Lucky's Dress

Here are reflections from my first night of orientation, scribbled in my moleskin on the taxi ride over. Then cut to the scene later that evening, as I was coming back from the mixer:

* * * * * * * * * * *

I'm starting orientation tonight. I'm a little nervous, a little excited, and I'm running a bit late (in a cab now!)  I'm wearing my lucky dress (hot pink; black silk lining; yeah, that's the one!)—which, to be honest, has seen better days. It's wrinkled, and worn down so much that you can see hints of my black bra; the dress which should be masking my vulnerabilities is really just putting them on display. Am I embarrassed? Maybe a little, but this dress has done me well and I'm not about to give up on it in a time of need.

I'm going to forget that I have a cold for the next few hours because I have to make a first impression on a lot of people tonight. It kind of feels like college all over again. That is, college for grownups.

Oh, and I have my grad school glasses on.

* * * * * * * * *

I just got off the MRT and am heading back to the hostel. My thoughts are preoccupied with a conversation I recently had at the mixer, where endless fountains of Tiger beer flowed into my mug: in typical Steph fashion, I had turned to my newest acquaintance and asked, "If you had to pack a backpack, and only a backpack, to carry with you for the rest of your life, what would you put in it?" (Admittedly, it's a step up from the Classic Steph question of earlier years: "If you were a cereal, what cereal would you be and why?" which nevertheless remains to be my favorite question. For those of you readers who are relatively new to my life, my answer is: Lucky Charms: I'm magically delicious! Of course I have a longer, more philosophical answer but I'll have to send that in a separate dissertation.)

Now, as I’m walking down the sidewalk, dreaming about future conversations which are delightfully filled with backpacks and cereal, I can’t help but notice two Westerners, who are far too well dressed for my imaginary conversation.

The men notice me noticing them. They approach and ask, "how hard is it for someone to get a taxi around here?"
"Well boys, it's difficult, but when you're in a dress like this, you just step into the street and bam, here comes a taxi!”
The jokester of the two retorts, “Can I borrow your dress?”
“You can borrow me… Where are you boys headed?”
“Dinner.” The more rogue-ish of the two replies. He has a dark charm about him.
“And drinks!” The jokester chimes in. “Would you like to join us?”
“Sure!” I hastily respond.

Next thing I know, I’m sitting outdoors on a cool summer evening being treated to dinner (I swear the rouge ordered at least half the appetizers offered on the menu...and probably some that aren't offered) and fine wine (we drank through not one, but two bottles of $88 Chardonnay), let's not forget the fine wine.

As we sip our wine, we discuss the literature of Balzac, Tolstoy, and beyond. We analyze the differences between American and European social interactions. We discuss business in finance and how to best relate to clients. The list goes on and on. I found myself so in sync with the rogue’s viewpoints on life and love and sacrifice—it was quite amazing the dialogue that transpired. But alas, the meal ended, we drank the wine down to the last cork, and without the exchange of a single sentiment, the French men hail me a cab, open the door, and disappear into the night as quickly as they had arrived in my life.