Friendship

Nicole, whom I have written about before, is here with her husband and daughter for the week because she has finished her dissertation. From the first time I met Nicole, literally in the first few minutes--when she appeared in my dorm room asking for clothes because her trunk had not arrived from San Francisco--her presence has made me feel as though a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. She is relaxed, cheerful, unflappable, responsible, impervious to pettiness or jealousy, congenitally uncomplaining and the least neurotic person I have ever met. In short, she is nothing like me.

The stark differences in temperament make every adventure a heightened study in contrasts, although somehow we are preternaturally compatible. There was the cross-country road trip on which I forced us to eat every meal and snack at a carefully researched, Chowhound-endorsed, Saveur-featured out-of-the-way spot featuring regional specialties. By the time we hit the East Coast, she was begging me to let her eat a sandwich, just one sandwich. There was the episode in Mexico when I was, as I was each time I visited her in Mexico, taken violently ill and the side-of-the-road "medicine woman" told her she had to give me a shot. As I lay moaning in agony on the floor, she ran around the hotel begging strangers to come with her so she wouldn't have to insert the needle herself. There was the time I lent her my car in college to get to a soccer tournament although my parents had forbidden me to let anyone else drive it for insurance reasons. When, inevitably, it was wrecked, their response was: We are angry with you, not Nicole. She is much more responsible than you, and you are the one who disobeyed us. There was the series of attractive, athletic, if mildly mentally incapacitated boyfriends I was forced to make idle small talk with at dinner after dinner, but I digress. As well as grow fearful of possible retaliation in person if not in print.

So I will end with one of my favorite Amy and Nicole stories which gives, I think, a taste of our dynamic and will put me in a good mood for the rest of the day, remembering. It was the end of the summer, and Nicole had flown to Boston to head to college with me. The aforementioned car, before its demise, was packed full of our stuff, and when we were ready, we said good-bye to my parents and got on the road. Not ten minutes into the trip we had our first argument, about directions, my bete noire and a particular strength of Nicole's. As I was driving, another bete noire of mine, I was feeling defensive, and Nicole was likely feeling on edge, which is another way of saying "concerned about her personal safety." Although it is a rule of thumb among those who know me well to completely disregard anything I have to say on the subject of navigation, and although I usually acquiesce quickly if anyone offers up so much as a hunch, this time I would not back down, and Nicole--who is stubborn and likes the idea of punishing me with my own stubbornness and did not have the advantage of being behind the wheel, had no choice but to sit and seethe as I drove in the direction I felt was the right one...for about a hundred and fifty miles.

By this point, I was starting to get a little nervous. Nothing looked familiar, and Nicole was exuding irritation, and all I wanted was to be pulling up to the Main Gate where we could unload the car and make sure we got the best two rooms in our five-bedroom student house. Finally, Nicole spoke. Do you smell anything? she asked. I shook my head no, but there was a smell in the air, hard to place but distinctive. Do you see anything unusual by the side of the road? she asked. I looked. Sand. Grass, set back from the sand. My stomach was starting to feel a little bit funny. At the next possible opportunity, I pulled into a lot and turned around. We were at the beach. Cape Cod. It was indisputable.

Which would have been fine. But we went to school in Poughkeepsie.