“Where have you traveled?”
I can’t tell if he’s asking to be courteous or if he’s genuinely interested. “I know you’re busy. I didn’t mean to keep you.”
“No worries.” He glances at his watch. “I’m actually ahead of schedule today. Shocking, just so you know. I make a habit of being late.” He smiles and I can’t help but return it.
“Europe, Asia, all over the US,” I say it without pride or thought. My travels mean little to me. The places blend together, faces of people I have met lost in a sea of those I have left behind. Where I am matters little, only that I am no longer where I was. I haven’t decided where I will go next. Not back to New York, where I received the call about Dad. Find somewhere that had no memories to haunt. “What about you?” I ask, trying to be polite. “Do you travel often?”
“Not as much as I used to. I have to be here, for my patients.” Though he stands still, his eyes wander, taking on a faraway look. “I used to write for Let’s Go. That was the last time I traveled like I would want to.”
“You went to Harvard?” I had used Let’s Go guidebooks dozens of times when I arrived at new destinations. Written by Harvard students, they became my go-to for how to travel on a budget. “For undergraduate or medical?”
“Both.” He motions around him. “But California is home. The Bay Area’s pull proved too strong to resist when it came time to decide my residency. What about you?”
“Stanford.” Speaking of mundane things such as travel and life is a novelty I cannot take for granted. When you leave as many places as I have, you have little in common with those who remain. “You went to high school here?” I imagine we are near the same age.
“The Monroe School. Down the road actually.”
The school tells me a lot about him. A man born into success, offered the very best from a young age. The parents of the children who attend often talk about their private jets and front-row seats at world events. That he mentions it without boast or pride says what kind of man he is.
“What about you?” he asks.
“Gunn High School.” Consistently ranked as one of the top high schools in the country, the campus often felt like a natural precursor to Stanford. “In Palo Alto.”
“Great school. I have a lot of friends who graduated from there.”
We don’t compare names of those we knew. It is useless to do so. I lived in my own world in high school, cut off from the community because I had to be. I could never bring friends home. My father’s behavior was too unpredictable to trust. If anyone witnessed his loss of temper, the reputation I had carefully cultivated would have been tarnished. He was always on his best behavior with the Indian community and his coworkers. He relished his image as a powerful man, benevolent to his children, doing everything for them. Our school friends were of no significance to him, so he cared little if he was cruel or demeaning in front of them.
“Then on to Stanford.” He is clearly impressed. “What hall did you live in?”
Excited about the full experience of college, most Stanford students choose to live on campus, and those who do pick one of ten dormitory houses. After the first year, a student decides to continue living in the same hall or to move on to an upper-class residence. Your hall is a critical part of your experience as a freshman. One that I almost missed out on. “Roble Hall. I moved in a few months late,” I admit before I remember to censor myself. “Dad wouldn’t allow me to live on campus before then.”