Before the era of Facebook, Instagram, or any real social media platforms, there was a method of connecting to someone your age on the other side of the world: pen pals. I’m not quite as ancient as the original pen-and-paper pals, but as a child, I always loved the idea of having one. As fate would have it, when I was a Sophomore in high school we had a foreign exchange student who ended up in my Drama class.

Her name was Inge and she seemed to have a permanent joy emanating from her; if you looked at her she smiled, and pretty soon, you were smiling too. Getting to know her was far more interesting than anything else that happened in Drama class, and it wasn’t long before she mentioned that she had several friends that would love to have an American pen pal of sorts, via email. I volunteered my services. For a girl in a small town California high school, a Dutch pen pal was about as exciting as things got. And so I was introduced to my friend Michiel, or rather beachbabe4_6_85 introduced herself to Michiel and for some reason, he replied to the girl behind that obnoxious email address.

Our first few emails flew across the web nearly seventeen years ago. Despite my inability to ever follow through with any of my great ideas, I managed to keep my pen pal around. Although that probably speaks more of his character than of mine. M is a few years older than me, and has always been seemingly wiser and more rational, and somehow, he kept responding to me; perhaps he was entertained by my rollercoaster of insanity and life occurrences.

When I was accepted to my dream college, he cheered me on. When I dropped out of that dream college my second year and moved back home defeated and lost, he sent me The Alchemist from Tanzania where he was working at the time. I still have that copy. I still tell people that is my favorite book, because I really felt Paulo Coelho’s story pulled me out of dark place and taught me to see the beauty of being open to the unplanned twists and turns that life throws at you.

We met once, in New York City when I was twenty-two. It was a weekend trip, and like the big chicken that I am, I made my parents go with me. I was scared of coming face to face with the man that knew me probably better than most people at the time; vulnerability is not one of my natural strengths. I remember only telling him a few weeks before the trip, and like a mature person, he made fun of me but was very understanding. The trip was incredible.

Even with my parents tagging along, we had a blast . We stayed in Brooklyn, we navigated the Subway, we took the ferry to Staten Island. We drank Sangria on a hidden cobblestone street somewhere around the financial district and laughed about everything our Brazilian bike guide told us on our Central Park tour. But at the end of the weekend, we both went back home to our lives.

That trip was ten years ago. We stopped regularly communicating about eight years ago when I had to cancel a Pacific Northwest road trip we had planned due to the fact that I accidentally got pregnant and would be getting married around the time we should have been roaming around Oregon. It broke my heart because I knew there were feelings there deeper than platonic friendship, but fate told me to head in a different direction, and I can’t say that I regret listening. I do regret hurting my friend, and I do regret never expressing how much his friendship meant to me over the years.

Fast forward to today. We’re both married. I have three kids. He works for a big international company. I still live in California. He lives in Kazakhstan. We still remember each other birthdays for the most part. Instead of email, we use Facebook these days. This year, in my birthday exchange, I mentioned a thought of possibly interviewing him about his experience of relocating from the Netherlands to Kazakhstan.

Ever since our last presidential election and this rising trend of extreme nationalism, I must admit it is a topic that has been floating around in partial jest. He agrees to the interview, and not in the vague, “sure, some time in the future” way, but in a “this is when I’m free, what time works for you” way. Efficient and polite, maybe it is a cultural difference from Americans?

The morning of the interview, I am a mess as usual. I had my questions scrawled in my notebook, but my one-year-old is fussy and my two older ones are also home on spring break. Somehow, we manage to make it work. We catch up a bit. I ask him some questions. We veer off topic from time to time. I scribble incoherent notes which I may be able to form into a coherent piece. Even after all of this time, and living in what seems to be different worlds, it is nice to talk.

I had forgotten how much I used to look forward to his emails, his perspective on whatever absurd things I had to say at the time. Marriage and parenting can consume a somewhat introverted person like myself, and many of my conversations revolve around kids or school. It was nice to step out of the normal roles I play everyday, and just be Melinda, talking to her old friend Michiel about life.