Last September, I finally met Jenny, my French penpal of 7 years. We initially connected through a penpal website and lucked out that we were both the same age and safe people. On paper, we seemed to have so much in common; as we got to know each other better over the years, it seemed like we found kindred spirits in one another. But we had only written emails, letters, and postcards prior to sharing our hotel room at Hôtel Littéraire Arthur Rimbaud.
I booked my trip to Paris on a whim because I found the costs of traveling solo in Norway too high. Over a year earlier, snagging dirt cheap flights to Oslo realized my dream to visit Norway for my birthday, but a month after my booking, my family reserved a trip to Norway by sea in August. Diverting some of my birthday travels to another country made sense, and inexpensive flights to Paris were available. Jenny found out she'd be available one month before the trip and our adventures took off from there.
Meeting Jenny in the hotel was surreal. She had arrived a few hours prior and when I knocked on the door, I couldn't believe we were standing in front of one another. Our time together felt so right, like we'd known one another forever. She was just as wise, thoughtful, and considerate as I had known her to be in writing. She picked up sandwiches, her favorite Breton crisps, and Volvic lemon water - her favorite, too, and gifted me mint tea and pastilles, locally made and a mainstay for French grandma hosting. The only part about Jenny that I was surprised by was how lyrical and sweet her voice was. Our conversations spilled over into the night; talking to one another in real time was a luxury we didn't realize we were missing out on.
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