Help save the youth of America

There was a time in my life that was Billy Bragg. I can’t say exactly when it was, not the year or time. What I do know is that I was in love for the first time and the boy had made me a mix tape (yes, of course, an actual cassette) and on it he put “She’s Got a New Spell.” Somehow, in my sheltered existence, surrounded by high school friends obsessed with past masters like the Beatles and Zeppelin, I’d missed Bragg. Now here I was, falling in love and finding Billy Bragg at the same time and there was no way on this suddenly brighter green earth that it was pure coincidence. I hadn’t before heard anything quite so raw and beautiful -- his brilliant, poetic, tender, funny lyrics delivered in that rough, working-class bloke English accent. Somehow, it all perfectly expressed the awkwardness and exuberance, the peculiarly deep and specific fumblings of love.

I was also in my teens, itching to matter and belong, aching to fight for something good and righteous and there Bragg was again, singing about unions and justice and war. When I saw him live for the first time, my heart had been split wide open in the way even people who don't know you can see on your face. It was April 1991, and I saw him at Graham Chapel on the campus of Washington University in St. Louis. We sat in ornate wooden pews to listen to his passions fill the hall and it was somehow both righteously ironic and rightly reverent to see him play in a house of worship. It was just Bragg and his pianist/backup singer and when their voices met in the tiny church to sing "The Price I Pay," it hurt so much I couldn't see straight and there was nowhere else in the world I wanted to be. Some years later I saw Bragg again at Mississippi Nights in St. Louis, just after the Mermaid Avenue recordings came out. There was a buzz in the house because the word on the street was that Wilco’s Jeff Tweedy – a native of Belleville, just outside St. Louis – might make a surprise appearance. It didn’t happen. But it didn’t matter.

Tonight, we saw Billy Bragg perform at The Ark in Ann Arbor. Somehow, in our six months here, every show I’ve wanted to see at The Ark has conflicted with a fellowship event or a trip out of town. And so while we lined up in the freezing cold at 6:45 for a 7:30 door opening, I wasn’t sure what we were in for.

The venue, as it turns out, is a teeny thing. With seating for 400, the vast majority is general admission and that meant that, despite not having tickets for reserved seats, we sat three rows from the small stage. When Billy Bragg came out, he was not more than six feet from me.

Something strange happens to musicians – they get older. Billy Bragg’s hair is graying and at my proximity I couldn’t ignore the laugh lines creasing around his eyes. But enough hasn’t changed that he’s a timeless musician, entertainer and, at times, political stumper. In fact, until both war and love are out of fashion, Billy Bragg’s job is secure.

It’s not all fun and games with Billy Bragg. In fact, his critics and detractors will seize on his mixing his left-wing politics with beautiful music, ignoring its rich tradition. Yes, he feeds us history and lobbies for a change in the way the world works – but he also tells us sweet and funny anecdotes about Woody Guthrie and Ingrid Bergman.

Still, I’m wondering if there will ever be a time when anthems like “Help Save the Youth of America” will be less embarrassingly appropriate. It’s been 20 years since the lyrics first called us to self-reflection and they’re perhaps even more jarring than ever before:

Help save the youth of America Help save them from themselves Help save the sun-tanned surfer boys And the Californian girls

When the lights go out in the rest of the World What do our cousins say They're playing in the sun and having fun, fun, fun Till Daddy takes the gun away

From the Big Church to the Big River And out to the Shining Sea This is the Land of Opportunity And there's a Monkey Trial on TV

A nation with their freezers full Are dancing in their seats While outside another nation

Is sleeping in the streetsDespite pleading guilty to a head cold – and his voice cracking in places to illustrate the point – there was no lack of passion (or corny joke-telling) in tonight’s performance. When he sang of love, Billy Bragg stripped away years of experience and my heart, young again, beat faster and lighter for just a moment. When he sang of justice, of calling for accountability for our leaders, I believed again that change was within our reach, and that we could have a good soundtrack for the revolution.

We started this week with a riveting Monday lunch seminar featuring Len Niehoff, attorney for the Michigan Press Association and University of Michigan law professor who specializes in First Amendment Law. In just presenting us with facts, he painted a grim picture of the government’s version of our freedom. He had me, intentionally or not, quaking in my comfy shoes about my rights, which are currently circling the drain.

