” I asked as I approached.

“Sure!” he exclaimed, turning with some enthusiasm.

I made a passing remark about what a beautiful day it was and how much I liked his painting as I snapped a few shots, which I hoped would be enough for me to zoom in on later and see more of the painting—in case I wanted to recreate it myself later.

The artist, I quickly learned, defied big city Northerner stereotypes.  Not only was he not grumpy that I’d interrupted his painting, but I think he was excited to have someone to talk to because he launched into an explanation about his art project—he’ll be taking a bunch of these little paintings and using AI to create a larger piece of art with them.  And apparently, it wasn’t his first large art project.  He pointed us to his website, featuring his last project where he carved over 200 busts out of limestone rubble from a building on Boston University’s campus.

Then, we learned that he was a carpenter by trade, his ancestor built the first house in Cambridge (the Boston suburb we were in), and that he lives in Matt Damon’s old house and renovated it all himself.  He even had TV news reporters interviewing Matt Damon outside his bedroom window one time.

When we finally returned to the path, we left with more than the photo I had set out to capture.  Throw a rock in Boston, I’ve found, and you’ll hit history.  And no moment illustrated that truth better than meeting Alan, a stranger painting an autumn landscape in a cemetery.

Fairy tales warn you about the dangers of leaving the path.  And speaking with strangers.  As in those same tales, though, that’s where the true adventure often happens.