13 Little Blue Envelopes
Maureen Johnson
For Kate Schafer,
the greatest traveling companion
in the world, and a woman
who is not afraid to admit
that she occasionally can’t
remember where she lives.
#1
Dear Ginger,
I have never been a great follower of rules. You
know that. So it’s going to seem a little odd that
this letter is full of rules I’ve written and that
I need you to follow.
“Rules to what?” you have to be asking yourself.
You always did ask good questions.
Remember how we used to play the “today I live
in” game when you were little and used to come
visit me in New York? (I think I liked “I live in
Russia” best. We always played that one in
winter. We’d go to see the Russian art collection
at the Met, stomp through the snow in Central
Park, then go to that little Russian restaurant
in the Village that had those really good
pickles and that weird hairless poodle who sat
in the window and barked at cabs.)
I’d like to play that game one more time—except
now we’re going to be a little more literal. Today’s
game is “I live in London.” Notice that I have
included $1,000 in cash in this envelope. This is
for a passport, a one-way ticket from New York to
London, and a backpack. (Keep a few bucks for a cab
to the airport.)
Upon booking the ticket, packing the
backpack, and hugging everyone goodbye, I want
you to go to New York City. Specifically, I want
you to go to 4th Noodle, the Chinese restaurant
under my old apartment. Something is waiting
there for you. Go to the airport right from
there.
You will be gone for several weeks, and you
will be traveling in foreign lands. These are the
aforementioned rules that will guide your
travels:
Rule #1: You may bring only what fits in
your backpack. Don’t try to fake it out with
a purse or a carry-on.
Rule #2: You may not bring guidebooks,
phrase books, or any kind of foreign
language aid. And no journals.
Rule #3: You cannot bring extra money or
credit/debit cards, traveler’s checks, etc.
I’ll take care of all that.
Rule #4: No electronic crutches. This means
no laptop, no cell phone, no music, and no
camera. You can’t call home or communicate
with people in the U.S. by Internet or
telephone. Postcards and letters are
acceptable and encouraged.
That’s all you need to know for now. See you at
4th Noodle.
Love,
Your Runaway Aunt
A Package Like a Dumpling
As a rule, Ginny Blackstone tried to go unnoticed—something that was more or less impossible with thirty pounds (she’d weighed it) of purple-and-green backpack hanging from her back. She didn’t want to think about all the people she’d bumped into while she’d been carrying it. This thing was not made for wearing around New York City. Well, anywhere, really . . . but especially the East Village of New York City on a balmy June afternoon.
And a chunk of her hair was caught under the strap on her right shoulder, so her head was also being pulled down a little.
That didn’t help.
It had been over two years since Ginny had last been to the 4th Noodle Penthouse. (Or “that place above the grease factory,”
as Ginny’s parents preferred to refer to it. It wasn’t entirely unfair. 4th Noodle was pretty greasy. But it was the good kind of greasy, and they had the best dumplings in the world.) 7
Her mental map had faded a bit in the last two years, but 4th Noodle’s name also contained its address. It was on 4th Street and Avenue A. The alphabet avenues were east of the numbers, deeper into the super-trendy East Village—where people smoked and wore latex and never shuffled down the street with bags the size of mailboxes strapped to their backs.
She could just see it now . . . the unassuming noodle shop next to Pavlova’s Tarot (with the humming purple neon sign), just across the street from the pizza place with the giant mural of a rat on the side.
There was a tiny tinkle of a chime and a sharp blast of air-conditioning as Ginny opened the door. Standing behind the counter was a pixie of a woman manning three phones at once.
This was Alice, the owner, and Aunt Peg’s favorite neighbor. She smiled broadly when she saw Ginny and held up a finger,
indicating that she should wait.
“Ginny,” Alice said, hanging up two of the phones and
setting down the third. “Package. Peg.”
She disappeared through a bamboo curtain that covered a
door into the back. Alice was Chinese, but she spoke perfect English (Aunt Peg had told her so). But because she always had to get right to the point (4th Noodle did a brisk business), she spoke in halting single words.
Nothing had changed since the last time Ginny had been
here. She looked up at the illuminated pictures of Chinese food, the shiny plastic visions of sesame shrimp and chicken and broccoli. They glowed, not quite tantalizingly, more radioactively.