So while Len Niehoff and Billy Bragg probably share a few of the same ideas, I came away from the former concerned and the latter hopeful, if only in the slightest way. That’s no commentary on the value or validity of what each “speaker” offered me. Both truths are grim and frightening, both require immediate and intensive action. I’m just saying that if you throw in a couple of love songs, nothing seems quite so impossible anymore.

Random observations at week's end.

1. While it takes me ten full days overseas before I'm ready to return home, it takes only five full days at home before I'm ready to travel again. 2. Screenwriting is fun. Fun!

3. People, we have a mere five weeks of fellowship left. The Final Four will happen again next year.

4. Zingerman's strawberry balsamic chocolate gelato is gorgeous.

5. I deserve the ridiculous look I get every time I order a non-fat decaf latte.

Newfound(land) glory

At one point, I thought the balcony might collapse. In the front row of the balcony section, I could see the lighting equipment shake and the railing was moving up and down, up and down, nearly a full one-quarter of an inch. It was possible that we would die. It would not, all things considered, be the worst way to go - in a collapse of the Michigan Theater balcony, a story that would no doubt become legendary in the special way things do on college campuses. But it would have been a bit of a bummer, seeing as we were in the middle of my first Great Big Sea concert and, when I wasn't staving off panic attacks about my impending doom, I was having a rollicking time.

My standards have changed drastically over the years. Great evenings don't require much from me. But spending some time with good friends (in this case, played by Graham and Rainey) and listening to some grand music ranks high enough that I'm more than happy to leave the power-drinking and bar-dwelling to the rest of the world.

I'm no expert in the traditional folk music of Newfoundland - although, after tonight, I'm considerably better versed than before - but it has a lot in common with traditional Irish folk music. Except, perhaps, Newfoundland has more songs about horses falling through the ice. I'm also generally one of those people who doesn't enjoy concerts as much if I don't know the music going in. And while I'd heard of Great Big Sea in the past, I'd only actually listened to a few of their songs which, on disk, sounded a bit to me like Elvis Costello heading up the Pogues. Which is not a bad thing.

But it's hard to express what a difference it makes if the band's fun. Now, I know there's a legacy of rockers-as-assholes, especially in a week when the Sex Pistols refused to acknowledge their entree into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. I get that, especially when you're young and into self-flagellation, it helps to have rock gods who look down on you in the way you think you deserve.

There's also something to be said about musicians who are mostly that and who appear to enjoy what they do. There are few bands, I think, that honestly offer much point to seeing them live anymore. There are even fewer who are born performers, who put as much energy into each appearance as the audience does.

While it always makes my more "alternative" friends cringe when I proclaim it, my very favorite band to see live is Barenaked Ladies. Not only does their music play every bit as well live as recorded, but these guys have a hilarious on-stage presence. They indulge in banter with the crowd, improvise and dance and you're pretty sure you're not getting the exact same show in another town. It's almost, in fact, as if they appreciate you're there.

In my college days, bands like Poi Dog Pondering would take to the stage and own the whole thing, cramming themselves and their multitude of instruments into every corner. Now, while their music didn't always sound that great live, they made up for it in energy. They performed.

Great Big Sea is one of those bands. They switch off instruments and roles at a dizzying pace, so you're never quite sure who's the bodrhan expert, who best handles the accordian and who you'd turn to first in a tin whistle emergency.

There was no opening band tonight, which is rare these days. But that allowed Great Big Sea to deliver a two-and-a-half hour show with an intermission in between. The first half they dedicated to the traditional songs covered on their latest album before returning in the second half with a mix of traditional and, for lack of a better word, "rock" music.

Great Big Sea are not, even in their own compositions, the most original band on earth - but I think that's part of what makes them so accessible. Half of their repertoire follows the familiar beat of pub songs. If you've heard one build up to a frantic jig, you've heard them all. But that doesn't mean you don't want to hear them all anyway, and get up and stomp your feet in time.

And even the most hard-edged music critic might find it hard to resist the genuine and sometimes hilarious banter tossed back and forth between lead singers Bob Hallett and Sean McCann. Because, even if I didn't know if before, it turns out I'm a sucker for a Newfoundland accent.

