I

like plans. I like order, and methodology, and logic. Following plans is another thing altogether; in fact, I am fully convinced that there is a gene for procrastination in my DNA. But I like plans. As much as I want to be that daring, brave heroine who throws everything to the wind and pursues her dreams, that’s not me. Yet sometimes, a departure from the familiar and ordinary can lead to an opening of the eyes and a new appreciation for absolutely everything – be it the safe and ordinary, or the wild and unfamiliar. Today turned out to be one of those days.

It was shaping up to be an interesting morning. Well, actually, no, let me rephrase that. Today was shaping up to be a terrible morning. I could already see it. There would be the hi-how-are-yous and fine-thank-yous, then some awkward silence, and then some awkward jokes made in a pitiful attempt to keep some sort of conversation limping along. Some comments about how much we had grown would be in order, followed by some vivid anecdotes from the first (and only) time we had ever met. And finally … wait for it … we would come to the big one: “So Aggie, have you thought about college yet?”

“Oh I’m not really sure. I’m still just figuring it all out.” They waited expectantly. For some reason, no one ever believed that answer. Did they think I was joking? I looked them up and down and came to the conclusion I already knew: Rock Solid Evangelical Christians. All the non-Christian schools were edited out, and I produced the list of carefully tailored schools, throwing in Baylor as a rather genius afterthought. (They were from Texas.)

“Oh how wonderful, those are all great schools!” They smiled politely at me and asked my sister what she thought of her first year in high school.

It wasn’t like I was surprised at the question, it just further confirmed my conclusion. Everyone is so curious about the what and the where, the when and the how – never the who. Then again, who was I without my interests, my schooling, my family, my background, my plans? Still, whenever someone asks me what my ideas for the future are, there is this feeling of sadness, as if they are barely scraping the surface of who I am, something I don’t even know.

Just now, the people in question were the parents of my recently married Aunt Kristen’s husband, Dave. Informed of their impromptu visit late last night, I had been forced out of bed at some ungodly hour of the morning, made to dress and look presentable, and then pushed out the door to eat with people I barely remembered.

My thoughts were sluggish and, let’s be honest, I was still half asleep. I produced answers easily, we covered all expected topics, school, friends, work, volunteering, boyfriends, etc.

I floated in my drugged state fairly content and only slightly annoyed (food, especially bacon, seemed to have appeased whatever sleep deprivation I had previously been suffering from) when I heard something unexpected, something even – dare I say – interesting. My interest piqued, I emerged from my inner mind to replay the question: Would I like to accompany them to New Bedford and Fall River in search of the perfect Portuguese sweetbread?

Was that even a question? Yes! Oui! Si! A little part of my brain said, “Don’t you have homework to do?”, but most of me ignored that bit and agreed enthusiastically. It was a plan, albeit a slightly off-kilter, unorthodox plan. I couldn’t wait.

Twenty minutes later, seven of us piled into the car, stuffed full of food and ready to search for more. I was planning to sleep (what else would one do in a car), but the conversation was fairly interesting. David talked passionately about the Azores, where he had spent most of his childhood summers, and Kristen always found something to laugh about. It turned into a game of 20 Questions: what was our favorite book, favorite song, favorite movie, where did we most want to travel? I was waiting for the early warning signs of insincerity, that squirming feeling to appear in my gut. It never came. These people actually seemed genuinely interested – not just in the future me, but in the me of today.

Then the all-important question emerged: What was our favorite cuisine? Immediately several rose to my head: French, Japanese, Italian, Thai. Then it hit me; Vietnamese. Ah, Pho. Vermicelli. Egg rolls. Iced Tea. Why are you so wonderful? In a flash, we turned the car around and began the long drive to Providence, Rhode Island.

Kirsten and Dave, in the span of about two seconds, had decided to go for Vermicelli (in a different state!, on a Saturday morning, in Cape traffic!). I was floored. What was this freedom? It was unknown to me, who lived a life in which the world ended if we did not have a plan. And if we didn’t Google something before trying it, we were surely going to die! To be fair, there is something comforting about plans. Plans mean nothing can (or should) go wrong. But this ability to take a sudden U-turn … this felt good too.

