The people who teach us
I first met her at the weekly tandem evening organized by the university. I was first at the Spanish table, but at some point, feeling a bit tired as I was not yet fluent in the language, I wandered over to the nearby French table, hoping to find an engaging conversation. That’s when she appeared. She seemed a little shy, unsure whether to join, stating that her French was limited, even though it was quite good. She had a gentle, warm smile that immediately caught my attention. She had black hair, full lips, and large, expressive brown eyes. Her voice was soft yet quietly expressive, carrying a gentle rhythm that made her words feel reassuring. It was late autumn and she was bundled up in thick layers by which I concluded she might always feel a little cold.
![Painting by Per (Pelle) Adolf Swedlund [1865-1947]](../images/friendship_sunset.jpg)
We were joined by another person, and that brief exchange marked my first real interaction with her. I remember the conversation drifting toward the question of Earth’s finite resources—a subject that carried particular weight for me at the time, as I was an undergraduate student in geology. She listened closely as I shared my thoughts, following with genuine interest. Before we parted, I mentioned a book I had recently read — one that claimed to offer solutions to our future societal challenges, yet devoted barely a page to the ever-growing demand for mineral resources. I hadn’t liked it much and had written a critical comment about it. A few days later, to my surprise, she told me she had read my critique and was deeply impressed by it. A seemingly small act that left a strong impression on me.
I saw her rarely after that, a few times at the tandem and once at a Franco-German night. She told me about her upcoming trip to Scotland in April with her partner, who I learned was French and lived in Toulouse. I invited her to come to my place to pick up the books and maps I had about the country, as I had spent a great deal of time there, my ex-girlfriend being from Glasgow. I shared advice about hikes, places to visit, and the existing bothies — the small, rudimentary mountain huts once used by shepherds that hikers can use for free. When she came over to pick them up, we talked about Celtic songs from Brittany and the Isles, and that is when I first heard her sing. I was stunned by her voice, and in that moment I understood how much music meant to her. It seemed to be more than a passion — something deeply woven into who she was, and who she wanted to become.
Months later, I saw her again at a barbecue, at the cinema and during a hike with one of her best friends who had come to visit her. Our interactions remained occasional and I helped her organize a bicycle for an upcoming tour she was planning with a friend around Lake Constance. It is an act that is deeply engrained in me, helping friends whenever I can, may it be in equipment or expertise. I felt great joy when she shared pictures of her tour, an occasion for me to daydream while I remained in Freiburg.
One day, as we met once more at the tandem, I began telling her about a very special place in the south of France, in the Roya Valley near Nice, in the mountains, where some friends were about to celebrate the ten-year anniversary of their farm. She ended up asking whether she could join for the weekend. I was a little reluctant at first — not because I didn’t want her to come, but because questions arose in my mind: whether the place might be too rudimentary for her, what her partner would think if she joined me, how she would feel among people who might speak only French, and whether the place would meet her expectations. But then I was reminded that she had traveled more than I had in the past with her van, that she had spent time in France with her partner, how much her French had improved since we last met, her love for authentic places, and the fact that many of the people there also spoke English and German. All those thoughts happened within a few seconds after she expressed her wish to join and I heard myself consenting to her request.
Two weeks before heading south, she sent me a voice message saying that she would perform at a small festival north of Freiburg with her loop station, singing Greek songs. I told her I would be there. It was summer, and I enjoyed a bicycle ride along the edge of the Black Forest. I met her partner for the first time, and seeing them together, they gave the impression of two people who had found each other. I told him about the ten-year anniversary and tried to convince him to come. I wanted him to know that he was also invited, but he declined, saying he couldn't make it that weekend. That evening, I heard her perform on stage for the first time, and it was deeply inspiring and moving, bringing me even to tears, as her voice touched me profoundly, bringing me back to when I was roaming the peaks of the Alps, feeling small and in awe of the sublime. I soaked it in as I sat on the carpets laid on the grass, trying to etch the experience deep within me.