In the end, the balcony didn't come down, despite the stomping feet and jumping bodies of hundreds of fans doing their best to challenge the architecture. We survived the night to spill back out into the cold of Ann Arbor, a little buoyed by that very simple thing, that unequaled satisfaction of just having had a really good time.

Sixth graders call me Ms Smillie

The last time I was in middle school, if I recall correctly, I was miserable. Notes were being passed, rumors being spread, cliques formed, allegiances sworn and self-esteems being generally ruined. Today was a little different. Okay, a lot different. In cahoots with 826 Michigan, I arranged for some of us fellowship folks to help teach sixth graders about feature articles. And, I have to tell you, it was a blast.

It's part of a project the sixth graders undertake each year at Slauson Middle School - to interview an immigrant to the US and write a feature article about them. Jamie joined me for the morning session and we tag-teamed our way through an explanation of the basics of feature writing to the first group, comprising two separate classes brought together for the grand event.

In the afternoon, Chris and I did the same routine for a single class and then another double group. It's pretty amazing to catch these kids at this age - when they're figuring out what to read, where to get their information - and talk to them about journalism and news. They're still open to new ideas, still impressed by Real Live Journalists in front of them. It feels good to visit a world where you actually feel like you know something still and that maybe there is hope for the future of news and journalism. Where there's still a possibility of making a difference in some, small way.

I'll tell you this much - the sixth graders we saw today (although they grew increasingly sluggish as the day rolled on) show more enthusiasm for learning than most of the college kids I've encountered this year.

I've talked before about wanting to teach, eventually, and I've always thought I'd want to teach writing at the college level. I still think that's probably where I'd get the most enjoyment and flexibility -- but I could see the lure of teaching kids at this age, too.

I think the best part of my day came just after the first session Chris and I did together. He was looking at me afterwards, kind of wide-eyed, and I laughed and asked why he was staring. "I'm just amazed," he said. "You're really good at this."

And the thing is, I kind of am.

Not bragging. Just saying.

Meeting Mike Wallace

I've been so busy trying to update entries from our Istanbul trip (retroactively) that it occurs to me that I'm also failing to keep up with recording the present. Which means that I'm failing across the time-space continuum. What's a girl to do? Cry, for one thing. Especially when she realizes the fellowship ends six weeks from TODAY.

Six.

Weeks.

Is that even possible?

And as if to hit home the notion that we are stuck in a once-in-a-lifetime-experience-that-will-never-come-again, our first seminar back after spring break was a meeting with none other than Mike Wallace. Yes, that Mike Wallace. Legendary news veteran. University of Michigan Graduate. Kind and generous purchaser of the house in which the Knight-Wallace program lives.

I'm not often star struck - mostly because I'm not often anywhere near any actual stars. But I'll admit to feeling very much In The Presence of a Legend when the enigmatic Wallace entered the Wallace House on Tuesday. Here's a man who has been working as a journalist since the 1940s, for goodness sake. A man who has interviewed every single president since JFK, save one. (Can you guess who? I'll give you a hint: he's currently in office.) A man whose friends included Malcolm (X) and Martin (Luther King.) A man who helped shape TV news and investigative journalism as we know it. So, yeah. You could say I felt a little jittery as he entered the foyer. But, in the same token, I also felt like I was in the presence of a nice, old man - and I'm hoping that, with his 88th birthday approaching, Mr. Wallace won't consider my use of "old" prejorative, rather than the badge of honor I intend it to be.

As we do with every speaker, we went around the room introducing ourselves. But this time, we all also expressed our personal gratitude to Mr. Wallace for his role in supporting this fellowship and, by extension, changing all of our lives. To say I was moved many times is an understatement. No matter what this past six months or so has meant to each of us, there's no arguing that it has had a huge impact - and we are all too aware of how precious our remaining time is.

I wish I could tell you everything Mr. Wallace shared with us, but I can't. Partly because it's off the record, of course. And partly because I have a memory like a sieve. What I can tell you is the Mr. Wallace was funny and friendly and generous with his knowledge. And that he seemed genuinely touched by our appreciation. Also (and I don't think mind me sharing this) that he is as confused and frustrated as the rest of us about the future of journalism as we know it.

