Odette

“Do you mind if I sit down? I’ll only stay a little while.”

This is how Odette makes friends. She takes the bus down Western Avenue to Lincoln Square. She looks over all the occupied benches, and all she sees are good people, potential friends. She picks one out, and she makes an unassuming entrance. That’s how I imagine she does it, at least. I didn’t see her movements until she was right in front of me. 

“I promise I won’t disturb you,” she said.

In the following moments I mentally checked out of the book I was reading. I thought of the 80-year-old Yugoslavian woman I had met during a walk last December, who had stopped me mid-stride and called me back to her. Having only been in Chicago for a little over a month, I was hungry for new perspectives, and my 15-minute conversation with that woman stayed with me. That’s why when Odette, who looked to be in her 80s and spoke with a French accent, sat down next to me mere days before I am to move back to Minnesota, the sense of full-circle serendipity was not lost on me. 

///

Odette adored the kids running through the square, every last one of them. Whenever one came near our bench, she’d break off the conversation and try to engage the child by holding out her hand. One baby reached toward it, and Odette was thrilled. Within five minutes I learned that Odette has two grown children, both in their forties, who have never had kids.

“But you never know,” she said hopefully.

Then she turned to me.

Do you have children? Are you married?

When I said no, she asked for my age.

“You are young and cute. You won’t have trouble.”

Just like my nameless friend from last year, Odette seemed oddly preoccupied with my love life. I can’t fault her for it. Finding a husband mattered a great deal more when she was my age than it does today. She must have been worried for me, because after a while she looked at me and said, “But you will marry someday, yes?”

//

Odette was reaching into her handbag.

“I have something. It is not for you, but I have something.”

She pulled out a plastic grocery bag, and from it she revealed a small carton of orange juice with no label.

“Do you know Tony’s?”

“The grocery store? Yeah.”

“That’s where I go. I get these in packs of six.”

It didn’t look like real orange juice – its color was a bit off, and it was suspiciously devoid of pulp – but Odette looked thoroughly pleased with herself for discovering these cartons and having the foresight to keep one in her bag. Later she pulled out a banana with a look of delight, as though she didn’t expect it to be there.

//

“What do you do?” Odette asked me.

I felt weird calling myself a writer at my age, so instead I said, “I write.” I’m not sure that’s any different.

Odette liked this. She told me she’d been a beautician her whole life, but had always thought it’d be nice to write. She told me about her friend who is a writer and who has had his name in a magazine, and would I like to give her my number so he can give me advice? I asked her what magazine he wrote for, and she didn’t know. I gave her my number, and she gave me hers.

I told Odette that I’m learning French, and that I hope to go to France someday soon.

Vous parlez un petit peu de Francais!

Un petit peu, oui. I know I need to be fully immersed in the language if I want to really learn it, I told her.

 Odette was a nanny in London, and that’s how she learned English.

“Exactly,” I said. “You had no choice.”

//

Odette’s son lives in California with his wife. Her daughter lives in Holland with her husband. Odette lives in Chicago with her 23-year-old cockatiel.

“Do you ever think about moving back to Paris?”

“No, no. Everyone has their own families now. And I am an American now.”

Odette had moved to Chicago at the urging of a friend. Then she married a Greek man who eventually left her with two young kids.

“He was the one who wanted to get married! He kept asking me and asking me until I finally said okay.”

“What made you say okay?”

“I was getting older. I decided it was probably time.”

//

Odette and I had our share of silent moments, too. We’d turn and look out over the square, the fall sun spilling across the middle of it, leaving the edges cool in shade.

Some days, she told me, it’s hard to find things to do.

“You don’t think about not having company when you get old. You don’t think about how it will be.”

//

Several times it seemed Odette was attempting to wrap up our conversation. After every little while she would say that she’s glad she came here today and that we met.

“You are very interesting to talk to,” she’d tell me. “I like what you are doing.”

To date, nothing has been more validating than having this French woman -- who has had 80-some years to live in Paris and London and Chicago, and to get married and divorced, and to raise kids alone, and to work nonstop, and to retire alone in a big city, and to reflect on it all and take stock of her wins, losses, and regrets -- tell ME that she finds MY life interesting.

//

“Maybe I’ll see you again soon?” Odette asked as she got ready to leave for real.

