Graduates in Wonderland (17 page)

Still, I might prefer this to senior year in our house, when you and Astrid waged shrill wars at 4 
A.M.
over the thermostat. It was so scary to lie in bed in the dark and hear voices in the hallway: “My sheets are colder than Norway right now!” followed by your shriek of, “It's so hot in my room that my hair is curling! Go back to Norway!”

I wish the horoscopes in
Glamour
really did work so I'd know what to do next. If only it were as easy as getting back in touch with nature or taking a bubble bath.

Love,

Jess

Four Months Later

Four months followed, in which Jess toiled away at the magazine and Rachel watched a lot of bad French TV to master the language (and feel like she had friends in Paris). Many e-mails were exchanged, but mostly about our imaginary lives in Argentina, Spain, or Italy (Rachel) and India, Thailand, or Alaska (Jess).

MARCH 6

Rachel to Jess

Help! Two problems! How the hell do you get glitter out of your eyelashes and how do you get the scent of a gallon of cheap perfume out of leather? Or maybe I should be more concerned that my feet are covered in grime and dirt and God knows what else. I also reek of the stench of a thousand cigarettes.

It's 3 
P.M.
and I just woke up like this.

Last night, I finally met up with Jacques, who used to live in New York with Platonic Nick. I met him in the eleventh district, where there are bars with red neon signs and students sitting drinking on steps. I was here once three years ago and remember this street as the place where Rosabelle threw up under a table and we were forcibly ejected from a bar.

When Jacques arrived at the bar, a blur of dark hair and cologne, he kissed me on both cheeks, with a big grin, and then ordered a glass of red wine for me and a pastis for him. Pastis is a disgusting licorice-­flavored cloudy drink. Jacques and I spoke in French about how he used to live in New York, in Williamsburg. He loves New York, like every French person I meet does, but loves it in a totally overwhelming, “How could you think any place would be better?” kind of way. I think it is the way Americans think about Paris, and it's weird to hear it from the other side.

We were two drinks in when somebody tapped on the glass behind me. I looked to see a group of people grinning and waving at Jacques, who gestured for them to come inside.

I stood up to kiss each of them on the cheeks, but I'm still getting used to this. It's one kiss per cheek, but is it their left then their right, or no, my left, your right, or WHAT IS GOING ON? If you mess this ritual up, all hell breaks loose. And also, when there is a big group, you have to kiss everybody and it takes forever.

Finally, while I was pulling away from the last guy, Olivier, we locked eyes.

I know how this sounds, but I had never felt this sudden attraction for someone before. He has sandy-­brown hair and light blue eyes, is about five ten, and has a dimple in his chin. I tried to look away, tried to distract myself, and tried not to have a look across my face that reads like my mind: “Hot Olivier, let's ditch this crowd and go make out on a bench.”

We ordered a few more drinks and sat in the back, and I mostly listened and nodded. I ended up in a corner with a girl called Sasha, who is very tall and has dark flowing hair and a welcoming smile for everyone, even when she's telling someone to fuck off. She was very direct and asked me what kinds of French guys I liked, and I kept trying not to point at Olivier and say, “Him.” Tall Sasha is dating Hipster Marc (this is the only way I can keep track of them), who has known Jacques and Olivier forever.

One of the girls invited us all back to her house, where her roommates were having a party. We left the bar and I fell into step with Olivier. He laughed hard when I tried to tell him that I missed my roommate in New York. Apparently, the expression I have been using for “roommate” has no real meaning in French, but roughly translates to “bedroom friend.” I have been using my made-­up expression for
years
. Finally,
those strange looks are explained.

According to Olivier, my French is enunciated just fine but is formal, extremely polite, and slightly antiquated in a way that makes his friends laugh (with me? At me. With me?). Apparently, I use outdated expressions, such as “companion” for “boyfriend” or “moving picture” for “movie.” Basically, in French, I am the little old lady who lives across from my courtyard.

