Baggage (Part 1)

Jeremy taught me how to pack.

Of course, he didn't teach me until he realized I was bad at it, which was right about when he saw me unpacking in a hotel in Rome. It was my first time out of the US. I was 18. Being taught how to most effectively pack a suitcase might not sound like a particularly formative experience, but coming from a writer who lists "wanderlust" as her favorite word, this is nearly in the realm of the sublime.

Soggy January, 1994. My first year of college, his second. We were on a study trip with a university group. He had packed for nearly two weeks in one large military duffel bag. He unpacked quickly, showered for dinner quickly, met me and my rooming buddy in our room. Two girls with long hair. We were not ready. My clothes were everywhere. And they were wrinkled. Grunge may have been in, but there was no need for wrinkled dinnerwear.

He knocked some idiosyncratic knock that I now wish I could remember. I opened the door and--though I was pretty hot for him--thought nothing of letting him see the mess. He'd known me for three months; if he didn't like my mess, then he didn't like me. His black button-down was wrinkle-free, no doubt due to the miracle of a steamy shower. He strolled on in and took up more space in the room than I would have expected from a guy his size.

"Hasn't anyone taught you how to pack?" A bit more bite in his voice than I'd been hoping to detect. I gave it back to him.

"Why, are you going to show me?" I knew he'd traveled a lot, but I wasn't sure a man could teach me how to organize my own wardrobe.

Great job, Jill. Bait him. Good plan.

What did you expect? I was 18. I hadn't yet learned how to check my ego at the door. (Um...have I fully learned that yet? I don't know.) I wasn't about to take any crap from a know-it-all upperclassman, no matter how turquoise his eyes. Though, if I knew then what I know now, I probably would have realized from the pragmatic way he would arrive in a new city and have a gameplan for us all before we'd even showered, that he was someone to be reckoned with. And that perhaps I shouldn't bait him. His glibness and self-importance notwithstanding.

Seriously, he could make things happen. Like a few months before. In Chicago. It was a weekend trip. I'm not sure what we were supposed to be learning. We'd been seated next to each other on the flight out, as the seats had been arranged alphabetically by last name. Only a few weeks into my first semester of college, I would be spending my birthday with a horde of students I didn't know. It was our first extended conversation.

(Technically we first spoke at the meet-n-greet, wherein the upperclassmen were supposed to welcome the freshmen. Months later, I learned that it was more like the upperclassmen rating the freshmen. Ah, adolescence.)

As we checked in and found our rooms, Jeremy surveyed the people we'd become friendly with. He discovered food preferences, dietary restrictions. He found a guidebook. He located an appropriate restaurant. I think he may even have made reservations. He made plans for after dinner. He figured out to get to the Improv. (And all the while, he took a series of really cool photos which I saw when he developed them a week or so later.)

What, a man with organizational skills?

This was astounding to me. I'd gone to a very competitive all-girls high school. The place was filled with leaders. Girls who could organize a prom in their sleep. Girls who could stage-manage a cast of 50. Girls who could raise $100,000 for the charity of your choice. We didn't mess around. I wasn't used to a man taking charge. (Isn't that ironic? Such is the value of same-sex education.)

I was enamored. Wow. Slight problem, though. Sorta-boyfriend back home. (Eventually, it turned out that the sorta-bf wasn't into the whole "monogomy" thing, and the unbelievable self-control I demonstrated by not kissing Jeremy right in the hotel lobby for his amazing freakin' competence at all things I was just discovering that I found impressive was for naught. But hey, live and learn. Next time you don't kiss someone, think of me.)

So, back to Italy: He folded and rolled and stacked my clothes, tough-love-teasing all the way through. Besides mocking my packing skills, he had to rub it in that his French was way better than my Italian and was more likely to help us out of a jam, even in Rome. Bastard. I wanted to slap him. But I also wanted to kiss him. Again. Which I didn't. Again.

(Still had the sorta-bf back home, who by this time had left me for his ex and came back. You'd think I would have learned my lesson, but no. Good job, Jill. Don't kiss the cute bi-lingual world-traveling intellectual photographer with killer taste in music who makes you excellent mix tapes monthly. Who, by the way, also had single-handedly organized the outing for the evening of your 18th birthday. Good job!)

Tune in tomorrow...or the next day?...for more of "How stupid was Jill at 18?"