Riverdale

My immediate colleagues are two dudes, one of whom works here in Munich with me and the other of whom works in our office in London. It's sort of difficult to collaborate with someone over skype, but we make it work, communicating mostly via stupid youtube videos of cats.

At work, I have to sound British, at least in print. I've mostly mastered their odd spellings of things; however, there are lots of moments in which the guys will say something like "All right, I'll check your newsletter, on it like a car bonnet," and I will be like, "Okay..." and they will go "OH NO, JESS DOESN'T KNOW WHAT A CAR BONNET IS!" and then Google image search will save me.

On occasion, it works the other way. Very often there is some American thing that applies perfectly to the situation at hand, but when I try to reference it - say, the 35W bridge collapse, or some idiocy of the Republican party - I am greeted with blank stares.

My one colleague works completely alone in our office in London. We're going to eventually hire more people, but for now it's just a room with four desks. We always joke that, because he's alone in the room, he probably doesn't actually have to wear pants. (Except pants, for the British, are underwear, so instead I say "jeans".) In particular, I say I have this image of him just sitting in his chair, eating a slice of pizza and wearing a paper crown. It is very vivid in my mind.

And then yesterday, just as we were coming back from lunch, I realized why. It is because he looks EXACTLY LIKE the character Jughead.

You know, from Archie! Archie comics! I loved Archie comics as a kid, despite their repetitive storylines, unrealistic breast sizes on females, and tenuous grip on reality. I assumed everyone did.

"Who's Jughead?" my in-the-office colleague asked.

 

SERIOUSLY?

"Just... just google!" I said, and he did, and he said "Oh my God, it is! It's him!" and we marvelled for a minute at the spitting image of my other colleague that had appeared on both of our screens.

And then he said, "Wait, well, I suppose that's me."

 

And holy shit, my other colleague is pretty much Archie. He has the same genial attitude and fiery red hair. He is even dating a blonde girl who has a Bettyish charm.

It is extraordinary. I was too excited, I wanted to tell the world, and then I realized that there was absolutely nobody at work - I am the only American and the only person who has ever conceivably read the terribleness that is Archie comics. Nobody else would find this as charming as I found it (although the two British guys were pretty chuffed).

I sort of just writhed in agony and then said "Oh well..." and went back to my usual buzzing productivity.

America.

Mourning

Since getting into Iowa, I've moved from elation to sheer terror; I can only hope the pendulum will swing back at some point, because this is ridiculous. I spend my days oscillating between scrawling in notebooks ("oh god, what if I get there and everyone but me has this whole stack of finished stories, and I am stuck submitting some dumb tripe about a horse that walks on water? panic panic panic") and lying prone in bed, clinging to my boyfriend as we watch ceaseless episodes of The Office.

It's not that I don't think this is right. I still think it will be a marvelous experience (or marvellous, if I'm writing in my British alter ego voice). I am thrilled that for two years, my job will just be to make things up and write them down, fun things, creative things, non-dishwasher-tablet-related things, with occasional teaching and madcap adventures in summer waitressing thrown in. 

But jesus, it is hard to leave Munich. I timed this badly. Graduate school should not start in the summer. It should start in January, when the outdoors is cold and hopeless and you have no choice but to crowd into a coffee shop and write; not right now, when the English gardens is fecund and moist right outside my back door. It's 11:40 on a Thursday and the courtyard of our building is still buzzing, awash in excited football fans. It is a delicious city in which to be young, and a city which it's hard to leave, especially in summer.

My parents, aunt and uncle visited two weeks ago and it was a thrilling whirlwind of tourism and restaurant activities. They buzzed around Germany and Austria (Vienna, Lackendorf, Melk, Salzburg), but they seemed to like Munich the best. Sitting at my favorite coffee shop, my parents stared out at the cobblestoned streets and murmured, "I can see why you like this place." Of course, they then added, "Iowa's going to be great too!" but you could sort of see it in their eyes - the realization that Munich really is a nearly-perfect city. You can swim in its rivers and drink in its parks; there is no crime, and everything is delicious pastel colors. What more could you want?

And of course: when I talk about Munich I am not just talking about Munich. There is something else that is perfect here too, something beautiful and irreplaceable, and although he has promised to come with me to that unknown commodity that is America, we have no idea how long it will take. Last time I left him I knew I would be coming back, that we'd be together in five months, and it was still nearly impossible to walk through those security gates and see him standing there behind me, stuck in Europe and terribly sad. I know I will do it again this time, but I'm not sure how.

It's raining now, and the football fans have screamed and run indoors. Everything changes. The rain sounds violent, the way it comes in Munich, smacking itself against the concrete and being all Sturm und Drang about itself - but from indoors, typing on my laptop, it is quite pleasant. I think I have to take solace in that, because there is a lot more of this being indoors and listening to rain business to come. It's just going to be different, and that's all there is to it.