Skipping with Sidney

Once upon a time -- nearly 30 years ago -- Herself spent six weeks in France during the summer. The program, which drew students from various preparatory schools along the eastern seaboard, included three weeks in Paris and three weeks in a small town in the south. Though herself loathed speaking French (so self-conscious of her accent), the trip itself was an excellent adventure.  She learned how to navigate the Paris metro; she visited museum after museum and saw innumerable well-known and marvelous works of art; she wet her fingers in the holy water of Lourdes; she sat in Monet's gardens at Giverny; and she bicycled throughout the countryside, waving merrily at the truckloads of French soldiers who cheered as they drove past. It was a time of innocence and independence, when the most difficult things to do were to decipher the menus in the cafés and to keep track of the exchange rate for dollars to francs.

The students who attended the program were a varied co-educational bunch of high school sophomores and juniors.  Though Herself did not know any of the others, many of them had attended the same schools previously and were familiar with each other.  Interpersonal relationships have never been Herself's forté; she was usually more comfortable exploring by herself than attempting to fit into the group.  Nevertheless, there were a couple of fellow students with whom she struck up an comfortable companionship. One of them was a young woman whom we shall call Sidney. 

When she and Sydney were assigned to the same activity, Herself was always pleased.  They sat on the bus next to each other, giggled about the boy on whom they both had a crush, and shared a loaf of bread and a jar of Nutella as they strolled through the Jardin du Luxembourg. They bemoaned their atrocious accents and puzzled over the maps. They eyed the myriad clothes of the popular girls on the trip, and felt faintly smug when their own suitcases were so much easier to carry.  She and Sidney got along well.

Herself remembers their trip to the Louvre. She and Sidney wandered from hall to hall with a few other companions.  The Mona Lisa was surprisingly small.  It was late in the afternoon and they were getting tired.  At one point, Herself held Sidney's sweater so that Sidney could rummage in her purse or tie her sneaker; afterwards, Sidney and Herself each took hold of one of the arms of the sweater, so that it was dangling between them like a flag or a cloth rope.  They worked their way through the emptying museum joined by the sweater in both their hands. They might even have skipped a little bit here and there, together.

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Herself and Sidney did not keep in touch after that summer; it was that Dark Age before cell phone, e-mail, voicemail, text, Skype or Facebook could facilitate a friendship across several states.  It has been years, in fact, since Herself found Sidney on her mind.  Today, though, a sweater that Offspring the First left on Herself's dresser called to Herself's mind that day in the Louvre.  She wishes she knew a girl now who would skip with her and who would braid her hair, and with whom she could make faces at weird foods and whisper about cute boys.  But she's an adult - a mother and a wife and a professional - and those days of youthful girly friendship are far, far gone.

Sidney, on the bus, giggling.