I'm just going to drop D-L off in Switzerland

When I opened my eyes the wooden armoire in the corner and the maroon star pattern patchwork quilt I was under both looked unfamiliar. Then I remembered my baked bean/cassoulet friend and I had sneaked out of the writers’ conference early to catch up on news over a dinner her husband had bought of poulet roti, salad, bread and cheese. Their house is in the mountains overlooking Geneva and even on the misty night as we talked we could see the outline of lights across the lake. We nibbled fruit from oval shaped bowls fired in volcanic ash giving them blue and brown hues. They had bought them in Japan when they were visiting their son, and we had listened to music of a New Zealand singer popular in Japan. That CD was the present from the same son.

The next day found us back in the conference, but because our various wanderings had kept us out of Geneva at the same time, we decided to do another sneak – this time to drink lots of tea and make a bigger dent in topics we had only begun to probe. Besides sharing many ideas and dreams, one of the bonds in this relationship is that we find so few internationals who grew up in the same time period with a good New England background.

We were able to arrange a date later this month to meet before she takes off again, but as she prepared to drive me home she called her husband on the phone who was meeting their English-based son in Bern.

‘I’m just going to drop D-L off in Switzerland, then I’m going home,’ she said just as if she was saying, ‘I’m dropping her at the grocery store not in a different country.’

We crossed what my daughter called the non-serious border. No one even asked us if we had any merchandise to declare, but four bus stops later I was officially dropped off in my country and ready to head to my home on the other side of the lake.