Two years ago, I took a train from Burlington, Vermont, to Manhattan, New York. It was a seven-hour journey. This was my second time visiting. The first time, I had said goodbye to a friend forever; this time, I was reuniting with a friend of many years.
Flor and I met in Monte Grande, in the Province of Buenos Aires, when we were about 11 or 12 years old. We went to different schools—she in Guillón and I in Monte Grande—but we both loved tap dancing and met at a local studio (forever in our hearts, IDAC).
Since then, we’ve been friends. We’re still friends, although for a moment during the trip, I thought everything had stayed in Argentina. And in part, it had. A piece of me stayed in Buenos Aires the day I left, and discovering that was what made this trip so special.
As we approached New York, the views of New England from the train window became more and more urban. This filled me with mixed emotions: on one hand, I was leaving my new home; on the other, I was venturing into the city to reconnect with a
part of my past. I was very excited, though also quite anxious (though, honestly, I’m always anxious).
I arrived at Penn Station around 6 p.m., and Flor was arriving from Washington almost an hour later. By the time the train stopped and I walked to where she was (obviously, on the other end of the station), time had passed, and we arrived almost simultaneously. Meeting up was a bit complicated, but there we were, in the city we had promised to visit together one day. And something felt… strange.
I cried. Seeing a familiar and kind face after a year and a half in Vermont filled me with joy, but also with questions. Who were we really at that moment? We were no longer who we had been 18 months ago; we were different people. It felt like meeting someone for the first time, with the peculiarity that we were old acquaintances. “Were,” a key word.
We started our journey to the room we rented in a Brooklyn apartment, which took about 40 minutes. We took the subway, which then turned into a train. We walked and finally arrived. It wasn’t what we wanted, but at least it was cheap. We were in New York, and that was all that mattered.
We dropped off our things, changed, and went out again to eat, drink, see comedians, and catch up. Going back to sleep was when things got tense because we started talking about our lives in recent months, and as much as I wished it weren’t true, the nightmares from back then were real. The conversation became emotional, and without saying a word, we both realized that something had changed, but we still didn’t understand what.
The rest of the trip was quite fulfilling: we walked through Times Square, strolled through Central Park, saw Funny Girl and Wicked on Broadway, greeted Lea Michele outside the theater… We did everything we would have wanted to do in our teenage years, when we spent weekends absorbed in musicals, popcorn, movies, and endless conversations about who we wanted to be in the future and all the plans we wanted to carry out.
But of course, we were no longer those teenagers. By then, we were adults, with established lives, developed personalities, rising careers, and a thousand worries in our heads. Now we had lived a bit more, had experiences that shaped us in different directions, and didn’t quite know how to handle it. Neither of us could express it either, not until months later.
Finally, the time came to say goodbye. Flor went to the airport while I headed to an event I was informed about at the last minute. The farewell was strange; it felt like there were things left unsaid, but it wasn’t the moment for that—it would come. We knew we would talk again, so we decided to let it be.
I stayed in the city a few more days. I visited the Stonewall bar, the Brooklyn Zoo, walked the bridge, shopped at the Harry Potter store, and, of course, saw My Chemical Romance live for the first time. It was incredible. That trip had everything my teenage self would have wanted, and more, because now I could enjoy my freedom and decision-making power, answering to no will but my own. It was a truly unique experience.
Returning to Vermont, a new life awaited me, a life I had eagerly anticipated since I arrived. I was starting a job at a college that would allow me to study and open doors to a world I had never imagined (but always hoped) to belong to, while also meeting those who would become my chosen family.
Three months passed; things changed and kept me busy, with little contact with others. Until one day, I received an email. It was from Flor, and in summary, it said: Hi friend!
It took me a while to send you these photos. It’s not 100% because I was lazy, but because it was hard for me to look at them again. I only looked at some on December 31st, I said, “this is the moment,” and here I am.
That trip was very important to me; it meant a lot. It opened many things, but it also closed many others.
We traveled, saw each other after so long, and although everything is fine between us, I noticed that we are not on the same wavelength. Maybe you felt it too. And it doesn’t scare me at all. Time has passed, distance has passed, and although we are not in the same place today, you will always be a part of me.
Even though this feeling hurts me, I am at peace, because even though we are not connecting today, there is something that will always be latent.
Thank you for everything, always.
Receiving that message was everything I needed to ground what I had been thinking about while trying to adjust to my new life.
I took a few days to reread the email and think about my response. And, in summary, I wrote: Hi friend!
I’d like to start by thanking you for sending me this email.
Yes, I agree with you: the trip opened some things and closed others. And I’m also at peace with that.
It’s no news to either of us to say that we both have changed. We’ve grown a lot in recent years, and in slightly different directions. In my case, emigrating transformed me almost from the root, and that was what I sought when I made the decision; I wanted to transform my reality, and I did. I imagine the same for you, only you chose another path. And I don’t see that as something negative at all.
With the anguish that every change brings, I realized that many of the things that united us when we were kids, I now associate with a version of myself that no longer exists. Becoming aware
of the loss of that part of my identity hurt a lot, but it also brought things that make me incredibly happy today.
Be certain that I will also always be here for you whenever you need me.
Thank you for everything.
Today, two years later, Flor and I are still friends. We talk every now and then, catch up, and continue with our lives. But we always know that the other is just a message away.
And maybe growing up is that. Maybe for some, growing up means seeing your friends once every two years and creating memories that last a lifetime, with the certainty that they will always be there when you want and can. Maybe growing up has to do with developing the confidence that the other person exists in our lives even if we are not physically close. Maybe growing up has to do with realizing that love is wishing for the other’s happiness, wherever they may be.
Mel Bruja 