Chapter 65
Frida Rodriguez ... En Route
May 15, 1994
Paris, France
Fair Kate,
I guess the days of Saran Wrapping a guy’s car after a breakup are long gone. You’re being so mature. Think about it. If you and a guy like Sven broke up back when I first met you, you would have been positive it was because you were an idiot. Obviously, I’m not saying you were. I’m saying that’s what you would have thought. Now you can see you broke up because you weren’t the right people for each other. That’s Oprah-worthy self-awareness.
I’m writing to you from a little café in Place Dauphine overlooking the soft pink blossoms of the chestnut trees. It’s warm but not too warm, and I ordered a citron pressé. Is there any more refreshing drink in the world? Mais non! Can you believe it’s my third spring in Paris? My first spring here without Kirby. That’s why I’m not at Chez Lisette. Too many associations to distract me while I ponder the letter he just sent. He’s staying in Vietnam. Clinton lifted the trade embargo, and Kirby wants to study how French colonial architecture affected the Vietnamese sense of cultural identity. He says he has to act fast before the American investment tsunami crashes into the country to take advantage of cheap Communist labor. I love the way his brain works. If I went there and saw old French buildings, I bet the first thing I’d think is – there must be amazing cheese around here somewhere!
He wrote that he hangs out at a jazz club called the Red Rhino. He met a Vietnamese-Finnish woman there who’s working on a book about food traditions that were lost during the war years. He told her what I’ve been writing about, and she wants me to help her explain her ideas in English so she can get an American publisher. She can get me a visa through a language school. Can you imagine? Frida in Vietnam?
I saw When Harry Met Sally . I know this is the moment when I get the goofy smile on my face and hop on a plane. Confession: I’m smiling. Confession Deux: I’m considering it. I don’t want to put what I’m about to tell you next in writing because that will make it capital-R Real – but deep breath – here I go. Glamorous Lauren Dunne says I have too much personality for The New Yorker . It’s not about exclamation marks. Apparently I have a kind of unique enthusiasm she doesn’t want to see dampened by the magazine’s style. She made it sound like a compliment, but I have a feeling it’s her way of letting me down easy. Am I bummed out? Most definitely. It’s The New Yorker for crying out loud! I’ve drowned my sorrows in so much raclette my uniquely enthusiastic pores are oozing Swiss cheese. But I’ve been thinking. What if Sarajevo and the Ramonas aren’t the story I’m supposed to tell? What if that’s why I’m having so much trouble writing my essay? What if my story is waiting for me with Kirby in Vietnam?
Searchingly yours,
Frida
P.S. Bobbie got Merjema’s transcripts! She can put the book club money toward tuition and books – everyone agreed that’s how they want it spent.