Graduates in Wonderland (31 page)

Jess

P.S. If you really do become a professor, though, you can't date your students. It must be strange to have that rule hanging over you—­at least on TV, you can sleep with anyone, including your boss. Wait, did I just figure out my way to the top?

MAY 5

Rachel to Jess

You know you're truly in love with someone when you think they look good in overalls. (Or maybe you're just from Texas.)

I agreed to go out with the guy from my English class. Although he speaks English with a heavy French accent, it turns out he's Spanish and his name is Pablo. He's about four years older than us. He has dark hair, a medium build, and brown eyes.

For our first date, I met him outside a theater, where we saw a musical comedy show in French and I understood nothing. Literally nothing.

We were headed back to the Marais together because he lives near me, when all of a sudden, he just pulled my shoulders toward him and dove in for a kiss, but I was smiling and it was unexpected, so we hit our teeth together in the process.

“Now it won't be awkward later,” he said, smiling, even though it was totally awkward at that moment.

It was exciting to finally be kissing someone who seemed to like me so much, but other than that, I just felt disappointed. I had thought I was attracted to him until he kissed me. But first kisses can be weird, so I gave him the benefit of the doubt.

Then he invited me back for dinner at his place. He fried up some scallops and then we sat on the couch and we kissed some more, because we didn't have much to say to each other. We spoke in French, which is the second language for both of us. It feels like 40 percent of the time, I say what I
can
say, rather than what I really think. What if he is doing the same thing? We could end up married and half of our personalities and thoughts could be obscured because we simply couldn't be bothered to look up the right word.

Still, I kept reminding myself that he's a nice, cute guy. A genuinely good guy who seems to like me a lot. So I agreed to see him again.

That second date consisted of Pablo making me dinner (again), and then us making out on the couch (again).

I mean, I
like
both these things, but I kept being pulled out of the kissing by thinking that Pablo was the Spanish version of British George. And thinking this while we were making out can't be a good sign. We then slept together, because I was curious, and I really wanted to salvage our relationship with mind-­blowing sex. But it was unremarkable. Only missionary. Sweet but brief.

He saved the tickets from our first date and ever since I told him that I love pistachio macaroons, he always brought me some. And if someone else did this, I might melt. But with Pablo, I was flattered but indifferent.

What would the stock footage be for a mediocre relationship? Two people on a couch, staring into space? A guy kissing a woman's neck while she checks her watch?

I cooked dinner for myself the other night and ate it sitting at my table, and looking out into my courtyard, I could only think: This is so much better than being with Pablo.

But I wanted to give him one more chance. He called me and invited me over to his place, where...he made me dinner again. It flashed before me: This could be the rest of my life. Waiting for Pablo to get off work, come home, make me dinner, make out on the couch, and climb into bed. He is so set in his traditional ways that he will not make out anywhere except on the couch or have sex anywhere except his bed.

Did someone tell him that women love it when you cook dinner for them, make out with them on the couch, and then assume the missionary position?

After the third date of his cooking dinner, and predictable vanilla sex, I ended it. We went out for coffee, and I had to look him in the face and tell him that the sparks just weren't there.

Because Pablo and I speak only French together, I'm not sure the breakup was as subtle as I would have wanted it to be. In English, it's easy to read the other person's reactions and respond appropriately—­but in French, instead of saying, “I love spending time with you, but sometimes I have the sense that the spark just isn't there—­or, if it was there, it's tapering out,” I have to say things like, “I think we should end our relationship.”

And, of course, he was nice about it and now our brief courtship is over. I'm not sad, just regretful that the relationship couldn't be what we wanted it to be. I want fireworks from the start. Pablo told me that he had a crush on me for the entire six weeks I was his teacher. It's not a good sign when I think, “You were in my class for six weeks and I didn't even notice you until you asked me out.” (Though this isn't true with friendship. Remember when you used to confuse me with the ultrareligious good girl down the hall in our freshman dorm? I can't believe that ever happened.) It's not like Pablo was going to wake up one morning and turn into a bounding, charismatic, witty Olivier who is madly in love with me.

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 attempted 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.