It Began with a Croissant

While standing in a long lunch line at the American Educational Research Association (AERA) Annual Meeting in Los Angeles, I met a doctoral student from the University of Pennsylvania. The line stretched farther than expected, weaving through the open space of the conference center, almost like a queue for a concert ticket. People glanced at their phones and exchanged polite smiles. The air carried a mix of conversation, movement, and the faint aroma of coffee. It was one of those in-between moments—neither important nor memorable at first glance.

But sometimes, it is in these ordinary spaces that something unexpected begins.

The student stood a few steps ahead of me. At some point, we began talking. It started simply—where we were from, what we studied and taught, how we found the conference. His voice was calm, his tone open, his presence easy. He told me he was a doctoral student from Saudi Arabia.

I realized, almost immediately, that he was the first person from Saudi Arabia I had ever spoken with.

Most of what I had heard about the Middle East had come from others—conversations, headlines, fragments of opinions passed from one person to another. Over time, these fragments had quietly shaped my perception. I had never questioned them deeply. I had never needed to. That realization stayed with me longer than I expected. It was not just about him—it was about me. About how little I actually knew.

Until that moment.

I paused, aware that questions can sometimes carry assumptions within them. Still, I chose to ask.

“Do women have to wear a mask?” I said.“And… is it safe in your country?”

They were simple questions, but he laughed.

“My country is safe,” he replied. “And women do not have to wear a mask. My wife doesn’t wear one anymore.”

His answer was direct. There was no defensiveness, no attempt to persuade—only clarity.

And in that moment, something shifted. It was no dramatic realization, no sudden transformation. But something within me loosened. For the first time, I saw the space between assumption and reality.

The line continued to move forward, slowly guiding us toward the front. Our conversation lasted no more than ten minutes, yet its impact stretched far beyond that brief exchange. We spoke about our research, the conference, and life in general. There was an ease between us, as if the initial questions had opened a door rather than closed one.

When we reached the counter, I offered to pay for his coffee. It felt like a small gesture—a way to acknowledge what we had shared. He declined with a smile and instead insisted on buying me a croissant.

I hesitated for a moment, then accepted. I took the croissant and walked into a nearby breakout session, blending back into the rhythm of the conference.

But something stayed with me.

As I sat among rows of attendees, listening to presentations and taking notes, my attention drifted. The speaker’s voice faded into the background as my thoughts returned to the conversation in the lunch line.

The croissant began to feel symbolic, though I could not yet explain why. It was not just food. And yet, it carried something more—a gesture, a moment of generosity, a quiet exchange between two people from different parts of the world, standing in the same line, sharing the same space.

I thought about how easily we form conclusions without realizing it—how we inherit perspectives shaped by distance, repetition, and incomplete stories. How comfortable it is to rely on what we have heard rather than what we have experienced.

That brief encounter did not give me complete knowledge about a country or a culture. It did not erase complexity or replace one narrative with another. But it did something more important.

By the time the session ended, I had eaten the croissant. It was, as expected, good—light, crisp, and slightly warm. It disappeared in the ordinary way that food does—consumed, gone in its physical form.

But its taste was not what lingered.

It stayed not because of its taste, but because of its meaning. It became, in my mind, a symbol of something larger than itself.

What lingered was the moment—the conversation, the laughter, the simplicity of his response, and the ease with which he had received my questions. I assumed I would never see him again.

With more than 12,000 attendees at the conference, it seemed unlikely our paths would cross again. Conferences are temporary by nature—places where people arrive, connect briefly, and then return to their separate lives.

And yet, later, something unexpected happened.

He reached out. A message. A connection requested. A small continuation of what had begun in that lunch line. We connected on LinkedIn.

It was a simple act, but it extended the moment beyond its original boundaries. What could have remained brief became something ongoing—an open thread rather than a closed one.

It opened a window.A bridge between people who might otherwise remain strangers.A bridge between cultures shaped by different experiences.A bridge between assumption and understanding.

It also requires effort.To seek perspectives beyond our own.To read widely, not narrowly.To listen—not just to respond, but to understand.

But real understanding asks more of us.It asks us to step closer—to remain open to what may quietly reshape us. That day, nothing extraordinary seemed to happen. And yet, something did. A small shift. A quiet opening.

In that ordinary moment, I began to see differently.