(Note...I just wrote several paragraphs on meeting with independent broadcast journalist Jay Allison today - and then lost it all when I forgot to save. There's a chance I'll remember my genius observations but probably not until I stop banging my head against the wall.

Tot ziens, Amsterdam

KLM - Amsterdam to Detroit Finally, we’re making our way back to the states. I have mixed feelings, knowing that it means the last seven weeks of the fellowship will begin, a starter pistol and then the feeling of time just slipping away until this crazy-surreal existence comes to a screeching halt. On the other hand, I’m about ready to curl up in my own bed with my cats nestled against me for warmth and take my pick from an endless supply of clean socks and underwear.

We’ve spent the past couple of days killing time in Amsterdam. Rainey and Graham had already arrived here from Florence on Tuesday, so Wednesday we planned to hook up with them at the Holiday Inn. (Another travel tip – the Holiday Inn, which claims to be in Central Amsterdam, isn’t. In fact, it’s pretty much a miss all around.) After check in, I crawled into bed for a nap while Chris kept himself busy and by the time I awoke, I was filled with a great sadness and a pressing need simply to spend some time with myself. Thus, I stayed “home” in our hotel room and hibernated while Chris joined Rainey and Graham for dinner with their friend Bill, who lives in Amsterdam, and his girlfriend.

By Thursday morning, I’d had a good ten hours of sleep and we met up with Rainey and Graham in the lobby before taking a tram to the Vincent Van Gogh Museum, where we met up with Gerard and Kim. It’s insane how nice it is to see these people again, probably made even more so by the unavoidable encroaching knowledge that our time is limited.

The museum itself is lovely, a modern box beautifully juxtapositioned next to the ornate, antique façade of the Rijksmuseum next door. Inside is a generous collection of Van Gogh’s works, many of which I’d never seen before. Of course, there were plenty of famous pieces too, such as The Potato Eaters and The Bedroom. In addition, the upper galleries offer up the works of such contemporaries as Gaugin, Monet, Pissaro, Seurat, Broussard and Toulouse-Lautrec. Rainey was particularly moved by the museum’s continuing narrative, illustrating the relationship between Vincent and his younger brother Theo who was his patron, his supporter and his best friend. They were so close, in fact, that after Vincent died slowly from a self-inflicted gunshot, Theo rushed to his bedside and lay with his head on the same pillow as his brother until Vincent’s life ran out. Theo, apparently victim to tenuous physical and emotional health himself, died six months later.

After the Van Gogh museum, I led the gang back through Leidseplein and down the Leidsestraat in search of V&D's La Place, where Chris and I ate earlier in the week. It’s a wonderful gourmet food court of sorts, although that description doesn’t fairly describe the various stations where one can pile plates high with salads, roasted vegetables, fresh-baked breads, flat bread sandwiches and a host of made-to-order specialties like Siam noodles, pizza, stir fried fresh veggies and meats. Far less crowded than on our visit on Saturday, we were able to get an even better glimpse at the generous piles of fresh veggies, the giant bowls of fruit at the smoothie stand, the luscious pastries in the bakery area and the house-made soups bubbling in large cauldrons. Suffice it to say, everyone got something they liked and we were well fed.

Back to the streets we went, where Gerard and Kim split off to check out the Rijksmuseum while the rest of us hoofed it down to Prinsengracht and along the canal to the Anne Frank House. It’s the strangest of experiences to enter a place you’ve already sketched out in your mind and stepping behind the bookcase and into the entrance I’d first read about decades ago was like stepping into a different world.

Although the rooms have been left unfurnished, apparently at Otto Frank’s request, it isn’t difficult to imagine just how much more cramped everything would have been. Wonder gave way to deep sorrow and amazement upon entering the room in which Anne Frank slept and wrote her famous “Dear Kitty” diary entries. Still on the walls are the film star photos she cut out of magazines and pasted up in an optimistic attempt to brighten her tiny new world.

I initially thought it impossible to be unmoved by the experience – until a teenage British school girl pushed past us, loudly complaining about how bored she was. For some reason, witnessing such absolute detachment and lack of compassion just compounded the lack of humanity Anne Frank’s demise has come to represent. It’s a testament to her legacy, however, to see a wall featuring copies of her diary translated into virtually every language imaginable.

