you suddenly hear the flamboyantly gay American boy next to you– in queue for boarding– whisper to his female best friend, “Where do you think she got that copy of The New Yorker?” And you, lacking an ounce of tack and unable to hold back your excitement about the prospect of a 7.5 hour journey next to a beautiful man who prefers men, say, “WHSmith. And it’s totally worth the 6 pound investment. It’s the best of American fiction issue.” At that point said female best friend eyes you suspiciously, aware of the fact that gay boy–we’ll call him Dave– might find female companionship elsewhere.
Dave, excited by the prospect of an entire issue devoted to Jonathan Safran Foer and Nicole Krauss, completely ignores the mounting tension and opts for a grande no-whip frappucino light. And if you didn’t think he was G-d’s gift to the world already, his selection of a no-whip frappe from your favorite caffeine supplier pretty much secures him a permanent place in your heart. He may not be Johnny, the Will to your Grace this past year, but he will do for however short a period of time you two are together.
And it is with Dave by my side that I finally mounted the plane bound for New York. Saying goodbye to Laura at the airport, I thought I might never make it through the flight without bursting into uncontrollable emotion. But Dave, an American who had studied abroad two years before, understood my sentiment and provided the perfect ear for the separation anxiety woes. He and his friend had just come from visiting their British counterparts, who they befriended on their year abroad in London. Magically, they had maintained the friendship. Dave assured me that I would be no different, especially if I was the send-you-random-postcards-just-to-say-I-am-thinking-about-you sort of girl, which apparently he thought I was.
I hope he is right. In the interim, I will relay a wonderful New York moment. On route to the bus station this morning, I randomly bumped into Rachel– a girl from my secondary school who is shockingly not married and not even dating. We met in Starbucks, as per our usual way, and though we had not spoken for over three years, we instantly had a connection.
RACHEL: So you went abroad to get away from all this wedding madness?
YAFFA: Truthfully, yes, that was a large part of it.
RACHEL: I should have gone to England, or perhaps Siberia. Any place without a lot of Orthodox Jewish men in search of wives/mothers.
YAFFA: Yes, that’s England in a nutshell. Devoid of Orthodox Jewish men, longing to find wives, fronting as mothers.
We exchanged a few laughs and phone numbers, and agreed to begin our first installment of the “Single, Ready to Mingle, But Definitely Not Ready to Marry” Club when I return from my week in Boston. For now, though, I must reintegrate into American society by selling my soul to the academic devils at be, who unlike in the UK, pay me for my sacrifices and services.
