Making Friends

We get our mail from New York sent in batches by our tenants.  Like most people’s mail these days, it’s a mix of bills, statements and pleas for money.  The holidays are the one exception, the one time of year when the mailbox is flooded with photos of friends’ children and annual holiday letters.  For most of you, the holiday card season is a distant memory, but not for us.  Our last batch from Brooklyn included several, and we received what I’ll bet is our last card yesterday from our friends Darryl and Matt—they actually sent it to us here in Spain, but used the wrong post code, so it took a long time to arrive.  I am frankly surprised it got here at all.  This year, the cards have meant more than ever, a line of connection stretching across the sea.  And I am grateful that the stream of cards has lasted as long as it has. 

The time difference—six hours to the east coast, nine to the west—makes it difficult to stay in touch with folks by phone. We schedule a couple of skype calls on weekends when we are home, but spontaneous phone calls are simply not feasible.  No one writes letters anymore—except at the holidays.  So email has taken on new importance.  I love hearing from folks back home.  For me, it brings my familiar self momentarily into sharp relief—for a minute or two I remember that I am known. 

I am making friends here, slowly, but so far have not been lucky enough to find that spark of connection.  It’s a lot like dating, I’ve found.  A lot of effort, a lot of reaching out, some bad dates, some fun times, but no soulmates yet.   I have known my closest friends for so long that I can hardly remember the initial stages of friendship.  I do remember enough to know that it does not happen overnight, that it takes time and shared experiences to peel back enough layers.  Whether we are here long enough to get there with anyone remains to be seen. 

During the first weeks of the kids’ school, I remember picking them up and asking them, “Did you make any friends today?”  For awhile they would say, “I played with Tristan, or Daniela, but I don’t know if we’re friends.”  At the time I thought it was odd—don’t kids make friends immediately?  But now I get it.  Spending time with someone is not the same as being friends.  Funnily enough, the kids do have friends now, but even they miss the more longstanding connections to their buddies back home.  One day C.C. complained about not having anyone to play with at recess.  “At PS 10,” she said, “Elliott would always play with me, no matter what.  She’s my real friend.”  I know what she means.