Coincidences are meant to grab our attention. The most striking ones for me occur during travel. Here’s a recent string of coincidences in New York City that happened the night that France made it into the World Cup semi-finals: Adrian and I head to a rooftop party at the Standard. We found out our friend Justin, who recently married a Frenchman and moved to Paris, also happened to be in NY and was going to meet us at the party. We arrive, and he tells us he is almost there. We see him across the street. We wave. He waves. He meets us in the middle of the street with big hugs.

Me: Hey - Are you so happy about France’s win?!

(Words are leaving my lips when I notice his eyebrows look strange. Woah. This isn’t Justin but literally could be in all ways but the eye situation.)

Not Justin: No, my partner’s the one from France.

Me: *fighting confusion face*

Adrian doesn’t stumble but continues a polite 30 second banter with Not Justin, and — probably when this guy finally realizes we are all strangers — we manage a “see you later.”

Adrian and I exchange disbelief and decide to just enter the hotel.

Five seconds later we are in the entryway, and I see a familiar face —  It’s Tom, whom we met and hung out with two years earlier in Mexico. He lives in Berlin.

Us: What the hell are you doing here?

Tom: I’m the DJ!

(When you walk in with the headliner, it should be noted, your experience is different. We weren’t carded, if there was a cover we didn’t pay, and we were whisked up an elevator and suddenly drinks were in our hands. Thanks, Tom).

Before long, the real Justin shows up, and when we tell him about his doppleganger, he says he knows who we are talking about because they rode the elevator together. The real Justin brought with him two adorable French ladies he met while watching the game somewhere. On a crowded rooftop, our group manages to score a corner table overlooking the Hudson, and the ladies order a bottle of champagne. One of the French ladies is floored to learn that we were from St. Louis because she attended Lindenwood University. She said she never meets anyone who has even heard of Missouri . Then she and Adrian discover they both do hair for a living and talk shop for a while. Another champagne bottle. And the rest of the night goes blur … blur ... blur … Amanda Lepore in the elevator … blur.

It sounds like I just described a dream, but it wasn’t. Others might chalk it up to a lucky night in New York, but it wasn’t just that. Perhaps the cause of coincidence lies somewhere between the cosmic and the tectonic, and the beauty of it is that we can never know how they are constructed. But the “why” is certain — to grab our attention. Needless to say, Adrian and I were awake.