M. and I were introduced by a mutual
friend. She knew we were both young moms, married to Swiss men, and
that we both spoke primarily English and little German; she figured we
might have something in common. She was only partially right: we
actually had a lot in common.

We quickly bonded over the many things that, I had always felt,
always made me stick out like a sore thumb in the conservative city of
Zurich: we were both in our twenties but married, with children; we
were both Ausländer, foreigners, a word that was
often spat more than spoken; we both spoke a foreign language and
weren’t yet proficient in German, mostly because we didn’t enjoy the
language much; we laughed more often and spoke louder than people
around us, making fun of the no-cell phone signs on the tram and the
shushing noises from other passengers when we talked, which only made
us break into uncontrollable giggling.

I had found, unexpectedly, a kindred soul in a place where I felt
different from everyone, like I was never going to fit in. (Nor was I
sure I wanted to: a quiet, grumpy Italian? An abomination, undoubtedly.)

We spoke on the phone a lot, met as often as we could (though a little
less often when I moved to the countryside); we talked for hours every
day, sometimes about “serious” stuff, sometimes not. We vented, laughed
and discussed everything; we got closer and closer while sharing silly
things (The Swiss were without a doubt among the worst dressed and
worst-coiffed in Western Europe, despite the money!), as well as
important ones (holistic health came natural to both of us).

You could say that in a way I fell in love with her, a non-romantic
love, but love nevertheless, the kind of love you feel for your best
friend when you are a young child and you never want to be apart, the
kind of love you never thought you could feel as an adult—because
surely it is ridiculous and immature, even pathetic, to feel that way
about anyone, at a time where people prefer to think themselves as
islands, independent and fun on their own just as much as in the
company of others.

I loved how easy it was to share things with her, and how easy it was
to find something to talk about, and how easily we found things to
laugh about. I loved that we both loved fashion but weren’t obsessed
with it; that we both loved our children but wanted the “mom” aspect to
be part
of our personality, not the only thing about us; that we agreed the
route to health and healing was better walked by natural means than
artificial ones, and that we didn’t care if that made us sound like
unhip tree huggers (this was before green was cool), because we were
hip and cool and didn’t need to prove it.

I also liked that were different in many respects, and that we both had
things to share with, and teach to, one another: I taught her how to
cook, she taught me about raw food veganism, juicing, sprouting,
dehydrating.

The cherry on top was that our children were the same age and they
really enjoyed spending time together. For years we hung out, spent
hours on the phone, laughed, helped each other out. It made living in
Switzerland bearable, even enjoyable, fun. We had a casual, relaxed
relationship, but we loved and understood each other so well that it
almost seemed strange sometimes, unnatural almost, for two people to
have such a deep connection in a non-romantic relationship.

Then one day she dropped the bomb: she was moving. Not just to another
town, either, not even to another country; she was moving to another
continent, a six-hour, transatlantic flight away. She was happy about
it, so I was happy for her. But it was a long way, and I had no excuse
to go there. She said nothing would change: we would talk on the phone,
she’d be visiting family in Switzerland every few months, we’d see each
other. But it wasn’t a temporary move, and that meant that our
relationship as we knew it would soon be over. We’d make new friends,
have different lives. And it did go that way, to a degree. But we are
still friends; we still call each other and share things.

And now, she just called me on my cell phone and told me she was in
Central Park—in Manhattan, a thirty-minute train-ride away from me. She
is only here for forty-eight hours. My train leaves in forty minutes.
It’s been three years since I last saw her in person, hugged her,
walked with her, had coffee with her—though we just spoke on the phone
two days ago. And I feel like a piece of me that has been buried
suddenly came alive again. M. is here.