“On a shoot in Cambodia. You’d love it, Viv. I just did a study on the forest taking back the lost temples and cities over and around Angkor Wat. Fucking unreal.”
I sighed, thinking back on my more adventurous days. I’d picked my prospective colleges with my parents, comparing the programs they offered in computer engineering, advanced mathematics, etc. But I also spent some time researching the art programs at those schools. And when I chose a small liberal arts college over the prestigious technical colleges my brothers had attended, I told my parents that a more well-rounded education would make me a more appealing young woman. Read: Your “sixth son” is turning into a young woman, and she needs something beyond field hockey.
So off I went, acing my advanced applied mathematics courses and taking some art classes every semester. By the time I was a junior and declared my official major, computer engineering, I stunned my family with my minor: studio art. I further stunned them when I turned down a summer internship at a rival software firm for a summer program in Italy, studying in Florence. What was even more stunning? I spent a semester of my senior year in Paris, studying at the Sorbonne. I took just enough core classes to satisfy my parents and a figure drawing class just for myself.
Graduation loomed, job offers came in, but it was understood that I’d be following my brothers into my father’s company. So I did what every girl from a wealthy family does: I rebelled. In perfect, by-the-book fashion. I dyed my hair, got several tattoos, pierced some things that were noticeable—and some that were not—and when I walked across the stage to get my diploma I did so in combat boots and a sign on the top of my cap. In masking tape, I’d spelled out:
MOVING TO FRANCE
This was my totally * in-your-face way of telling my parents I wasn’t taking their job, or any job for that matter. I’d secured an internship at a gallery on the Left Bank in Paris, had some money from a trust that kicked in when I turned twenty-one, a travel visa, and a spanking-new backpack.
My. Parents. Were. Livid.
I. Was. On. An. Adventure.
I apologized to my parents, who initially responded with the threat of disowning me and insisting I was throwing my life away. They eventually ended in tears, fearing I’d lose my head and virtue to a Frenchman. They had no idea that my virtue had been lost years ago in the backseat of my car, The Blue Bomber, but that was neither here nor there. The here was leaving my family behind, to do something no one was expecting. The there was a fourth-floor walk-up in the 11th Arrondissement with two roommates I’d met online and arranged a sublet with.
I had the best time of my life. I lived, worked, and loved in the City of Light. I spoke marginal French but learned quickly, ate delicious food, danced in delicious nightclubs, and had my first delicious sexual encounter with an uncircumcised man. Ooh la la. I took art classes, I rented a studio space, I had passionate love affairs with passionate artists as passionate about their craft and their determination to live a bohemian idealistic lifestyle as I was. I traveled throughout Europe and points farther east, resulting in an unexpected meeting with Simon in Istanbul toward the end of my European adventure.
By now I was well into my romance novel addiction, taking any gloomy day or disappointing date as an opportunity to indulge in steamy and dreamy. But while the heroines in my books all ended up with their happily-ever-after, my love life was falling short. Sex life was off the rails, but love eluded me. I’m a reasonably attractive young gal, great rack, nice legs, and never had any complaints in the sack. But I’d never been—cue sad music—in love before. And no one had ever been—cue sadder music—in love with me. No one had ever taken me in his arms, kissed my sweet lips, and whispered the words I love you.
For the record? No one knows that. But back to Paris.
I remained in adventure mode, indulging in very satisfying but safe naked times with beautiful boys, traveled all over, painted whenever the muse struck, and just lived. Lived in that way you can only live in your early twenties, when nothing truly epic has happened yet, and it’s time to just dance.