Providence. The sky was a stainless blue, the sun shone brightly, and the breeze tip-toed around street corners whisping our hair into our faces. We wandered without a care in the world; our ramblings overlooked not one antique shop, café, or bookstore. My feet hurt, my nose was red, and my throat ached from laughter. What a day this had been! But it was only noon.

Famished, we concentrated our efforts on finding that Vietnamese Vermicelli I remembered having in Providence once. It took a while to get to the restaurant (not helped by the four different sets of directions that Siri gave us), but upon entering, the smell wafting through the air was more than enough to begin the process of revitalization.

Seven noodle bowls later and despite our full bellies, we resumed our quest. The perfect Portuguese sweetbread was out there; we knew it! And it was only 2 p.m.

I dozed in the peaceful silence of a car filled with contentment, until Kirsten’s shrill, enthusiastic voice exclaimed her wonderful idea. Dave had taken Kirsten to a beach “very near here” when they had first dated. “It would be so wonderfully romantic if we could go back!” Her pleading looks crumbled all resistance, and so – off to the beach. I couldn’t help but wonder if this was this really how they lived in their everyday lives. It was fun, living in a constant jumble of whims and wishes, but exhausting. Now that the initial amazement had worn off, I was beginning to miss the plans that always put us near enough to a bathroom when needed. 

The beach was cold, and we had to pay ten dollars to get in, but what seemed to me to have been a bad idea, turned out to be utterly worth it. We spent a long time jumping in the waves and tumbling down the dunes. We got back in the car, wet and happy and exhausted. But we were invigorated once again; we still had a quest to fulfill.

Fall River, Massachusetts. Portuguese sweet bread. We had two options: a Portuguese food market, guaranteed to have what we wanted, or a smaller family-owned café that looked slightly more interesting. Of course Kirsten and Dave decided to visit both.

First, the market. We rolled into that store like conquerors, ready and willing to assault our stomachs with the bread that was to come; and we rolled out of that market like victors at the celebration feast, slightly regretting the third loaf of bread but happy we had won.

Now, the family café. It was tiny – a counter, a menu, a couple of chairs and tables. Kristen, Dave and I left everyone else in the car so they could attempt to recover from the food coma. But I was forced to relinquish the plush car seat mainly by the draw of a potential bathroom and more narrowly, by my growing fascination with Kristen and Dave.

They were fast transforming into fairy tale characters. Even as I write this story, I know I am romanticizing them, turning them into hyperboles; but I can’t help myself. They have a magical draw to them. Everything about them says: Just run with it and it will all turn out okay.

The bell on the door rang when we walked in. Everyone looked up. Two old men were smoking wooden pipes and looking like they were in the midst of an argument. Behind a counter, were a man and a woman. I followed signs to the bathroom and realized that the talking that followed me down the dark steps was not in English.

When I emerged a few minutes later, I was surprised to see such a genial scene. Kristen had bent over the two men, peering at their card game while they laughed at her pitiful understanding of poker. Dave reminiscenced with the woman behind the counter, both looking fondly into the distance, undoubtedly seeing their home islands somewhere in their mind’s eye. Plastic bags of rolls piled up beside Dave as the man kept reappearing from the back room every few minutes, insisting that they had bread to spare.

I imagined myself in a movie. The camera zoomed in to catch my expression. Is the heroine about to burst into tears or laughter? Who knows? People talk about wanderlust as a feeling of wanting to run away, travel the globe, and find yourself. Still others romanticize the home – warm fires, cats, home-cooked meals, a joyful family. I didn’t know where I fit along that spectrum. Could I be in two places at once? This moment stranded me in a paradox. On the one hand, Kristen and Dave, with their magnetic energy and wild spontaneity woke a wanderlust in me, an envy for their lifestyle. But on the other hand, I was tired; my nerves were stretched from the constant changes, and I missed my reliable plans. Even if they failed sometimes, there was always something to fall back on. I closed my eyes, sat still, and allowed myself simply to feel.

“Smile!” Kristen, Dave, the two old men, the owners and I are frozen in that happy photograph, imprinted on the camera and on my mind, forever.