“Hello,” I said. “I’m looking for a book.”

The librarian stared at me.

I had spied him across the room and decided he was the one. You can often judge a book by its cover, so why not a librarian? He looked like I feel on the inside: a button down all buttoned-up, a plaid bow tie, and a corduroy blazer—with elbow patches, of course. I adore elbow patches.

He took in my appearance and judged that I was neither a danger to his person nor a mean girl playing tricks. “Ok . . .” He said slowly. Yes, this is a library, his tone seemed to say, that’s what people do here.

“See, I’m on a sort of vacation, from my normal stuff, I mean. I was hoping you could recommend a book. You’re a librarian so I assume you’re a prolific reader.” His expression shifted from annoyance to surprise to, perhaps, hope? Has no one ever asked him to recommend a book before? I mused, how sad.

We briefly chatted about my tastes. Fiction? “Eh,” I said. He agreed.

Non-fiction was good; no philosophy through, not this week! Pop science, sci-fi (“I finally read Dune!” I told him proudly) those would be fine. Pop history was ok, but historical fiction was a no-go. “So,” I concluded, “does anything come to mind? Something you enjoyed recently?”

“Well,” he said thoughtfully, “Yes. I read a micro-history about rainbow trout hatcheries recently. It was . . . oddly compelling.” He wasn’t even sure why he had liked it? Consider my interest piqued.

He jotted a note on that ubiquitous public-library scrap paper, and we were out into the wilds, sheltered beneath the cool shade of the stacks. Off on our quiet, dusty adventure though the shelves.

We found the trout on the second floor, sandwiched between koi and salmon. My guide went back to his desk, with little more than a farewell grunt. I have a feeling this is going to be an interesting story for him, too, I thought, that time the awkward blonde in yoga pants asked him for a book recommendation and walked out with a micro-history on fish.

I looked down at the book now, protected by shiny, thick plastic and adorned with a scuffed dewey-code sticker on the spine. The jacket boasted a rainbow trout, with his (her?) tiny mouth baring a row of even tinier teeth, and that beady, glassy fish eye staring back at me. Even the cover was oddly compelling.

Confession: I have never been fishing. I don’t own a pair of hiking boots, and I don’t intend to buy any in the near future. I study 18th century intellectual history, and I’m fairly sure casting flies into a Montana river is about as far away from the witty banter of Enlightenment salons as one can get. And yet . . . this trout was still staring at me. We shared a moment, gazing at each other, and I quickly tucked the slim volume under my arm.

I trust him, I said to myself, and the worst case scenario is I don’t like his recommendation and I return the book. There’s really nothing to lose. Also: why would someone write an entire book about rainbow trout?

Off I went; down the stairs, to the checkout counter (“I owe eight dollars in library fines? Really? Actually that sounds about right.”) and through the heavy bronze doors out into the winter sunshine. The world was my oyster. Or trout pond. Whatever.

The book itself was fascinating. Well written, and, (I kept repeating the librarian’s words to myself) oddly compelling. It went with me everywhere for a week. The fish stared up unblinkingly at my fellow coffee shop patrons, and some even came up to me to enquire about my fish friend. How did that book end up in your hands? their questions seemed to say.

“It’s really interesting!” I’d proclaim. “Oddly compelling.” They would nod in agreement, because being compelled by the finer points of rainbow trout hatcheries was certainly extremely odd.

“I love fishing!” my boyfriend exclaimed one evening as I sheepishly pulled the book out of my purse.

“My dad and I used to go all the time,” he said, “I’ve caught rainbows before.” And with that he curled up on the couch and dived right into a middle chapter while I sat next to him finishing some work. He’d pop up from behind the bleary fish-eye every so often to regale me with a detail or comment.

“I want to try fishing with electricity!” he stated gleefully.

“But where’s the sport in that?!” I replied, “doesn’t that miss the whole point of the exercise?”

“No,” he said firmly, a hint of exasperation in his voice, “It’s about catching fish.”

“I think many sports-fishermen would disagree with you,” I said dryly. “And anyways, that’s just something biologists do to get data on populations.” I was almost 100 pages in, and already the consummate expert on all things fishing.

And so it continued. My librarian friend and this ugly little trout had opened up my world. I met new people, discovered new things about my people, and learned quite a lot about the history of fishing. “Do you know why fishing became so popular?” I would ask an interested stranger, “it’s actually a fascinating story.” Our conversations changed course, the subjects moving swiftly from one to another and we explored the world through the beady eye of Oncorhynchus mykiss. I found that I had a new friend, if only for the length of a conversation.

I dropped the book off today, wandering inside the bustling, marble-clad edifice to see if my librarian was working. (He wasn’t.) I wanted to thank him for the rainbow trout, and see what he has for me next. I’m open to recommendations.

Whatever I learned about rivers and fisheries is inconsequential, though it might come in handy at trivia night. This story wasn’t really about trout, as oddly compelling as they have proven to be. It’s not even about books. Not really.

What’s the real story here? Give people space to share their passion with you. You will learn more. I promise. More about yourself, more about the world around you, and more about someone who was, mere minutes ago, a perfect and total stranger. The more open you are, the more room you have to grow. You might even inspire someone else in the process.

Maybe I’ll stop by and look for my librarian again tomorrow.