FRIENDSHIP

If the number of friends in a person’s life is a reflection of who that person is, then I have been truly blessed.

Twice divorced, with no surviving parents, and no children, in the absence of close family, my friends have become my family. I do have a sister that I am very fond of, but we are like chalk and cheese, and although we speak every few weeks, we only see each other every couple of years or so.  

Of those I am closest too, emotionally if not physically, there are probably a dozen or so friends that I know I can call on if push comes to shove, and need support in one of the many crises that seem to frequent my life. Friends are those you can call on 24/7 knowing that when the chips are down they will be there, offering whatever is needed, no questions asked. The will go that extra mile and put themselves out on your behalf. Almost without exception I have known those that I consider to be my real ‘friends’ for 40 years or more, and been through thick and thin with them. Of course, there are friends and friends.

Many of the people we see on a daily basis and socialise with regularly can also be counted as friends, but in a different context. No so much ‘fair weather’ friends but those who once we move on in our lives, also move on, as their priorities and lifestyles change too. It does not mean that we don’t keep in touch but the contact, however frequent, remains on a different level.  

These reflections on friendship and what it really means have been brought about by my current circumstances.

As a result of my involvement with wine, I am in the privileged position of having been invited to present a paper on ‘Brexit and its Impact on the UK Wine Economy’ at the annual conference of the American Association of Wine Economists. This year the conference is being held in New York State, at Cornell University. What an honour!

I had lived and worked in New York for some years, eventually returning to the UK in the mid-1990s and had made a number of lasting friendships. The last time I visited was 6 years ago, when sadly I was unwell, which rather spoilt my enjoyment and limited my ability to socialise.

So, this time, despite it costing me an arm and leg to attend, the opportunity to visit New York and catch up with old friends was one which I could not turn down. Thus it was, that I arrived at JFK airport yesterday afternoon, to be met by my friend Debbie, who I met in 1993. We hardly ever communicate, perhaps once or twice a year, but I was thrilled to learn that she wanted to come up to Cornell with me, thereby solving the problem of how I was to get from the city to Ithaca, five hours drive up-State.

The flight was on time and I fully expected to see her there waiting for me as I emerged remarkably rapidly from immigration and customs. No Debbie. OK, so I will text or phone her to let her know I had arrived. Problem. My mobile phone refused to cooperate, and silly me, I had not thought to make a separate note of her number, let alone her address. Bright idea. I will send her an email and maybe she will be able to pick it up. ‘Queued for later’ was the only response I could get. So what to do? Well, no other option really but to sit and wait it out. 

The arrivals area of JFK is not the most salubrious place to spend one’s time.

Two hours later I was schooling myself not to panic. After all, there was little I could do. Maybe she had arrived and I had not recognised her. Debbie is black, so, quite irrationally, I began to wander around surreptitiously looking at all of the black women around my age to see if perhaps they might be her. It turns out that later, when we eventually met up, when I had seen someone out of the corner of my eye approach the ‘help desk’ that Debbie, having been at the airport for two hours also, had been scrutinising all of the unaccompanied white women in the same way. Boy did we laugh about that!

The evening was spent ‘catching up’, chatting away as the years since we last spent any time together also fell away. We just took up where we last left off.  And now, here I am, sitting in her kitchen, having totally forgotten over the years that she is a staunch royalist (thank goodness for the ‘British’ gifts I had brought) and also obsessed with The Beatles, drinking my early morning tea out of a china cup and saucer; Debbie, a committed coffee drinker, and big mug person, had remembered my preferences after all these years. That is what friendship is all about. I have the feeling that we are in for a fun few days wowing the international wine world at Cornell.

It is important though that friendships should not be abused; there has to be give and take on both sides. The last 24 hours has made me all too aware that to have friends one needs to be a friend, in good times and bad. Friendship is a two-way street.

Oh, and did I mention that when I get back next week, my neighbour, and newest friend, will have put milk in my fridge, kept and eye on my post and bought flowers, leaving a ‘welcome back’ message on the whiteboard we keep in the hallway to communicate with, tongue in cheek.

I really am blessed.