“Well, I’m moving back to Minnesota this weekend.” I hated that I hadn’t mentioned it until now.

“When are you leaving?”

“Saturday.”

“And what is today?”

“Tuesday.”

“That doesn’t leave much time.”

Still, Odette said maybe she would see me again sometime, and she told me to call her if anything exciting happens for me. I imagined myself on the phone with her, struggling to pick out words through her French accent.

We waved to each other, and she turned to leave. Halfway across the square, she turned back to wave again. I picked up my book and opened it at the bookmark, on which I’d written my new friend’s name and number. I looked up once more. Odette was smiling at me from across the square.

///

On the drive home I was stuck behind a 4Runner with car paint on the back window. It spelled out “Sigma Chi recruiting vehicle” in bright colors. There were polka dots everywhere. All I could think about was how garish it was, mockingly incongruous with where I’d just been.

This is where Odette has to live, I thought.

Odette will be fine, of course. She's been living here a while. She has other friends whom she met just as she met me, and she’ll find more, I’m sure. She’ll continue to open herself up to the small neighborhood square, and she’ll continue to see only what’s good in people. I just hope nobody lets her down.

A New Perspective

Lake Wobegon Trail, central Minnesota

It's a chilly fall morning in Chicago. I woke up early and drove through a light drizzle to my favorite cafe to pick up my standard once-a-week splurge: an almond croissant and cafe au lait to go. Now I'm back at my apartment, cozy as I look out the front windows at the sprawling maple, its green leaves pale and tired from summer, and the wet red brick of the building across the street. Between the frequent sounds of sirens, accelerating garbage trucks, and airplanes, and the muted rumbling of traffic from Irving Park Road, I am constantly reminded that outside my window is a big city. But every now and then a rare stillness sweeps through - no starting motors, no honking cars, no distant emergencies - and all I hear is the slight breeze slipping through the maple, or nothing at all.

Mornings like this are sacred to me. It's the kind of morning that, not long ago, would have intensified my love for this city and reinforced my decision to live here. But there's been a transformation, practically overnight, and now all I can think about is this kind of morning back in Minnesota.

Backyard farm field

Last year at this time, I was daydreaming of losing myself in a big city, starting from scratch and building a life that was wholly separate from everything I'd known. Now, my mind escapes to my mom's house in central Minnesota, where you can stand in the kitchen and watch rain rolling in over the farm field. It escapes to my favorite warm bakeries in Minneapolis, the small shops of Stillwater, and the rocky shoreline of Duluth.

Stillwater, Minnesota

In just over two weeks I will fill my car to the brim with everything I own in Chicago. I will start out early, first tackling the Illinois Tollway, then the endless hills of Wisconsin. I'll cross the Mississippi into Minnesota, and I'll be home. I will bake these, and cuddle him, and after the initial rush of being home subsides, I will begin to quietly figure out what's next. Though I'll be in a familiar place, it will still hold the unknown that I crave, the unknown that brought me to Chicago in the first place.

I may sound like a chronic escapist, but last year I felt down to my bones that Chicago was where I needed to be. I trusted that feeling, and I'm so glad I did. If I hadn't, I would have missed out on rich new relationships, unprecedented creative challenges, and a significantly altered perspective. And I probably wouldn't now be entertaining a new instinct that tells me Minnesota has what I need: more peace and quiet, more lakes, more family.

I'm going to trust my gut on this one.

Minneapolis skyline

A Lasting Impression

Today I met an 80-year-old war refugee with lipstick in her teeth.

I was walking back from the park near my house at a brisk pace. The old woman stepped out of her apartment building just as I was approaching it. Her gray hair was chin length and pinned back on one side. She wore peach-colored lipstick and a smile that I immediately returned. In that moment she quietly gasped. She said, very slowly:

Oh, how pretty you are!

Still walking, I turned to thank her. But she wasn’t finished.

“No, come here for a second, I just have to tell you something.”

I stepped back toward her. Then this lovely old woman delivered to me a quiet, measured, matter-of-fact declaration of admiration.

“You are so...”, she lifted her hands as though she were holding a vase by its sides, “…slender. You have the body of a model.”

I raised my eyebrows, amused by her opinion of my form, which at the time was rather indiscernible beneath a thick sweatshirt and sweatpants. She brushed away my thank you as if to say, I’m not looking for gratitude.

