Packing Light

I’ve been thinking a lot about 1997.

The summer of 1997, actually. That was the year I did the obligatory American college student backpacks around Europe.

I’ve been thinking about it because I saw my friend Reb when I was in New York. I didn’t expect to – but she’d made plans to meet up with B for brunch since she was on the East coast for a few weeks and I tagged along. She normally lives in LA, or thereabouts. I was on my way to callbacks but got to spend a good twenty minutes catching up with her. Catching up on at least five years in twenty minutes. A lot of ground remained uncovered.

Neither of us could remember the last time we’d seen each other. She moved to LA around five years ago, around the same time I moved to DC.

Reb is, arguably, one of the most outgoing and social people on the planet. She has an uncanny ability to make anyone feel welcome and comfortable in any situation, anywhere.

We spent our first two years at North Carolina together. She left after that second year, I stuck around. The summer after second year was the backpacking trip when Reb and I tackled Europe together, partners in... well, lots of things.

We were a very good match, actually. I handled the museums and scheduling, she handled the social calendar and spontaneity. Because I felt comfortable highlighting the shit out of a guide book and she felt comfortable hooking us up for two days staying with friends in Berlin during “Love Parade” we complimented each other well.

So when the realization hits that there is no way we are ever going to cover the past five years in our twenty minutes of brunch, we resort to memories.

Me: “Remember when we ended up making out - ”

Reb: “With those two brothers on the beach in Cinque Terre?”

Me: “Yes! Why did I end up with the meathead brother? I never go for meatheads”

Reb: “He was sweet. He just was thicker. He had a thicker... neck. What about that guy Jeremy - ”

Me: “In Amsterdam. And then Paris. And somewhere else too. Why did we keep meeting up with them?”

Reb: “Because you thought he was smart just because he’d gone to Harvard.”

Me: “He was kind of a dork. I ran into him later in NY at this club in midtown during that period of time when swing dancing was really popular. He asked me to dance. He’s a terrible dancer. What about that guy you were hooking up with in Prague?”

Reb: “The South African. Yeah, he was kind of a dork too…”

Me: “Or your friend in Berlin? Literal man?”

Reb: “He came and visited me in California. Apparently he’s had a crush on me all these years. Suddenly I was overwhelmed with literal German man confessing his feelings to me. Nice guy, but…”

Me: “Oh god remember the space cakes and the train ride to Paris?”

The conversation always ends with the space cakes and the train ride to Paris. But that’s a story for another time.

I miss her. And I have been extremely lax in staying in touch. She got married last year, very publicly (how many people do you know whose wedding comes up on imdb.com?) and is heading towards starting a family.

The Europe memories always end with us wistfully deciding, “We really do have to do that again sometime… someday…”

Maybe we will. With less making out and no space cakes. Or maybe we won’t. But it is always nice to keep our options open…