Old friends, the best kind, came from London this past week to visit me in Austin. They wanted the tour of Texas from a real Texan, which is kind of funny because I doubt anyone would consider me a real Texan having only been here five years, except that I've managed to adopt “y’all” into regular conversation after much practice. But what is a real Texan? I showed up at my ranch already singing country and gun slinging and two stepping and I can ride the hide off a horse better than most native Texans I know. And so, I showed them around Austin like a Texan.
The best part about old friends is they don't require authenticity, except in my interactions with them. I don't have to be “good” at things, because whatever I do is good enough for them. Noah and Alisa, as I call them, are world travelers who have lived in many countries. I met Noah in Switzerland when I was an expat and we were working at the same company together. Alisa was back in London finishing her PhD, so they were brilliant people also, gorgeous and kind and creative.
"I love Alisa because she's up for anything," Noah told me one day in Zurich. "Whatever it is, she's willing to try it at least once."
I admired this fearless sense of adventure. I was up for a lot of things but I wasn't entirely sure I was up for anything. Or who knows. Maybe I just hadn't been presented with everything yet. There are few things I turn down when it comes to the chance to be Indiana Jones, but I'll admit I have my secret and unsecret fears.
To be fair, Noah was no different from his counterpart. He was up for all experiences, so as to miss nothing in life, even if he found out later it was something he would probably not recommend for someone else's bucket list.
Most importantly, Noah and Alisa collected friends along the way. Wherever they went, they would meet extraordinary people, and they would keep them, even if they had to leave the country. We had this in common, the collecting of friends, but I saw how they cultivated it and how relationships must be nurtured, and when they are all over the globe it becomes extremely challenging. But what is that relationship worth to me, to them, to you?
"Human relationships are the only point, really. I mean what else is there?" Noah said. I wanted to say happiness, being happy, but how was that really different from what he said?
"It's like you're on a beach," Alisa said. "And on the beach are many beautiful shells. And you pass by all of them, and some you peer at for a while and admire, but you leave behind. But once in a while you find a truly magnificent one, and you pick that one up and put it in your pocket and try to keep it."
I took Noah and Alisa and their kids to the Capitol, and to BBQ, and to Bucc-ees, and to the “Before I die…” wall in SoCo, and to the track where I drove, and to ride horses, and to float the river. In the evenings we would lie on the couch or on my bed and stare at my color changing lights and listen to music and reminisce about the silly, the weird, the lovely, and the missed. We had seen each other all over the world, and now here we were, lying on my bed in my house on a ranch in Texas. It was another moment I knew would never exist again, and I wanted to hold onto it, but there was no tangible way of making that happen. If I didn’t hold it in my memories, it would have never happened. And for the record, no I will not tell you what else I wrote on the “Before I die…” wall, but they know.
"You were so fast!" Alisa would say about her ride in my Miata at the track. I couldn't resist trying to explain that I actually wasn't, but she cut me off and said it was splendid, and she thought I was the fastest thing around. And so, at that moment, I was. Because what did it matter what I thought about my performance in that moment? If my friends thought I was a racecar driver, then that’s what I was. Accepting compliments, no matter what they are, is something that I know doesn’t come naturally to everyone. But it can be learned. I can learn it, you can learn it.
I took their children for rides on my Appaloosa, Mancha. Mancha is her real name. She gave me permission to use it. I gave the older boy a real lesson, and turned on my riding instructor mode, which was a bit like a ballerina instructor who insists that everything be very precise. I am never loud or harsh when I teach riding, but I am steadfast that everything be practiced correctly, and I focus on the most important basics that contain actionable items. Noah and Alisa remarked that I had a different demeanor when I taught, that I was a good teacher but I became more serious and exacting. I've learned over the decades that with children this works well, but I still need to pay close attention to whether my student is taking an instruction personally or using it to their advantage. In the end, I'm not the only one who has overly high expectations for myself. A seven year old can struggle with that too.
Noah and Alisa and their two kids left today, headed to California to meet someone I also know and some people I don’t. I have a love/hate relationship with airports, because they can mean someone wonderful is arriving, or I am going to meet someone wonderful, but it can also mean someone is leaving who I want to stay, or that I am leaving and may never be back. More than one person has left me at an airport and I never saw them again, and the thought of it gives me anxiety. I am very certain I will see Noah and Alisa again, but there is always that small niggling in the back of my mind that I should say goodbye extra hard, just in case. I try to keep those thoughts at bay.
I did want to mention something random. You’ve by now noticed that I change the names of people I write about. I do this to protect their privacy, because I didn’t ask them if they wanted me to write about them. But I want you to know, that if I write about you, it is not to expose you, but because you touched me in some way and it stayed in my memory and I want to hold onto it, even if our interactions were brief and you remain nothing but an acquaintance for the rest of my life. Typically this is not what happens when someone makes an indelible mark on me, and usually we become thick as thieves, but I wanted you to understand that even if we aren't the closest of friends, I remember you. I remember everyone who said something that changed my outlook or beliefs, or who reminded me that there are beautiful things, or who encouraged me, or who simply allowed themselves to be real and raw in front of me, to be vulnerable and soft. I would never breach any of these unspoken contracts and reveal these people, but I do keep everything I know about them locked in a gilded cage inside my soul.