I’m not doing the experience justice. I’m not even touching on the moving video testimonies playing throughout the facility, nor the sight of Anne Frank’s Red Cross card or even her handwriting – changing between print and fancy cursive – on the pages of her actual diary. Nor the letters written by Otto Frank to family members after the war, expressing his desperate but fading hope of finding his daughters still alive. I’ve been grappling a little of late with my own version of survivor’s guilt and, somehow, having it framed by the shattering experience of Mr. Frank has made everything a little easier to bear.

Despite the cold, there was a bright sunshine awaiting us as we emerged from the building Anne and her family left as possessions of the Gestapo. It’s impossible, I think, to come away from that experience and not glimpse Amsterdam in a different light – to imagine that it must have looked so similar when Anne Frank was one of the girls whizzing by on her bicycle. Not many cities make it easy to squint your eyes and stretch your imagination and wind up decades away. Amsterdam does.

Thus, Rainey, Graham, Chris and I spent the next hour or so wandering around the streets of the Jordaan district before making our way back to the Leidsestraat in search of a warm beverage to thaw us from the chilly winds. On Kim’s recommendation, we sought out the café at the top of the Metz & Co. department store. While the views were stunning, the service was curt as they were closing in ten minutes and while they agreed to serve tea and coffee, we were also rushed to pay the bill and asked to leave. In other words, if you want to enjoy the sumptuous view it offers, go earlier in the day. Still, all was forgiven by the time we fulfilled Graham’s goal of eating a freshly made waffle, which we enjoyed drizzled with warm chocolate sauce.

As we stood waiting for a tram to take us back to the hotel, the sky offered forth a strange and brief burst of the most perfectly formed tiny little balls of hail. Were we not slap-happy, it could have been a magical moment. Instead, I said, “What perfect, tiny little balls.” To which Graham responded, “That’s what Smurfette said.” And away we were, business as usual.

A brief respite back at the hotel and we were on the tram again, heading to meet their friend Bill for dinner. The temperature had continued to drop and the cobblestone streets were dangerously icy, particularly where they curved up into bridges across the canals. We were nearly wiped out by a Mercedes driver who decided to back up without looking behind him and bore witness to more than one cyclist wiping out on the black ice.

Brave souls that we were, we made it to the Indonesian restaurant of Bill’s choosing, all in one piece and Vanessa – who had arrived back in Amsterdam just a few hours before – joined us for dinner. It was my first experience with Indonesian food and I enjoyed everything we had, a family-style table full of lamb, beef, chicken and vegetables in peanut-y or coconut-y sauces of varying degrees of spiciness.

Setting back out onto the street again, stuffed after a glorious meal, Bill led us on a mini-walking tour whose highlights included Dam Square and a quick shuffle up both sides of the Red Light District’s main drag. Honestly, I could have done well without the last part. I practically got high on second hand dope smoke and haven’t been offered ecstasy or cocaine that many times in my life. But that doesn’t compare to the odd experience of being a woman walking down the streets where young women wag their tails in narrow red-lit windows, beds visible behind them, the white lace of their bikinis and lingerie glowing under black lights.

It left me in sort of a grumpy and disturbed mood for the tram ride back to the hotel, but I abandoned in soon enough to finish the last of our packing – hardly a feat, as everything’s dirty at this point – and fall into bed. Morning came too soon and we were back at Schipohl caught up in the most ridiculous and over-crowded check-in set up I’ve ever seen.

Coming back to the states involves passing a brief interview with a security inspector before boarding the plane and each of us had to answer a variety of probing questions trying to explain who we were, what a fellowship is, why we were in Istanbul, why we flew to Milan mid-week, etc. But we all passed and with the exception of Charles Clover – whose connecting flight from London must not have come in on time – we all got on our plane, albeit after a delay caused by a wonky smoke detector. (It’s okay, though. I don’t mind waiting for something I feel pretty strongly we need to have working.)

