Hartley got to Central Station nearly an hour before his train was due to leave. A lifetime in the theatre had given him a healthy sense of punctuality (守时); a lifetime of unwanted cups of coffee, constant checking of the time, yet another turn around the block before that all too often pointless, tiresome audition (试镜).

Hartley was 75— pretty fit for his age, legs holding up, memory still ticking over nicely — though the occasions for punctuality were now rather fewer. But he was a creature of habit and couldn’t change now.

He went to the restaurant, and then bought a coffee and a blueberry muffin, tired and failed to find a litter-free table. The coffee was awful, the muffin was stale — but the coffee was always awful, the muffin always stale. Hartley refused to let himself be annoyed. His visit to the city had not been without its pleasures. Lunch with an old friend, then a film—regrettably not using his own talents —had rounded out a pleasant day.

Hartley was a good actor, although the calls on his talents were now infrequent. But really, he thought draining (饮尽) his awful coffee, he’d had a reasonably good career. Something to be proud of. But he’d never had that break-through part.

He headed for his platform. Just as the train was about to pull out a man ran down the platform, jumped aboard as the door slammed shut and sank into the seat next to Hartley.

“Cutting it a bit fine”, he said.

“Indeed”, Hartley replied. “A close run thing”.

The man —fortyish, amiable looking — gave him an amused glance.

This brief exchange served as an ice-breaker and they chatted their way through the outer suburbs and into the countryside. His neighbour asked Hartley what he did — or had done — for a living.

Hartley hated telling people he was an actor. He was not ashamed of his job. Not at all, but he had long tired of reactions ranging from “what have I seen you in” to “how do you learn all those lines”.

So in situations like this he simply picked a job from a former role. Bit risky, of course. You say you’re a doctor and find yourself meeting the quizzical (疑问的) gaze of a heart surgeon. But he’d never been caught out and it was harmless enough game, Hartley felt. It amused him, and he’d given some damn good performances too.

“I’m a lawyer”, he replied. “Retired several years ago. Property law. Bit of criminal stuff”.

The train was slowing down. The man glanced out of the window.

“My station. I had you quite wrong then”.

He stood and took down his briefcase from the overhead rack.

“Yes, I’d have said you were an actor. The voice especially. Still, lawyers are actors in a way, don’t you think? Plenty of drama in a courtroom.”

The train drew into the station.

“I’m a film director. Choosing a leading actor at the moment. You study faces. On the train. Everywhere. Always on the lookout. Anyway, enjoyed our chat. Bye.”

One special grandmother is lending 100 years of wisdom to strangers on New York City’s upper West side. Her office attracts many New Yorkers, who wait for a chat with the woman.

Inside the office, you will find a laptop with 100-year-old grandmother Eileen Wilkinson waiting to chat. She may live across the country in Washington State, but thanks to her grandson, Mike Matthews, who is a social professor at New York University, she is now sharing words of wisdom for a chat.

“You can be anything you want, ” Eileen said. “Don’t complain about anything. You can do something about it.”

Over the past three months, hundreds of people have stopped by, chatting with Eileen as if they were old friends. “She completely gets a kick out of meeting New Yorkers because they are so open about their lives, ” said Matthews.

A music student asked for advice on a performance. Others were curious about life in 1917.

One boy said he was already planning his next visit. “She is so wise and energetic,” he said. “And she really doesn't look 100 years old. She looks as if she was in her early late 80s.”

Eileen spent most of her life as a homemaker and mother. She said truly listening gave her advice-giving ability and she was honest.

Eileen hosts online chats and has two accounts of the social media. “It works both ways because I get great joy talking to them, ” she said. Eileen isn't slowing down any time soon, bringing new meaning to the saying, “The road to your grandma’s house is never long.” She said the secret to her long life was living a good life.

I’m a grandma in my 60s. In the spring of 2020, like the rest of the world, I spent a lot of time staring at a screen and that was when I first got into the YouTube world. I discovered that onscreen offerings were truly endless. From one YouTuber I learned how to plant my own vegetable garden. Someone else shared poetry from Robert Frost, wise sayings from Confucius, and a smattering (一知半解) of other philosophical viewpoints, all of which helped me through some dark days. Down the rabbit hole I went, scrolling for hours and hours, watching other people living their lives and giving me advice on how to live mine.

As the months rolled by, YouTube turned my attention away from the hard reality of what was going on in the world. I subscribed to several channels and waited anxiously for new weekly offerings. I watched people reading poetry or painting by streams or looking out windows into snowy landscapes. I found all this calming. Such lovely scenery, such beautiful background music, such pretty clothes they were wearing!

At some point though, I got upset by these artistic and seemingly perfect lives. Who is filming them? I wondered. Do they rehearse or just act on the spot? Isn’t it cold, stepping through snowbanks in dresses? The questions kept bothering me while forcing comparisons to my own somewhat more ordinary existence. I wanted to walk in a flowing dress through hilly green field filled with wildflowers! Instead, I was marching through my neighborhood’s city streets in mom jeans.

In a moment of insight, I realized that I had a full and happy life, which although it wouldn’t win awards for perfection onscreen, suited me perfectly. I put my phone away and started paying attention to my own life instead of watching other people live theirs. I still like checking in once in a while. YouTube can be a rich source of entertainment and inspiration, but I’ve limited my exposure. I am content with the knowledge that my addiction to life onscreen has been replaced by life itself.