it’s not that big a deal.”
“I suppose not.” She sighed, then her voice turned cheerful again. “Charlotte and Joel found out the sex of the baby yesterday.”
“Really? What is it?” I was genuinely excited now. My mother might have written me off as the spinster aunt, but I saw myself more as Auntie Mame, bringing home exotic presents and maybe even whisking my niece or nephew off to exciting places when he/she was older.
“Oh, I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m sure Charlotte would like to tell you herself. You should give her a call.”
I rolled my eyes and tried not to laugh. My mother’s natural tendency to gossip had been curbed, probably for the better, by her Minnesota Lutheranism, but it couldn’t be tamed entirely. It revealed itself in hints, suggestions, and accidental over-sharing. “I’ll call her, I promise.”
“Oh, and you got a postcard about some alumni event in Chicago. I wonder how they knew you were in Chicago?”
“I think it’s just the closest alumni chapter to Minneapolis,” I said with a smile.
“Oh, of course. Well, anyway, it’s on the 31 st at a bar. I’ll forward on the postcard. You should go, you might meet someone.”
And again with the hints that it might be time to meet a nice guy, settle down—as if I could just make up my mind and it would all fall into place. With my younger sister beating me to the altar, I could tell my mother was getting anxious on my behalf. “Hmm, I’ll think about it,” I answered as neutrally as possible.
After we hung up, I stared at the dregs of my mocha, wondering if I should buy something else to justify my continued presence in the cafe. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the grumpy barista staring at me suspiciously. I didn’t feel too bad; there were only a few other people in the coffee shop, so it wasn’t as if I was taking up a needed table, but it didn’t feel right to sit there all morning with any empty cup in front of me.
I reluctantly ordered a wilted-looking chocolate croissant. I didn’t really want it—Paris had spoiled me for pastries, and I didn’t have much faith that the confections in this coffee shop would be worth either the money or the calories—but the brief encounter with Jason, the hour I’d spent in Sarah’s warm and engaging company, the news of Jason’s engagement, and even the short chat with my mother had made a day alone back in Stephen’s apartment seem too lonely. I wanted a reason to stay here in a place where there were people around.
I opened the page to my website, Adventuress Travels, and immediately felt more grounded. My life as a traveler was no less rewarding for wanting more on top of it. After all, travel, I thought—and taught my clients—was the ultimate cure for heartbreak, boredom, and loneliness.
It had worked for me.
I’d been a heartbroken, mopey mess when I’d first arrived in France almost ten years ago, confused, resentful, and angry, but Paris had worked its magic on me. Gradually, the pain of losing Jason had eased, and I’d fallen in love with Paris, with France—and with travel. I didn’t forget Jason, of course, but the new sights, experiences and people had crowded out the constant thoughts of him that had consumed me in Minnesota the summer before I left. Every day in Paris I faced the challenges of navigating a strange city in a different language and had the opportunity to see in real life the sights that I’d only seen in books and movies. I was too busy and too excited to waste time.
But it was the people I met who really changed me. Not just the French people, though I met many wonderful ones. It was the backpackers and hitchhikers, people my own age, who opened up a new world for me. I met them in the touristy parts of Paris, on trains to other cities, and on weekend trips to other countries. They came from all over the world—I met Germans, Japanese, South Africans, Brazilians, and many, many others. We struck up easy
“I suppose not.” She sighed, then her voice turned cheerful again. “Charlotte and Joel found out the sex of the baby yesterday.”
“Really? What is it?” I was genuinely excited now. My mother might have written me off as the spinster aunt, but I saw myself more as Auntie Mame, bringing home exotic presents and maybe even whisking my niece or nephew off to exciting places when he/she was older.
“Oh, I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m sure Charlotte would like to tell you herself. You should give her a call.”
I rolled my eyes and tried not to laugh. My mother’s natural tendency to gossip had been curbed, probably for the better, by her Minnesota Lutheranism, but it couldn’t be tamed entirely. It revealed itself in hints, suggestions, and accidental over-sharing. “I’ll call her, I promise.”
“Oh, and you got a postcard about some alumni event in Chicago. I wonder how they knew you were in Chicago?”
“I think it’s just the closest alumni chapter to Minneapolis,” I said with a smile.
“Oh, of course. Well, anyway, it’s on the 31 st at a bar. I’ll forward on the postcard. You should go, you might meet someone.”
And again with the hints that it might be time to meet a nice guy, settle down—as if I could just make up my mind and it would all fall into place. With my younger sister beating me to the altar, I could tell my mother was getting anxious on my behalf. “Hmm, I’ll think about it,” I answered as neutrally as possible.
After we hung up, I stared at the dregs of my mocha, wondering if I should buy something else to justify my continued presence in the cafe. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the grumpy barista staring at me suspiciously. I didn’t feel too bad; there were only a few other people in the coffee shop, so it wasn’t as if I was taking up a needed table, but it didn’t feel right to sit there all morning with any empty cup in front of me.
I reluctantly ordered a wilted-looking chocolate croissant. I didn’t really want it—Paris had spoiled me for pastries, and I didn’t have much faith that the confections in this coffee shop would be worth either the money or the calories—but the brief encounter with Jason, the hour I’d spent in Sarah’s warm and engaging company, the news of Jason’s engagement, and even the short chat with my mother had made a day alone back in Stephen’s apartment seem too lonely. I wanted a reason to stay here in a place where there were people around.
I opened the page to my website, Adventuress Travels, and immediately felt more grounded. My life as a traveler was no less rewarding for wanting more on top of it. After all, travel, I thought—and taught my clients—was the ultimate cure for heartbreak, boredom, and loneliness.
It had worked for me.
I’d been a heartbroken, mopey mess when I’d first arrived in France almost ten years ago, confused, resentful, and angry, but Paris had worked its magic on me. Gradually, the pain of losing Jason had eased, and I’d fallen in love with Paris, with France—and with travel. I didn’t forget Jason, of course, but the new sights, experiences and people had crowded out the constant thoughts of him that had consumed me in Minnesota the summer before I left. Every day in Paris I faced the challenges of navigating a strange city in a different language and had the opportunity to see in real life the sights that I’d only seen in books and movies. I was too busy and too excited to waste time.
But it was the people I met who really changed me. Not just the French people, though I met many wonderful ones. It was the backpackers and hitchhikers, people my own age, who opened up a new world for me. I met them in the touristy parts of Paris, on trains to other cities, and on weekend trips to other countries. They came from all over the world—I met Germans, Japanese, South Africans, Brazilians, and many, many others. We struck up easy
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