We’ll touch down on time in Detroit, which always makes me wonder why they don’t just schedule the arrival time for earlier if they’re always going to make it up in the air. But never mind. When we land, it will be just before 1 pm Detroit time, 7 pm Amsterdam. I’ve gone back and forth about a zillion times about this but I’ve decided for a number of reasons not to immediately hop on another plane to St. Louis to make it to S.’s memorial service this evening. I’m still not certain it’s the right decision and I hope I won’t have regrets later, but I’m already exhausted and in pain and, as my friend Katie said, S. would probably have liked it better if I helped someone in her honor, rather than knocking myself out to get to her service and mourn her loss with a bunch of other people.

I hope she’s right, because I feel the need to get to my home, my kitties and rest. Until tomorrow, when two of my little nieces arrive to visit and I can scoop up their beautiful faces and kiss their cheeks, all rosy and bright with life, until they’re all wet and sloppy and begging me to stop. It sounds like the best plan I’ve had in days.

Keep in touch

I was worried that I wouldn’t know Deborah but the minute our bus pulled into Milan Central Station from Malpensa Airport, I saw her. Tall and blonde, she stood out immediately from the crowd of dark-haired Italians milling around her. As I got off the bus, we caught each others’ eyes and smiled. I met Deborah when we were four years old and our back gardens abutted in our Glasgow neighborhood. When I stepped off the bus Sunday afternoon, we hadn’t seen each other for 16 years. I knew it would take us a little while to find a comfortable stride with one another and for her to get to know Chris, but we had the distraction of Milan help us along. After dropping our luggage at her flat, the three of us embarked on an inaugural and lengthy walk around the center of the city. We strolled past the Natural History Museum and down cobblestone side streets boasting the best brands in international fashion. We emerged from the busy shopping streets to see the back of the unmistakable, white Duomo – like intricate lace or complex formations of wedding cake icing – rising in between two modern buildings.

The streets around the Duomo were packed with parents toting children dressed in costumes for Carnival and the bright shapes of paper confetti covered the pavement. We paid 6 Euros to take the lift up to the top of the Duomo (declining the 2 euro savings to hoof it up)/ It's a magnificent place up there, where we crawled across the marble slab roof tiles, snaked through narrow and ornate doorways to catch glimpses of the Escher-like lines and walls of the grand structure. From the top, we stared down at the masses on the streets below, milling around in groups, wandering like tiny, colorful ants making their way hither and yon.

Afterwards, we made our way inside the church, where mass was being held. Tourists milled around the back of the dark, cavernous interior beholding the giant stained glass windows, the ancient panels depicting biblical scenes and squinting through the heavy incense smoke. A few people waited patiently on a wooden bench to take confession while still others lit candles aglow. We came back out of the Duomo into the Piazza del Duomo, which was packed with folk enjoying a relatively warm and sunny Sunday afternoon and wandered through the glorious Galleria Vittorio Emanuele, its gaping antique archways and domed glass ceiling bearing light down on shoppers at Louis Vuitton and Prada and those taking coffee at the indoor “sidewalk” cafes.

On the other side, we emerged onto Piazza della Scala, where a giant sculpture of Leonardo da Vinci paid homage to one of Italy’s proudest sons. At the edge of the square sits La Scala and after being raised in an opera family with the near-mystical idea of one of the world’s greatest opera houses, I must say its façade is underwhelming nearly to the point of disappointment.

And we wandered more, and talked, and found ourselves circling the exterior of the Castello Sforzesco before succumbing to the ache of our feet and taking a beautiful old-fashioned wooden tram back towards Deborah’s flat to rest before dinner.

Milan, as seen from our plane, the windows of our bus and tram and even on foot, is perhaps not the Italy you think of if you’ve seen all the romantic movies and picturesque postcards. It is, first and foremost, an industrial town and the view from the top of the Duomo requires you to look hard to find the architectural gems vying for attention with commercial and industrial buildings.

Even at ground level, it’s initially hard to get past the graffiti, as it seems virtually no building is left unmarred. But if you keep your eyes upward, Milan has some beautiful rewards. There’s no end of gorgeous buildings with grand archways, ornate facades, elegant architectural details, quaint balconies or walkways leading to beautiful interior court yards.

And the point of the trip, after all, was mainly to see Deborah, who took us Sunday evening to Trattoria Toscana K2, an exceptional little restaurant with fabulous food and cheap prices. We slept so soundly in her bed that night – she insisted on taking the couch – that she was long gone to work Monday morning when I finally got going. Exhausted from so many days of travel, from trying to orient ourselves to three different cities in the past week, Chris and I decided just to walk more.