By the time we arrived at the party, I'd had four drinks and was so overwhelmed by all the new French faces suddenly among me. Tall Sasha took my hands and pulled me over to the living room to dance, where thick smoke hovered over everything, and bubbles floated around randomly from a machine.

At one point, someone became too enthusiastic about a particular song and started spraying silly string and throwing handfuls of glitter. Some girl spilled an entire bottle of perfume on my purse, but I did not care. I was at my first party in six months.

At 5 
A.M
., the lights went on. Sasha and I were still halfheartedly jumping along to '80s music among the bubbles that were now puddles of foam. It was over.

The Metro wouldn't open for another half an hour, so we walked around the neighborhood just to kill time (I love that there is actually a French word for this walking with no purpose:
flâner
).

We all exchanged numbers, and when they all disappeared around a corner, I immediately double-­checked that they were gone and took off my boots. My feet were killing me. They have four-­inch heels, and I'd been dancing in them for hours.

I wandered home in my stocking feet as the sun rose and the alcohol was wearing off and my mind was clear. If you cycle down French boulevards or peer into bakeries at pyramids of macaroons or wander through the Rodin Gardens, but you cycle and you peer and you wander with no company but your own, were you ever in Paris at all?

I've been contemplating this for a while. I've been here long enough to watch autumn start to trail off into winter. I just kept going to my classes, taking my notes, and then walking across the bridge home and watching Notre Dame behind the veil of rain. There are days where I don't speak to anyone, and others where I speak only to the baker down the road.

But after last night, Paris feels completely different to me. I was in a different world. I wonder if I'll see Olivier again or if he will just disappear into oblivion for me. But Hipster Marc wants to meet me on Monday for a coffee break at the National Library, where we both have to do our research. I'm meeting Tall Sasha next week for a movie.

See? There is still life in me yet. I'm saying this as much to myself as to you. Last night, I was not an old grandmother, except when I took off my shoes, rubbed my feet, and thought, “Shit. Do I have bunions?”

I'm also still trying to write every day.

And I am, as always, waiting for my next dispatch from Beijing.

Love,

Rach

MARCH 15

Jess to Rachel

Hot Frenchmen? Fancy French cocktails? Dancing in bubbles?

Rachel! Quick! Let's trade lives! Why have we not done this earlier? Don't think too hard about it—­just hop on a plane to China and you can ride in rickshaws and marvel at skyscrapers and eat duck pancakes with plum sauce. Meanwhile, I will pretend to be a film student in Paris, where I get to live in your loft apartment in Paris and chase around hot Frenchmen. You get to live in my Beijing apartment, where I'll even let you shower over my toilet, and I'll bravely eat one croissant per day from your local bakery in Le Marais, so that they don't feel a sudden drop in croissant demand.

The only snag is that I don't want to learn French. I'm barely managing with Mandarin. My brain has reached a saturation point of Mandarin words and is currently rejecting all new information. I also don't have the heart to tell my Chinese teacher that I don't want to learn the vocabulary for tea services and gift giving.

Paris sounds amazing. I can so easily imagine you wandering around Paris with Jacques and his friends, not knowing where the night will take you and feeling that around the next corner could be a stranger who will change your life.

I remember when I used to walk around like this in Beijing, taking photos of Taiwanese ice cream, piled as high as the ceiling, or getting lost in a maze of Chinese alleyways for fun. You can always tell the new arrivals from the jaded expats: The new arrivals are the ones staring at the fried scorpions sold at the night markets (I remember it so well) and the weary expats are the ones yelling at Chinese waitresses for bringing out the wrong kind of eggplant dish.

I resemble the latter group more and more. I suddenly find myself growing impatient with daily life here. Before, when oncoming passengers would rush onto the subway before I could get off at my stop, I used to view it as a fun game (“Challenge accepted!”). Now I scowl and use sharp elbows. I don't want to stay here so long that I can't see the good parts anymore. Your adventures in Paris just made me realize how my experience in Beijing is already heavy with memories, not all of them nice.

