by Jessica Pan
If I could pick and choose their best traits, together they would make the most perfect guy (with one AWFUL guy left over).
Last night, I went to a party at Jacques’s house. Olivier showed up, a little late, and we made light conversation. We’re back to a guarded friendship, and I see now that he will be happy someday with a wife who cooks and makes puns and knows about French culture. He just wants someone easygoing. Olivier shut down every time I showed strong emotion of any kind. He might, actually, be very happy with Pablo.
Love,
Rach
One Month Later
JUNE 1
Jess to Rachel
I’m packing to leave for the bush to see Sam for the first time in more than a month! I turned in my final assignments and now I have to catch a flight to Sydney, then a train, then a bus, and if I miss the first leg, I am totally screwed! I’m throwing things into a suitcase as I write this, but I wanted to say good-bye before I go off into the wilderness.
For one of my final journalism assignments, we had to write our own fake obituaries. Really makes you realize how little we’ve done with our lives. Mine was basically three hundred words long, and the experience of writing it was so morbid. The hardest part is choosing how you die. I didn’t have the nerve to off my fictional self on a vineyard in Australia. Trying not to think about poisonous spiders and snakes. Kangaroos. I’m thinking about kangaroos.
WHAT IF I NEVER MAKE IT BACK?
WHAT ARE YOU DOING AND WHAT ARE YOU WEARING AND DID YOU EAT LUNCH?
JUNE 1
Five minutes later
Rachel to Jess
Jesus! No pressure or anything! I ate a bowl of Frosted Flakes for lunch! I’m wearing jeans, a T-shirt, and flats! Would you prefer me in business casual for your potentially last e-mail on earth?
I’ve been living inside the library, but I am finally done! DONE! I turned in my master’s thesis. I went to hand it in—the illustrated, photocopied, proofread, and bound document that has hovered over me these past two years—and, of course, I was relieved, but I was already starting to formulate plans for my next research project.
I’ve decided I want to go to London, no matter what happens with the funding—but give me some reasons to justify two hundred thousand dollars in debt. Or at least tell me some good things about England before you head off!
Right now all I can think about is rain, meat pies, and coal miners. This may be because I just watched Billy Elliot. But there was a dancing ballet boy in that movie, so that’s one good thing? I need a few more.
Love,
Rach
JUNE 1
Two minutes later
Jess to Rachel
The Queen. Wimbledon. Crumpets. Guards who wear fuzzy hats. Moors to run through. Emulating scenes from Jane Austen’s books. A surplus of tea. Clotted cream. Rich history. Getting to wear a stupid hat to a wedding without being judged. Fog. Oasis. Kate Moss. Hugh Grant. Phone hacking. Suddenly acceptable to act superior to Australians. Irony. Never sweating again. Charles Dickens? Jack the Ripper? Bacon sandwiches?
CADBURY CHOCOLATE.
Love,
Jess
P.S. THIS IS SO EXCITING!!! You know, I hear the men in Britain have a certain, eh, how do you say, je ne sais quoi.
P.P.S. It is their proximity to Topshop.
JUNE 1
Two minutes later
Rachel to Jess
Ohhh, I like this game!
Red buses. Polo matches. Horse races. Fox hunting. Pimm’s. Finger sandwiches.
I want you to visit me! I want to go to Royal Ascot with you so we can listen to poncy British people and imitate their accents. I want to lie in Hyde Park on the occasional sunny day! I want to see Shakespeare at the Globe Theatre! I want to stroll around the grounds of Windsor Castle in a floaty dress!
Okay, maybe I am getting excited and can leave Paris. Maybe.
Going to go eat pain au chocolat. I’m going to have to call this a chocolate croissant in London. Doesn’t sound as delicious.
I had a tarot reading today (yep) that said an arriving girl with dark hair will make my life better. Seriously. Six of Cups (someone from the past with good news) modifying the Queen of Swords (a dark-haired woman). So I think you’ll be fine in the country. But be careful anyway!
Love,
Rach
JUNE 6
Jess to Rachel
I’m alive!
I’m writing this from a house on the vineyard called the Straw Bale House, which the vineyard owner built. (I misheard him the first few times and called it the Strawberry Bale House.)
After a long train-and-bus journey, I finally arrived at Canowindra. I was the only person to get off the bus at the small stop. I say “Can-of-Wind-ruh,” but the bus driver yelled the stop out as, “Ka-NOUN-dra.” I’m never going to say it right.
For the first few moments in the empty town, I didn’t see Sam and was terrified about what I would do if he didn’t show up. Our phones don’t work here! But then I saw him wave to me from the driver’s seat of a truck on the side of the road. He now has longer hair and stubble and was wearing a plaid shirt.
He looked at me like he hadn’t seen another person for ten years and threw his arms around me. He smelled different—wood fires and the outdoors. He had ruddy cheeks from working outside every day. No overalls, but he wore boots like a lumberjack.
He drove us back to the Strawberry Bale House and I love how blue the sky is here, especially against the green fields and vineyards. It was the bluest sky ever. On the drive, Sam explained our sleeping arrangements.