We left Freiburg late in the afternoon with her van, aiming to reach Aosta by evening. We wanted to spend the night there before covering the remaining distance the next morning. We talked a lot during the trip. She shared more about her inner world, about her past and present relationships as well as her current struggles. I found myself mostly listening, sometimes offering personal input without judgement, trying to hold both perspectives as well as I could. It was during that drive south that our bond began to unfold — from there, we truly started to know each other. I told her about my past relationship, trying to share my insights, the struggles I had faced, and the lessons I had taken from it. We arrived in Aosta late in the evening and she spent the night in her van while I disappeared into the woods to hang my hammock and tarp. I was accustomed to it, feeling deeply secure under the thick canopy of leaves above me, falling asleep while listening to the rattling of trees’ branches in the wind and the wandering of the clouds in the sky. The next morning I met her back at the van, and we went for a cold bath in the nearby river while enjoying a beautiful view over the snowy peak of the Grand Combin. We then hurried back as she had an important online meeting. I headed towards the town of Aosta, where I was delighted to discover that people spoke French as well — the region was bilingual, a heritage of the time when the valley was still part of the Duchy of Savoy. I enjoyed a cappuccino before meeting her again. We both then thoroughly explored the town together before resuming our journey along the Po Valley.
We arrived at my friend's farm late in the evening. It was pizza night and people were gathered outside around the selfmade wood-fired oven. I was happy to be once more at this scenic spot, seemingly detached from rest of society as it is located at the end of a narrow valley. I made sure to introduce her to my friends, keeping an eye on whether she felt at ease or not. The following day, we spent a great deal of time setting up the music stage and preparing food and beverages for the many guests who would attend the party. She also performed that night and provided a short explanation in French for every song she sang, which impressed me and the guests. I tried to take some good shots of her and made sure she had everything she needed, but like many others, I was thankful that she shared her talent with us. On the day of our departure, we decided to tackle the nearby Via Ferrata with another friend who knew the route. As an amateur climber, I decided to stay at the back, wanting to make sure that she was doing alright. She had great difficulty at the zip line — letting go and simply trusting the process. Our friend was on the other side, asking why we were taking so long. I replied that she still needed some time. Thus a comical situation unfolded: I stood next to her, trying to reassure her in German, while our friend echoed the same encouragements in French. I wanted to help her, but she brushed it off brusquely. She told me she needed to do this herself. I kept silent and waited patiently as she took the time she needed to take off.
After our climb, we decided to have lunch at a local restaurant in town. That’s when we were reminded that the van’s license plate had fallen off – something that we noticed that same morning while being in town. One of my friends who lives at the farm had just confirmed it was spotted near where the van had been parked. I could sense that she felt uneasy about driving back up, as the route to the farm is long and uneven, winding through a few simple serpentines on earthen terrain. But not having the plate with us wasn’t an option either. Since we were starting to run late, I proposed what felt like the most pragmatic solution: while they had lunch, I would run up the trail and retrieve the missing plate. She hesitated, so I added that I’m a trail runner and that it really wasn’t a big deal for me. Secretly, I was happy to show my fitness, as I rarely have the occasion to do so. As I always do in such scenarios, I turned it into a game – a small mission I had to accomplish. I felt a quiet joy during my run, grateful for the unexpected chance to say goodbye to this place one more time. When I came back to the square where the restaurant was located, I plunged my head into the nearby fountain. It was a hot day, and the run had been fast – but the mission was accomplished. She was stunned by the performance, and that alone was all the reward I needed.
We left Tende early afternoon after fixing the license plate with some solid tape. We stopped for ice cream at Cuneo, a repeated act from the drive south. Realizing that we needed more time than expected to reach Freiburg, she suggested we stay at the other Freiburg, the one in Switzerland. I loved the idea and soon she was contacting people on Couchsurfing. We managed to find a host for the night. We talked only a bit as it was already late. I remember feeling uneasy sharing a bed with her as I couldn’t help but ponder about what her partner would think of it. I carefully reached the left side, falling asleep rapidly while she was bundled in layers of clothes at the opposite edge. The next morning, we went out exploring the old part of town before covering the remaining distance. The drive back to our Freiburg was an adventure on its own as we hit a massive traffic jam. Time was slipping away and she had an online meeting approaching. I navigated her to the closest bakery where she could work, half-joking that we were on 'Mission Impossible.' We made it with only a few minutes to spare.
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