Chapter 17
Frida Rodriguez ... En Route
April 27, 1992
Paris, France
Fair Kate,
Were you in a rush when you sent me those Marguerite books? Did you see all the treasures inside? Jackpot city! A 1973 receipt from the Raffles Hotel in Singapore, a 1968 newspaper clipping about Jimi Hendrix, a 1986 TWA ticket to Lisbon, a Disneyland E ticket, a receipt from Chubby & Tubby for a doghouse, a prescription for something called Miltown, three dry-cleaning tickets, two grocery lists – and a partridge in a pear tree – ha! I love finding things in used books. I try to imagine the person who owned them before me. I have all this stuff spread out on the bed, and whoever owned these is a real head-scratcher.
Thanks to you too. When I wrote to the store asking for Martha it felt good to have someone interested in the kind of life I’m trying to live now. I get what you’re saying about old friends. Mine write me letters about why men shouldn’t wear parachute pants or how they want to have kids and name the girls Brittany and the boys Zach. It can make me sad like what I said about Wuthering Heights and the way we move on in life.
Not to get all mushy or anything but I can tell how whenever you pick out a book for me you care about how I’m trying to learn as much as I can so I’ll be prepared when I figure out where I should go. I’m starting to think it really is Bosnia. Are you getting news about it over there? Snipers opened fire on peace demonstrators and Serb forces started shelling Sarajevo and now the city is under siege. You learn about that kind of stuff in history class – the Siege of Leningrad – but they teach it like it’s all in the past. This is 1992!
I haven’t heard from Niko. Not like he can jot postcards while he’s at war – hey babe wish you were here – but I wish there was a better way of knowing he’s okay than scouring the pages of Current . Meeting him has made me realize how lame I’ve been just reading my War Journo Dames and waiting for it to be Frida’s turn. I went to the Yugoslavian embassy to find out what I need to do to get a visa. The answer – a publication has to write a letter saying I work for them so I can get press credentials. I wrote to one of my professors from college and asked for her help. I’m waiting to hear back – I feel like all I’ve been doing is waiting – drifting along eating goat cheese and why have I been so passive? Frida Rodriguez is not passive!
Last but not least – hold the phone! – Old Sven!? Who has a name like that anymore? Does he look like a Viking? Can you believe I met my journalist and you met your novelist at the same time? The world works in mysterious ways. Tell me more about being giddy and smiling all the time. Take my mind off all this waiting!
Your impatient friend,
Frida
P.S. I found an Eiffel Tower scarf at a tourist stall, and I was going to send it as is when a round of Metro roulette landed me at a whole neighborhood of fabric shops around Sacré-Coeur. That’s when I got the idea to buy elastic and a sewing kit and make it into a scrunchie. I’m glad you like it. I was worried you might only wear headbands.
P.S. Deux. I think canned tamales are the one place I’ll skip processed food. Mom may be from Danish stock, but if God ever threw a fiesta, her tamales would top the menu. Food these days is all unsaturated this and lo-fat that, but she still uses lard. That’s the delicious trick.