Distant Voices From Other Rooms

I ordered a cappuccino today. For years this hasn't been a habit of mine. Not since my early twenties when I landed a summer au pair job outside of Edinburgh.

All summer I'd meet another au pair, Anne-Marie, for cappuccino at least once a week. She was Dutch, I was an American, so as foreigners our employers had set us up.

That first Saturday we met by the Walter Scott Monument. After a pleasant hello she grabbed me by both shoulders. Leaned in to kiss the air next to my cheek, and suddenly stopped to ask "How many kisses you give in America? Two? In Brittan it's two, in Holland we kiss three times."

Needless to say we were fast friends. Traveled to the coast, ambled around castles, sketched the crowded city skyline, ate biscotti and ice cream. We'd go to libraries and museums. Arranged playdates for the the children we were minding. Sported guide books and walking tours, tipped the street performers, darted around narrow streets. She introduced me to both Janis Ian and cappuccino that summer. And always opted for the front row seat atop the top flight of a double-decker red bus.

I've never spoken of that summer without a giggling description of my friend Anne-Marie from Amsterdam. We never exchanged addresses, never exchanged letters. Just packed our bags at the close of that summer, got our passports and traveled off from each other. It's that way when you're twenty-something. It was for me anyway. Letting go lightly.

But I thought of her this morning. In the thick of a Midwestern winter I wondered if she was similarly married and feeling less bold in her thirties? I wished her well, mentally kissed the air next to her cheek three times, and ordered myself a cappuccino.