In a cab on the way home from work one night last week, I turned to my right and saw Ray, next to the car window, cycling home. My first reaction was to roll down my window to get his attention, but before I could manage this, the light changed and my cab sped away from him. Watching him recede into the background is the most contact we've had since I walked out of his apartment.

I'd been trying to completely repress all thoughts or feelings about that whole situation. You're the only person I've told about Ray, because I feel so embarrassed about playing an ingenue to an older man. I shudder to think about how long the charade would have gone on had the Erection Angel not struck Ray down. I was never going to marry someone like Ray—­cold, proud, and twenty years my senior. I could have wasted entire years on him.

Want to hear about my dream? Great! I'd love to tell you. Last night I dreamt that I opened the door to a doctor's office to find every guy I had ever dated sitting in the waiting room. They sat side by side in rows of chairs: high school boyfriends, flings from Brown, a few token Australians from my year studying abroad, and then Bruno, George, and Ray. They sat, absentmindedly flipping through golf magazines, and waiting for their names to be called for a checkup, unaware that their common link was me.

I don't need a psychology professor to tell me, “Your track record is not so hot!” I've fallen into so many flings because I've always felt that I must explore! I must have adventures! I only live once! But there were a lot of mistakes in that waiting room. Only a handful loved me, but those were the ones I never loved back.

I contemplated this briefly in bed before I realized I was already running ten minutes late for work. It doesn't help matters that another expat editor my age just got promoted and subsequently he's started wearing a suit to work every day. A three-­piece suit. Why do some people have to go and ruin everything for everyone? He's breaking the code! Before his promotion, he wore tank tops, baggy jeans, and flip-­flops.

Now I'm wondering if I was supposed to start dressing in a power suit when I got promoted. Also, perhaps I should not have come to work today with my hair pulled back in a bandanna, which I thought could be interpreted as vaguely “Chinese” instead of its real meaning, “I've lost complete control of my bangs.”

I don't really care, though, because although I've loved working here, I think I'm over it. I've written hundreds of stories now about family relationships, been to dozens of tourist spots in Beijing, and finished fifteen full issues. I've fought with our designer, Echo, six thousand times.

But I still want to be a journalist—­I'm just not sure how to get to that career from here. In Beijing, it's easy to brush up against journalists and foreign correspondents (or date them, i.e., Ray). I've met the foreign correspondents for
TIME
, the
New Yorker
, and the
Guardian
, but there's still such a strong distinction between their jobs and mine. Even if someone made me the correspondent for the
New York Times
today and told me, “Go report on the Chinese migrant community!” I'd just stand in one place holding my tape recorder. I don't have hard news skills, despite everything I've learned on the job here. I almost think that I do want to go to journalism school, but I'm still against doing this in New York, a city jam-­packed with journalists and sky-­high tuition fees. But where would I go? I'm scared to make a move, but I feel stuck.

Isla tells me that I've been sighing a lot lately, and so she's trying to drag me out of my funk. Why can't she just let me go home and order takeout and watch bad TV? This is my right as a person on the verge of giving up. She's sneaky, because she makes a big show of inviting me out in front of our entire office, which means I can't very well reply in front of my other colleagues, “Isla, I have a stack of pirated DVDs and a giant Toblerone waiting for me at home.” This is social tyranny. She's insisting that we eat bad Mexican food at her favorite hole-­in-­the-­wall and drink a pitcher of margaritas. Each. This is Australia's cure for sadness.

Isla also told our bosses that our workload is too much for two people, and she hired a new intern to help us out for a few weeks.

He has dark hair and nice hands. I tried not to notice this, but Isla sits between us, and it's the only part of him I can see from the corner of my left eye.

Do not worry! I'm not going to date my own intern.

Love,

Jess

P.S. He's English.

MARCH 20

Rachel to Jess

What is with you and English guys? I think you might have a problem. Not a big problem, though. What I really want to know is, how does a girl from Texas end up with a tendency to go after English guys? Wait. Isn't one of your brothers married to an English girl? Developmentally, what happened to you guys?