M. and I were introduced by a mutual friend. She knew we were both young moms, married to Swiss men, we both spoke primarily English and little German; she figured we might have something in common. She was only partially right: we actually had a lot in common. We quickly bonded over the many things that, I had always felt, always made me stick out like a sore thumb in the conservative city of Zurich: we were both in our 20s but married, with children; we were both Ausländer, foreigners, a word that was often spat more than spoken; we both spoke a foreign language and weren’t yet proficient in German, mostly because we didn’t enjoy the language much; we laughed more often and spoke louder than people around us, making fun of the no-cellphone signs on the tram and the shushing noises from other passengers when we talked which only made us break into uncontrollable giggling.
I had found, unexpectedly, a kindred soul in a place where I felt different from everyone, like I was never going to fit in (nor was I sure I wanted to: a quiet, grumpy Italian?? an abomination, undoubtedly).
We spoke on the phone a lot, met as often as we could (though a little less often when I moved to the countryside); we talked for hours every day, sometimes about “serious” stuff, sometimes not. We vented, laughed and discussed everything; we got closer and closer while sharing silly things (the Swiss were without a doubt among the worst dressed and worst-coiffed in Western Europe, despite the money!) as well as important ones (holistic health came natural to both of us).
You could say that in a way I fell in love with her, a non-romantic love, but love nevertheless, the kind of love you feel for your best friend when you are a young child and you never want to be apart, the kind of love you never thought you could feel as an adult – because surely it is ridiculous and immature, even pathetic, to feel that way about anyone, at a time where people prefer to think themselves as islands, independent and fun on their own just as much as in the company of others.
I loved how easy it was to share things with her, and how easy it was to find something to talk about, and how easily we found things to laugh about. I loved that we both loved fashion but weren’t obsessed with it; that we both loved our children but wanted the “mom” aspect to be part of our personality, not the only thing about us; that we agreed the route to health and healing was better walked by natural means than artificial ones, and that we didn’t care if that made us sound like unhip tree huggers (this was before green was cool), because we were hip and and cool and din’t need to prove it.
I also liked that were different in many respects, and that we both had things to share with, and teach to, one another: I taught her how to cook, she taught me about raw food veganism, juicing, sprouting, dehydrating.
The cherry on top was that our children were the same age and they really enjoyed spending time together.
For years we hung out, spent hours on the phone, laughed, helped each other out. It made living in Switzerland bearable, even enjoyable, fun. We had a casual, relaxed relationship, but we loved and understood each other so well that it almost seemed strange sometimes, unnatural almost, for two people to have such a deep connection in a non-romantic relationship.
Then one day she dropped the bomb: she was moving. Not just to another town, either, not even to another country; she was moving to another continent, a 6-hour, transatlantic flight away. She was happy about it, so I was happy for her. But it was a long way, and I had no excuse to go there. She said nothing would change: we would talk on the phone, she’d be visiting family in Switzerland every few months, we’d see each other. But it wasn’t a temporary move, and that meant that our relationship as we knew it would soon be over. We’d make new friends, have different lives. And it did go that way, to a degree. But we are still friends, we still call each other and share things.
And now, she just called me on my cell phone and told me she was in Central Park – in Manhattan, a 30-minute train-ride away from me. She is only here for 48 hours. My train leaves in 40 minutes. It’s been 3 years since I last saw her in person, hugged her, walked with her, had coffee with her – though we just spoke on the phone 2 days ago. And I feel like a piece of me that has been buried suddenly came alive again. M. is here.
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