“No, no. You just are…how tall are you?”

“Five-seven? Somewhere around there?”

“Do you like to eat?”

I laughed. “I love to eat.”

///

She continued to survey my body. Then she asked me if I was a “Chicago girl.”

“No, I just moved here actually. About a month ago.”

“Where did you come from?”

I told her Minnesota, and she said Minnesota is a beautiful place. Yes, I agreed. It is beautiful.

She asked me if I had any gentleman callers. She used that exact phrase.

Then she asked where my family was. I told her they’re all in Minnesota, and she asked if I go back and forth between Chicago and Minnesota.

“A bit.”

///

“Well,” she said, and returned to her original discourse about my body, tracing again that imaginary vase with her hands. She said something about beauty, and her age, and how fast life goes by. Her sentences weren’t complete, or at least I don’t remember them to be, but I understood. I nodded along. Then:

“Is your family here with you?”

“No, my family is in Minnesota.”

“Oh. Do you go back and forth between the two places?”

“A bit, yeah.”

I told her I came here to take classes. What do you study? she asked.

I hesitated. “Comedy writing?”

She found this intriguing. So you’re very talented, she told me.

“We’ll see,” I smiled.

She asked me once again where my family was. I told her, then asked where she was from.

“I’m European,” she replied, as though letting me in on some sensational secret.

I figured as much from her accent. Where in Europe?

“Yugoslavia.”

///                          

She had fled to the United States during World War II, when she was about 20 years old. Her mother was among the family she left behind.

“I never saw her again,” she told me.

My eyes filled immediately, and it caught me off guard. Maybe it was putting a face to what were normally faceless stories that affected me. Maybe it was the fact that she was about my age when she fled, and that made me imagine leaving my own mom for what would turn out to be a lifetime.

“If the war had never happened,” she said, “I would probably still be there.”

At first I thought she kept asking about my family because her memory was fading. Now I wonder if she simply didn’t understand why anyone would move away from their family when they didn’t have to.

///

Eventually another woman showed up. She looked younger than my new friend, and she wore thick glasses. She didn’t stick around to chat, but instead told the older woman that she’d head upstairs to “see what you need.”

“Well, I’m holding you up,” my friend said when the other woman had gone into the building. I just smiled. I wasn't anxious to leave.

As our meeting came to a close, I thought of asking for her name. But she never asked for my name, so, taking her cue, I figured maybe names aren't that important. I wish I had now, though, mainly so I could refer to her by name instead of as "the woman."

She left me with a reiteration of her opening remarks, and then added that her friend has a son about my age with big muscles.

I laughed again. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

I told her it was nice talking to her, and I meant it. When our conversation began, I had wondered if this dear woman had snatched up the first friendly face she saw for want of someone, anyone, to talk to. But I think I got more out of our interaction than she did, and I walked away from her with a tinge of reluctance.

\\\

My world is small. I think that’s true for most of us, even those who make conscious efforts to expand. It’s not easy, and when more pressing objectives like making rent or paying for school or supporting a family take priority, there’s not always time. But over the past few months I’ve come to believe that one of the easiest ways to gain insight and perspective is to talk to those who have simply been around longer than I have.

Today, an afternoon walk led me to a person who made an impression on me. I feel very lucky that this woman was there to pull me from my world; I was in the right place at the right time. Part of it may be happenstance, but it also has to do with frame of mind. I don’t think personal transformation is possible when you assume that you’re doing someone a favor by talking to them.

What would it be like if we all assumed just the opposite?

The Ones Who Fall For Cities

A few years ago, I was moved far enough to attempt my first true love poem. It went like this:

It’s the city of bridges, Big Ben and the Eye
Parliament, Victoria, Kensington High Street
Out of my league, but somehow I got a ticket
It was love at touch down
smitten and disarmed by old London town.

Portobello is the first kiss
seen by silver antiques on a narrow street
long enough to fill the day.
And Hyde Park in the fall, I get to know from every bench
every stretch, way, path and gate.
And I’m falling like the leaves are, slow and savoring my fate.

Then I’m there, at the bank
I meet your river and I’m gone, cross the bridge
to its heart and I look down
Confess my love and beg return, but the waters surge on,
indifferent to all suitors.