The family has two large houses on the vineyard, and the family’s French ninety-three-year-old grandmother, Lily, lives in one of them. The only spare bedroom with a double bed is in Lily’s house, so that’s where Sam and I are staying.
Lily’s actually very spry but has a memory problem. Sometimes when I appear around a corner, she’ll be startled to find a random Asian girl with an American accent, and she doesn’t quite remember who I am. She always smiles and reintroduces herself to me in French, because she does not speak English. We communicate only in miming and it reminds me of my time in China. When she tries to say something more complicated than “It’s cold today” or “You have crumbs on your face,” I want to call you so you can translate the French for me.
Sam wakes up at six every morning and then goes to collect the eggs from the chickens. Then he heads out into the cold weather and prunes vines all day. While he’s working, I’m left with the endless rolling hills and fields and sheer space. Since Lily and I can’t communicate, the loneliness is getting to me.
I spend most of my days outside, and I’m so lonely that I’m turning to animals for company. Today, I went running and came across fields and fields of sheep. I stopped in front of a herd of them to study them more carefully and see if I could maybe pet one, but they took one look at me and, terrified, hundreds of them stampeded away. Kind of insulting, really. Earlier that day, the owner kept trying to stress to me that sheep aren’t dogs. If I’ve ever had some fantasy of wanting to live and work off of the land, it has been shattered. Sheep make terrible company.
After my run, I came back to the house and hung out with the chickens. Sam and I have a favorite one who is a different breed from the archetypal chicken. It’s a fat hen with long black feathers that go all the way to her feet, so that she walks clumsily and trips over them. It’s basically the equivalent of wearing false eyelashes and sequins, and I call her Liza Minnelli. She is also pretty bad at jumping onto things and often misses the target, ending up in a cloud of flying black feathers and dust.
And then finally, Sam comes in and takes off his muddy boots and together we lock up the chickens to protect them from foxes and then we make dinner for us and Lily. Sam goes outside and I watch him chop wood (when I att
empted this, I nearly cut off my own leg and scared the shit out of Liza Minnelli in the process).
And then we sit around the fire trying to stay warm. It’s still winter in Australia and freezing cold at night inside the house, especially without radiators or central heat. At night, we sleep under ten million blankets while the wind howls. The only familiar thing here is Sam, and I hold him so closely at night, not just because the sheets are icy cold. I can’t believe he lives this life every day and night, all for us.
We spent one night away at a bed-and-breakfast. We drove for a few hours and Sam brought wine from the vineyard and we sat on big lawn chairs at the top of a hill and ate cheese and crackers while we drank it. I like those moments when you are in nature with someone and it feels like nobody else exists. I like that I can imagine spending an infinite amount of time with him and it doesn’t freak me out.
Do you remember how many times we sat with Astrid and Rosabelle and talked about guys and what we wanted and how we would know, really know, if someone was right for us? We assumed it would be some sudden moment, like it would just reveal itself to us in one fell swoop. I don’t know what it’s like for other people, but with Sam, when we lie in bed together and his arms are around me, it’s a growing visceral feeling of attraction and comfort and being content.
The future doesn’t scare me anymore, the way it used to. I like that Sam saw my life in Beijing—that when I mention Isla, he knows exactly who I am talking about. There’s something very comforting about that. We already have history, despite being relatively new.
I’m here for less than a week and then I’m going back to Melbourne and he’ll be alone again. I always knew Sam was good, but I didn’t know anyone was this good. Even though we’ll be apart again for a short time, I have to remember that he’ll be joining me soon.
Right. I’m off to have tea with a chicken.
Love,
Jess
JUNE 20
Rachel to Jess
Liza Minnelli? And I’M the old lady between the two of us?
The country life sounds so far away from Paris. It’s like an elaborate test from a fairy tale or something. Josh left yesterday, and I was really sad to see him go. I’m realizing that no matter where I go, I’ll always be missing someone. It helps me to think of the world like this, though:
Buenos Aires = Rosabelle
Oslo = Astrid
Beijing = Old Jess
Melbourne = Current Jess
New York = Josh and Platonic Nick
These cities house my favorite people, and I find it reassuring. It makes the world feel smaller.
On Josh’s last day at work, we walked out of American Prep together to a café to spend our last few hours together. I think he told Sylvia that other people would be there too, but it was just the two of us.
I decided to give him my Hemingway book from Cuba. He’s a traveler, and I want him to remember how much he believed in his epic life here. He needs it, and I don’t need it anymore, and more than all of that, I want him to remember me.
As we stood up to go, I handed him the book, Fiesta.
“I want you to have this,” I said. “I want you to remember why you came to Paris.”
He said, “This is the best present I’ve ever gotten.” Then, because he is the most honest person ever, he added, “Well, one of the top ten presents I’ve ever gotten.”