We did, more slowly exploring the areas we’d been the day before and stopping into the museum at La Scala. The window-shopping alone in Milan is an experience, even if I could fit into or afford anything the stores have to offer. Our feet were aching by the time late afternoon rolled around and we enjoyed a couple of cappuccinos at a café before heading back to Deb’s flat to rest.

I checked my email upon our return and received the dismaying news that my friend S. was found dead Saturday morning in St. Louis. It’s difficult to describe the shock I felt – and still feel – at the news. I met S. nine years ago in our recovery community and our similar no-nonsense styles attracted one another almost immediately. Although we were very different in so many ways, S. and I became very good friends. Not the kind that spend a great deal of time together, but the kind who were close no matter how much time passed between sightings.

Over the past nine years, she and I crossed paths time and again, rekindling our instant connection, even as our meeting schedules and busy lives seemed to keep us apart. She was one of only a small number of people to attend our wedding in 2001. And although we’d fallen out of touch again, she took me to lunch after my mother died and was so kind and supportive of me.

Again, life intervened and the last time I saw S. was probably more than a year ago. I heard she had some medical problems and I tried to email her, but the address bounced. I tried to call but got a strange, screechy sound on her answering machine. And then I meant to get back in touch. But I didn’t. We had friends in common and I knew we were both moving in nearby circles. I knew that she was having a rough time of life lately but felt comforted that she was going to meetings and reaching out to our mutual friends.

It’s impossible to describe the sadness I feel that S. is gone. There is, of course, selfish regret, the nagging and natural feeling that I simply should have been a better friend. (After all, last time we had lunch didn’t she say – despite the infrequency of our contact – that I was her “best friend”?) It’s both naïve and egotistical to wonder if she might still be alive if I hadn’t moved to Ann Arbor, if I’d been more present in her life, if I’d only somehow known….

The circumstances of S.’s death are still a mystery to me. I’m writing this from Amsterdam and relying on what tidbits I can get in emails from home. I know that she died Thursday night and that her daughters found her on Saturday. I didn’t know – until after her death – that she was in the process of getting a divorce. I know that she had been having some physical pain and was taking pain killers. And I know that she’s dead.

It’s difficult to explain how distance compounds the confusion of grief. How do you possibly make sense of any of it if you’re not there? Of course, I know this is a false notion because geography did nothing to help me process my mother’s death, of which S.’s death is a painful reminder. Both died suddenly, unexpectedly and entirely too young.

It was thoughts of S. I carried with me all day yesterday, as Chris and I took a train to beautiful Verona for the day. Such a romantic and beautiful city, rich with the Shakespearean lore of Romeo and Juliet (complete with statues and a tour through Juliet’s house). But through it all, the sadness nagged at me. For minutes at a time, a cobblestone street or first-century monument or fresco would distract me just long enough and then it would come rushing back – S.’s death. How could it…? What….? Why…?

It caught up with me on the train ride home, as I took my seat on an old rickety train, depressingly dirty. It seemed to have a tenuous relationship with the tracks and with the mountain background fading into the dusk sky, it was hard to focus on anything but the desolate railroad tracks, barren vineyards and industrial wasteland encroaching on the countryside. Every bump of the train seemed to fill me up with more sadness.

It struck me as more important than ever to value my last night in Milan with Deb and I did that over a fair seafood dinner and some girl chat until well past midnight. Then I went to bed and slept fitfully until we arose entirely too early to take a plane back to Amsterdam. At the airport, Deb and I said our goodbyes and made jokes about not taking 16 years to get back in touch. I looked at her and wondered how on earth my childhood playmate, my first best friend, and I got to be in our mid-thirties. Where did our lives go? Who have we become and how far is that, really, from who we were when last we knew each other?

I don’t know that answer to any of that. I know only that by this evening, Deborah had made the first move, sending me an email from Milan to say how much she enjoyed our visit. I’m achingly aware that staying in touch with someone is a chance that you’re given, and it’s your choice to take it. And since I don’t know what else to do, since the rest of the world is out of my control, the only thing I know to do is this: write back.