And that’s it, I don’t need to leave this island
take the sky to other cities,
‘cause I’ve been hit.
And when I leave three months later it’s a forced quit,
a "til then" fit that fuels my westward trip.

Two years since and my city’s sound,
a worthy rival in unbiased eyes
But you haven’t let me go, no
soul’s pulled to the Thames’ depths, the Underground.

The ones who fall for cities seal a certain fate
adopt an altered state, body trained
to a direction that won’t change.
Due east is a city living free,
self-possessed, unconcerned
doing just fine without me.

How I wish you'd stop your river
let the people slow down too
Look around like something’s missing,
like I did more than just pass through.

---

I'm sharing this with you to illustrate a simple point: I am one who falls for cities.

Not all of them, of course. Until now, I've only loved two.

With Minneapolis, the feeling grew slowly. I moved there to go to school, and over the years I gradually discovered its pockets of beauty and charm (much of which I have yet to uncover). It's a quiet love, but it has staying power.

London was a head-over-heals, star-crossed kind of love. The whirlwind romance lasted just more than three months, but years later I still dream of returning and not looking back. If we were given a real shot, I think we could last a lifetime.

But it's happening again, you see. That familiar feeling sneaks up on me as I ride the train into the city at dusk when most others are leaving it, and the skyline slowly peaks through in bits as I get closer. That weightless rush intensified the other day when it started to snow, and the flakes got bigger and bigger, and I couldn't believe my luck that I got to wind among the white rooftops and catch fleeting vistas of glowing streets that stretched as far as I could see. And the people, too. Spending a part of every day in close quarters with a group of strangers with whom you have in common, despite all your apparent differences, this small window of time is deeply comforting. It's often said that living in a big city can be especially lonely, and I don't disagree. But you can't share a quiet train car with fifteen other people for thirty minutes and not come out of it feeling less alone.

It's easy to be in love with more than one city, but you can only really live in one place at a time. And no matter how much you love the city you're in, your mind inevitably wanders toward what life could be like somewhere else. 

Eventually I may have to choose where I want to build a more permanent life, but now is not the time. Right now, I'll let myself fall.

Perspective

That's me, in the life jacket. I just caught that fish, insofar as I was probably at some earlier point holding the rod that reeled it in. Judging by my expression, though, I sorely wish this hadn't happened.

Twenty years have passed since this photo was taken, but I'm telling you, I can identify with the kid on that boat. In a way, this snapshot is symbolic of my adult life in general, with the fish representing any number of things:

- biking in the city

- trying to find a parking spot downtown

- running out of food during a day trip

- crossing paths with extended family and avoiding them on the premise that they probably don't recognize me

- riding the bus in a different city for the first time, for fear of holding up the line as I figure out just how to insert my fare card into the reader

- networking

- calling my grandparents on the phone

There have been many times when I've felt like a generally scared human being, and that no matter how much I wish I had it in me to take some particular risk, I couldn't overcome the fear of whatever awkwardness or embarrassment or mistakes might come of taking that leap. Over the past few years of general happiness and comfort, I think I let that feeling of self doubt and disappointment build up. At least, that's the only explanation I have for why I would decide to, within a matter of months, quit my job, move out of my apartment, say good-bye to the people I love, and leave a great city for a place where nothing and no one is waiting for me. 

I guess I've been craving a little discomfort.

It's an exciting and pivotal time. But with a week between me and the big move, I'm mostly scared. And just like my young, cowering self in that photo, present-day Megan could probably use a little perspective. If I had lived in a war-torn country, or fought a life-threatening illness, or survived some natural disaster that annihilated my entire community, I feel like I would gain the type of outlook where, as long as my body and health are intact and I'm existing in a relatively peaceful civilization, I'm going to be okay. But I don't have that, and I don't want to experience anything that would give me that kind of perspective. So even though I know I'll have money, a place to live, and plenty of love and support coming at me (albeit from a distance), I'm still scared. 

If little Megan had the perspective that I have now, she probably would have conducted herself with a bit more composure. But she didn't. She cried when her mom dropped her off at school, or was five minutes late picking her up. She cried when she had to transfer buses during her morning commute to first grade. She cried at loud noises, people in full-body costumes, and fish out of water.

That little girl is still very much a part of me. And just like her, I can't claim perspective that I haven't earned. Like her, I'm going to have to do this the hard way.