In terms of the fortune-teller Astrid and I saw, I think that Josh might have been The One before the One. He knew me, even before he got engaged to Sylvia, and he still chose her. For some reason, I can understand that more than what happened between Olivier and me. I know the reason why Josh isn’t with me (obviously, Sylvia), while Olivier’s reasons remain completely opaque.
Josh walked me home, and when we reached my building he gave me my first (and last) bear hug. It was as good as I always thought it would be. I can’t believe I won’t be seeing his face every day anymore. It’s so strange how people become so tied up with your experience of a place. I won’t be able to remember Paris without thinking about him. It really makes me realize how different the experience of living here has been from what I thought it would be.
I got an e-mail from Platonic Nick. He and his best friend, Tyler, (remember him from across the street senior year?) are traveling through Europe and staying with me next week. I haven’t seen either of them since New York and can’t picture their jovial, loud bickering on my quiet street in Paris. It’ll be nice to be around some goofy American boys again, but if they get into one of their three-hour-long conversations about Spider-Man’s superego, I’m going to give them a basket of croissants and two cheek kisses each, and then I’m going to swiftly drop them off at the American Embassy.
Love,
Rach
JUNE 27
Jess to Rachel
??????? ARJKFJKLDJFDKLS
That’s how it feels inside my brain right now.
I’ve applied for several reporting jobs because my journalism program ends very soon, but I haven’t heard back from any of them. I also e-mailed a journalist at the Australian Broadcasting Company who liked my radio piece on the punk band touring through Asia. He referred me to an executive producer who works for a news radio program that specializes in Asian affairs. I sent the producer my résumé and went in for an interview, and after half an hour, he said he’d love to get me trained and started on some radio shifts right away. I could barely sit still. My mind was racing.
“I’m going to be a paid radio journalist reporting on Asia. I might even get sent to Asia sometimes. I can’t believe this is happening. Don’t blink too hard at him. Oh God, I cannot believe this is finally happening.”
Then he took me around the building before steering me to the head of the department, an older blond woman named Dana. She looked me up and down and the only thing she said was, “So you’re an American? You’re far from home....How long are you planning on staying here?”
I reassured her that I was going to stay in Melbourne and couldn’t wait to start the job.
Then the producer walked me out, saying he’d e-mail me the shift schedule and a contract that afternoon. I left the building and left a message for Sam, telling him that I had big news. Great news.
While sitting on the tram, I stared out the window but saw nothing. I kept thinking, I’m finally going to be a real journalist, and I get to report on China. Maybe even get sent there. Everything is aligning.
Then my phone buzzed.
It was a text from the executive producer. He was rescinding his offer.
“I’m really sorry, Jess, but Dana wants to go with someone who is permanently based here. It’s difficult to process your visa and we’ve spent too much time on international recruits who have left Melbourne very shortly after training. I’m really sorry about the misunderstanding, but we can’t take the risk. Good luck.”
And that was it. The five-minute dream was over. I immediately replied asking for clarification or another chance, but he did not respond.
I feel so deflated and frustrated. I wanted this job so much. When Sam called me back from the vineyard and I told him what happened, he seemed to think about it for a long time. He said that when he gets back to Melbourne in a few weeks, he wants to have a talk. My heart is sinking. I don’t know what this is about, but he told me not to worry.
All I want to do now is put on pajamas and hit things.
Love,
Jess
P.S. I hate Tyler. I sent him a Facebook message three years ago and he never replied. Tell Nick hello.
JULY 7
Rachel to Jess
Wow, seriously?! I’m so sorry. What do you think you’re going to do now?
When we live abroad, we aren’t just trying to be young entry-level workers, but we’re also competing with, and trying to catch up with, people who have
lived here for years. We have to work ten times harder than we would back home, but I think the thrill of living in different countries is irreplaceable, even if it is intangible. But it’s also hard to see while you’re in the midst of the struggle.
Nick and Tyler left the other day, and I can say with certainty that everybody’s life is confusing right now. Tyler has just decided to return home to Ithaca to go to medical school—after spending the past two years working in publishing—and Nick wants to leave his gallery job, but doesn’t know what he wants to do next. Seeing them was just confirmation that staying in New York wouldn’t have made my life better.
Meanwhile, here are some highlights from the week Nick and Tyler spent ruining my life:
I had to sleep on an air mattress and they shared my bed. However, they were too “manly” to sleep side by side so they slept head to toe. Every morning Nick woke up to Tyler kicking him in the face.
Snoring. My God, the snoring. And yet they made fun of my snoring! Not okay. Tyler tempered this by saying it sounded feminine, but Nick laughed and said I sounded like a hibernating bear. I wanted to yell, “Fine, Nick, so get out of my fucking cave!” but instead I silently cursed them and their hipster glasses.
I had to show them around the city like they were children. “Look! Big church!” “Look! River!” “Look! A French policeman!!!” This was very frustrating after having spent so much time trying to assimilate here, only to become the kind of tour guide I avoid.
They were both so picky about food and they only ate what they referred to as “baguette sandwiches.” This is not what they are called. And also, you are in Paris, and you only want to eat sandwiches?
