The Luckiest Man in the World
On possession (mindset shift), European travel, father-daughter relationships, & where luck finds me.
Written from my father’s desk, in my childhood bedroom - Gull Lake, Michigan.
When I was a sophomore in college and experiencing what might have been my personal Blue Period, I would aggressively seek positivity as a means to cope. This method was, unknowingly at the time, taught to me by my capital S Saint of a roommate at the time. Roald Dahl would say sunbeams shot out of her face. You know the kind.
I searched far and wide for all signs of good fortune and called myself the Luckiest Man in the World every chance I could. Green lights. Solid first impressions. Walk signs. Early delivery times. In-stock items. Discounts. Good job interviews. Each minor success was so personal. Sometimes they have to be. I manufactured coincidence and standard work into personally believable luck so I could feel like somewhere, for me, there was good and light. Yellow. Orange. Pink. No more blue.
I feel them all the time, my moments of luck. In my halls and far from home. It turned into an accidental long-term habit. In fact, I’m very content, constantly looking for luck and favoring odds. I may have been possessed by a very happy-go-lucky ghost. How charming. I really do feel lucky; if you believe in that sort of thing.
COVID-19 paid a standard contribution to my Blue Period, just like with everyone else. Due to a global pandemic ensuing, the university’s study abroad department effectively cancelled my study abroad plans two times over. I was set to join an exchange program at University of Edinburgh for spring semester, and then fall semester, both of which were reasonably and promptly cancelled. People died and are dying. International travel was last priority but I couldn’t help but wonder what it would have been like to temporarily live in Scotland, trying on a new life. If it fit just right, maybe I would have kept it. Pipe dream.
I knew someday, if I prioritized it, I would eventually go on the trip around Europe I dreamed of. Perhaps never for an entire term length, but anything was enough. And no matter what, I felt lucky. And I was, on that one phone call. Then a series of calls. No. Yes. No. Travel? Yes. Ethics of nepotism? Sign here. Congrats you’re a marketeer! My father works for a biotechnology company in Europe and I am their marketing assistant. I’m required to travel to the office in Germany quarterly to work with my team. I can’t believe either of those sentences are real. It’s a story better told over cabernet. Am I a nepo baby? I think so. Am I lucky, privileged, and grateful? I know so.
More than the travel, more than the work, more than any story I’ll ever tell; I’m most fortunate for this experience with my dad. I want to high-five fourteen-year-old me and tell her “just wait, Dad will find us funny in eight years!” Working together allows a sneak peek into his life and work, which has always felt too complex. I see how he leads. I learn from him how to do my job well. I learn what it actually is that he does for a job, which has always proven confusing. At first, I felt as if this chance to work with him was priceless; but it’s the chance to know him that’s most valuable. I get to be a daughter. He gets to be a dad. I know a lot of people would give anything to spend the hours that we’re so graciously allowed together because of work with their own parents.
On my first work trip, I started off with a weekend Edinburgh to make good on an old promise. A dear friend from undergrad still went to University of Edinburgh on exchange and loved it so much, she came back for her master’s program. When I decided not to apply for a third time during my last term of undergrad, I promised her I would visit on her exchange, which turned into we would go together, which ended up becoming “I’m visiting during your master’s!”
I was worried before I left that I would feel melancholic if I went to Edinburgh and I wanted no part in any “what could have been” nonsense. Perhaps surprisingly, at least to me, I felt only deep, pure joy and curiosity. Gratitude stomping on self-pity, victorious. Early December in the city, we browsed through Christmas markets before the club and sat for tea the morning after. She toured me through the campus, graveyards, and gelato shops. We had pints and Jameson and more pints and Jameson. We walked home at the witching hour and slept in her queen bed until mid-morning (or noon…) in her cold flat, warmed by an electric heater. It was everything. Everything.
One night out, a girl who lost her friends chose us to join on the dance floor out of desperation. She ended up being quite delightful, buying us drinks for our “trouble.” She was also probably the single-most excited person about my American-ness, ever. She gushed how cool it was that my friend and I were from the U.S., loved that I lived in California. Touché, Scot, we are both lucky.
The friend I was visiting and I met partially through a mutual friend’s study group, partially through the Italian 200 series. In another serendipitous twist, next month we’re meeting in Bari, Italy over a work trip weekend. Like a cherry on top, pinch us.
My luck awaits me in Cologne, following my dad through cobblestone streets to his favorite beer hall. They give you a few ounces at a time and another round every time you’re nearing empty until you physically stop them by putting a coaster over the glass. It’s the best. My dad convinces me jäger tastes better here, and unfortunately he was right, so on the walk to dinner my cheeks are red and I feel happier than I’ve ever remembered.
… in Amsterdam, where I land for a solo Sunday before commuting to Germany on Monday for the work week. Randomly, the day before I leave, I remember I should have made advance reservations for the Anne Frank House. I feel like I win the lottery with a ticket for the next afternoon. I go alone and opt to include the lecture beforehand. From the classroom, we see the back view of the annex, and what would have been Anne’s bedroom window, her access, had it not been boarded up. I feel it all. Their height chart is still on the wall. Afterwards, I walk to dinner. I eat alone, quietly, reading her diary that I bought at the gift shop.
… in Lisbon, when we arrive at a red-checkered table. Four creaky wooden chairs. Two bottles of Portuguese reds. Translate the list and get two more. Oysters, fish, clams on the half shell. Magic. As I’m thinking to myself, ‘Lisbon may be my new favorite city,’ Iron and Wine’s cover of The Talking Head’s This Must be the Place (Naïve Melody) begins to hum in the background. I feel dramatic, because of the wine, the atmosphere. I felt like I was supposed to be right there, tucked in that corner. No where else. I think that was my favorite corner of the world I’ve reached yet. For another moment, I was the Luckiest Man in the World.
Thank you for reading. I love you too.