As she jets off, I slouch away

IN TRANSITION #4

By Benjamin Toff, Globe Correspondent | August 21, 2005
Read it on Boston.com

This is one in an occasional series of reports about the strange time between getting a college diploma and entering real life.

My friend and I drove to the airport the other day in awkward silence, punctuated only by her gagging.

She was struggling with a hangover. Of course, extraordinary anxiety over her imminent departure didn't help either, as she faced a journey that would keep her away from US soil until June.

''Uh-oh, the tunnel," she said. ''No turning back."

I looked at her. She was biting a crumpled ball of white fabric to fight the nausea. I tried to put a sentence together -- she soon would be stepping into a foreign land and be surrounded by exciting sights and people and . . .

''No, not that!" she interrupted. ''Once we get to the tunnel, there's no way for you to stop the car so I can open the door and vomit!"

We kept driving. In the weeks before my friend's departure for Lahore, Pakistan, I watched her stress skyrocket. One day she came home with typhoid pills; another day a plastic bag the size of her face, filled with tampons. (Just in case.)

She frantically checked off each task on her list: Medical exams and prescriptions; rounds with friends; contacts with academic advisers; graduate school applications (she was determined to apply from abroad). The last step: packing and shipping her things.

En route to the airport in my '93 Honda, the silence was, I must admit, much my own doing. I felt both jealous and relieved I wasn't tagging along. Sure, Pakistan is no Iraq or Afghanistan, but it was an unqualified adventure. And Boston, uncertain as my post-college life feels, hardly qualifies. I was proud of her, yet I didn't want her to go. Every word of encouragement I mustered fell limply to the floor of the Accord.

The drop-off at Logan happened instantly and ordinarily -- as though she were off to Dallas. We hugged. I offered an obligatory, ''Have a good flight." Then she dragged her duffel, which she could have fit inside, through the terminal doors.

Then she disappeared.

I got in my car and descended into the tunnel back home. For weeks, we had planned to spend more time together, to reminisce, hang out, talk about graduating, and do whatever it is that we used to do naturally without all the self-conscious angst. We rarely got around to it. At least not in the quantity we desired. Nor did I manage to buy a going-away present.

I had two picked out: a leather-bound journal and a jar of peanut butter. (My mother always said it was hard to find in Europe back in the '70s, so I assumed . . . )

Michelle, if you find a way to read this article, don't forget to keep in touch. And let me know if you'd like some peanut butter.

Benjamin Toff is between things -- dorm life and real life, Cambridge and East Boston, school and a permanent job. Reach him at btoff@boston.com.