Meeting Sara and Nate

I remember meeting Sara for the first time at a concert at the Freight and Salvage. I had come with an old friend from high school. Jess, my friend, was here mostly to watch her new boyfriend play the mandolin. The guy was cute, despite his overly long pirate beard. Chill, somehow, and present. The show was good too, even though I’d never heard the band before. I made a note of their name, hoping to look them up later. The music made me feel at ease. Happy.

I’d been anxious about coming, despite Jess’ assurances that we’d have a great time. Coming home to the Bay felt disorienting, after three years in Germany. My sense of fitting into my own life felt strangely ambiguous. Like a former favorite outfit, fallen out of favor, worn again after you find it at the back of the closet. Oh, I used to love this, you think. You put it on, look in the mirror and it looks like you’re wearing a costume of the person you used to be. Who was I, now that I was back? 

Our house, my room, even my friendship with Jess, everything was permeated by an eerie double vision. Like I was living with one half of myself a seemless continuation of my old life, while other half of me was firmly holding on to the way it had felt to be in Germany only a few days ago. Even the light here was different. Brighter, somehow, like a pair of amber sunglasses. Like everything was tinted the color of nostalgic memories. A dream of my old, younger, life, just the way I had left it. I wondered how long it would take before reality would return to a single track. 

Predictably I lost Jess’ attention the moment the show was over. She’d run off to find pirate beard guy backstage while everyone else was filtering out, waving at me that she’d be back soon. Hard to compete with fresh infatuation, I guess. I was milling about in the entry space, wondering how long to wait for her. Was she expecting me to give her a ride? Maybe she’d get a ride with pirate beard guy. Was I a terrible friend if I just left? I followed the last stragglers outside and waited. 

“That was a great concert” someone said behind me. I turned around, to see a blonde woman grin at me. She wore glasses, and painted bottlecap earrings. Somehow I liked her immediately. “My friend is dating pirate beard guy.” I said, which made her grin more broadly. “That is quite the beard, isn’t it”, she said. I relaxed, and let myself flow into a conversation with her. When I got a text from Jess, twenty minutes later, telling me not to wait, I wasn’t even upset with her. I talked to Sara for another hour at the curb, before we exchanged phone numbers. 

***

The second time I met Sara is also the first time I met Nate. Somehow the universe had magically arranged itself such that this wonderful, funny, easy-to-get-along-with woman, who felt like my long lost sister, was part of my psychology graduate program. Part of me felt a bit dazed by that coincidence. Suspicious. Like whatever fairy creature had granted me this unspoken wish might come back later to demand the life of my firstborn child. 

We were at the official reception happy hour for the incoming psychology grad students. There were twelve of us, and a smattering of older grad students and professors. You could recognize the newbies by their nervous looks. A middle aged woman in a sweater with elbow patches handed us each a flute of champagne. It felt like a form of initiation into the world of academic adulthood. Like they wanted to make sure that we, and everyone else, know that while we were partying undergrads with bad judgment last year, this year we’re hardworking researchers. The hallowed halls of academia received us. Except that, in this case, the hallowed halls took the form of a brutalist building named Tolman Hall, all weathered concrete and square windows, that has since been demolished. The new psychology building was modern and made almost entirely out of glass. I kinda missed the old building. 

Nate was one of two men in our class otherwise made up of women. That’s psychology grad school for you. He looked boyish with his clean shaven face and lanky limbs. His blond hair was cut short, and his large, long-lashed blue eyes were beautiful, or would have been called beautiful if he were a woman. His gaze was sweet and a little bit mesmerizing. He had the habit, as I would learn in time, of keeping long eye contact, making women fall for him.

Sara was there, as I walked in, talking to two other women. She waved me over immediately, to include me in their conversation. I remember feeling so grateful. Like her outgoingness balanced my shyness, her groundedness soothing my anxiety. She was wearing a classy black cocktail dress that emphasized her height and curves. It contrasted with her chunky necklace of seaglass and shells. I later learned that she had made the necklace herself. That Sara and I both liked crafts, creating things that were beautiful and one-of-a-kind. Things that nobody else had.

The event progressed in casual group conversations, our new colleagues asking us about our research interests and relevant undergrad experiences. I remember feeling elated, grown-up, full of potential. Or maybe I had simply grown in social status. There was an atmosphere of optimism in the room, telling us that we were there as the hand-selected elite, capable of changing the world through science. I felt proud, and young, and old, at the same time.