Anniversary story, part I

I met John the first day at university, the day before my 18th birthday. We both were living in a house for students in the honors program at our university (please keep any snarky comments about all those geeks and nerds living together to yourself, thank you very much) and I was going around, as I was wont to do, introducing myself to everyone.

I knocked on John's door. "I'm Lisa K. from Colorado," I said, beaming at him with my bright smile and very big hair. He shook my hand, and said "I'm John H. from Montana."

Years later, when we were telling someone the story of our engagement (which I want to write about today), we both remembered feeling quite a spark, or a thrill in the belly, or something truly extraordinary at that moment when we first shook hands. But we started as great friends. It would take two years before that friendship grew into romance, and that romance blossomed, of all times, during the half year I spent in France.

John is the one who drove me from our university to the airport to leave for my semester abroad. It was a rainy night (big surprise for the Pacific northwest in January) and it felt like I was leaving forever. We had both agreed, with all the seriousness and wisdom of our 20 and 21 years, that six months was a LONG time to be apart. It really would be best, we decided, if we dated other people while I was away.

But we both cried when I said goodbye as it was time for me to board (in the days when loved ones could actually walk you to your gate), and within weeks, we had both written letters that crossed in the air saying that while we appreciated the freedom of being able to see other people... neither of us particularly wanted to.

And those letters. We have real love letters, pages and pages written to each other three or four times a week, letters you can reread, letters with a few tears, and coffee stains, and smudged ink. The semester after I returned, all of the students at our university received email addresses -- and I think how lucky we are I made the trip before that happened -- because these letters wouldn't have existed, and they are such a wonderful chronicle of a wonderful time.

In one of those letters, John wrote that he wanted to come and visit me during his spring break. Those who knew John during his university years understand just how ridiculous this would have sounded at the time, coming from someone who survived a whole month on $5 (his meal plan having already been paid for...but his laundry perhaps not overly washed). But John said he was sure things would work out somehow, and he put the plane ticket on his emergency credit card (which I had never seen him use before) and planned to come to France from March 12-23, 1993.

My French host family was not so sure what to make of this. "But Lisa, he has long hair," they said. "I know," I said. "And Lisa, he has a BEARD," they said. "I know," I replied. "But Lisa... he has an EARRING. Are you sure he is a NICE boy?" they asked. "Yes," I said, "you will love him." After hearing that my parents knew he was coming and approved, they agreed he could stay at their apartment (although I was to sleep far away in another bedroom with their daughter).

I took the train to Paris to meet him. The city was in the midst of one of its strikes, so I had to walk, and walk, and walk to our meeting place at the Hotel Jean-Bart, where the study abroad students had stayed before heading to Dijon. He, too, was walking, and walking, and walking (bringing a care package of many clothes and gifts from my parents) from another train station. And none of that mattered, of course, as soon as we saw each other.

Being young and in love and in Paris is about as good as it gets. We spent the weekend wandering through the city, ducking into museums and coffee shops, eating "street" food like crepes and croque monsieurs, drinking coffee and wine and talking and laughing. One afternoon, walking along the Seine, we started talking about how our parents met. John's parents were high school sweethearts who started dating when they were 14 and 16. My parents met while in university and my dad may have proposed the first night he met my mom (or so I've heard in stories over the years).

And as we were walking along the river, talking about love, marriage, family and more, John said one of the most UNROMANTIC phrases ever uttered in the history of romance.

"You know," he said, "I wouldn't mind being married to you."