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Old friends. They finish your sentences, they remember the cat that ran away when you were twelve, and they tell you the truth when you’ve had a bad haircut. But mostly, they are always there for you—whether it’s in person or via late night phone calls—through good times and bad. But as the years pass, it becomes increasingly difficult to see each other, to make new memories. Fortunately, my high school girlfriends and I vowed long ago not to let this happen. We vowedto have reunions.

老朋友。他們會(huì)接完你沒說完的句子，他們記得在你十二歲時(shí)跑掉的那只貓，如果你剪了一個(gè)很糟糕的發(fā)型，他們會(huì)跟你說實(shí)話。但主要的是，不論是在美好抑或糟糕的日子里，他們總會(huì)在你身邊——或是面對(duì)面交流，或是深夜與你通電話。但是隨著年月流逝，彼此越來越難見到對(duì)方，也越來越難制造新的回憶了。幸運(yùn)的是，很早以前，我與我的一幫高中女友們?cè)⑾率难圆蛔屵@樣的事發(fā)生。我們?cè)S諾一定要重聚。

A few months ago, we met up for a three-day weekend in the American Southwest. We grew up together in Maine and have said for years that we should have an annual event, yet it’s often postponed or canceled due to schedule conflicts. Not this year.

幾個(gè)月前的一個(gè)周末，我們?cè)诿绹髂喜烤哿巳?。我們一起在緬因州長(zhǎng)大，這幾年來一直都在說我們應(yīng)該有個(gè)一年一度的聚會(huì)，但通常都因?yàn)槿粘逃?jì)劃沖突而延遲或取消。今年終于如愿了。

Four of us-two from San Francisco, one from Boston, and one from Seattle-boarded planes bound for Santa Fe, New Mexico, where one of the ganglives and works for an art gallery. Two years ago, she moved there-escaped, rather-from the film industry in New York City, where she led a life that felt too fast, too unfulfilling. The artist in her longed for vibrant landscapes and starry moonlit skies. She wanted to drive a truck on dusty roads, a trusty dog at her side, riding shotgun. She got all that and found love, too. She is happy.

我們一行四人——兩個(gè)來自舊金山，一個(gè)來自波士頓，還有一個(gè)來自西雅圖——登上了飛往新墨西哥州圣菲的航班。我們這幫人中有一個(gè)住在圣菲，為那里的一家畫廊工作。兩年前，她搬到那里——更準(zhǔn)確地說是從紐約的電影業(yè)中——逃離出來。她當(dāng)時(shí)覺得在紐約生活節(jié)奏太快，太沒有成就感。她那藝術(shù)家的本性向往生機(jī)盎然的自然景致和繁星點(diǎn)綴的月夜。她希望能在塵土飛揚(yáng)的路上開著卡車，有只忠誠的狗坐在前排的乘客座位，陪伴她左右。這一切都實(shí)現(xiàn)了，她還找到了愛情。她是幸福快樂的。

The rest of us-still big city folks-converged on her like a cyclone straight out of the pages of a girlfriend novel. Chattering and memory swapping, we were fifteen again in a space of five minutes. Naturally, we relived some of the stories of our youth-angst and all-but we also brought much more to the gathering this time. We were new people. We were wives and girlfriends to someone back home. We were businesswomen, artists and writers. We were no longer girls, no longer post-college grads. We were women.

我們其余幾人——仍然是大城市居民——像是從女性小說的頁面中直接跳出來的一股旋風(fēng)似地向她襲去。我們聊天、分享回憶，仿佛在短短的五分鐘內(nèi)又重返十五歲。我們自然而然地重溫了年輕時(shí)候的故事——憂愁悵惘等種種情感——但我們給這次聚會(huì)帶來的還不止這些。我們是有著全新身份的人。我們是家里那位的妻子或女友。我們是女商人、藝術(shù)家及作家。我們不再是小女孩，也不再是剛畢業(yè)的大學(xué)生。我們已成為女人。

I shared an air mattress that night with my friend from Boston, the one who calls me, while rubbernecking in traffic, to catch up on her cell phone, to tell me of her life and love. On the next mattress was a gal from San Francisco, newly single and enjoying her independence. Our host, the artist, shared her bedroom that weekend with a married dot-commer from San Francisco. Yes, we are different, but we are also the same. The years of our youth say so.

那天晚上，我與來自波士頓的朋友共睡一張充氣床。路上交通堵塞時(shí)，她會(huì)邊看熱鬧邊給我打電話閑聊，說說她的生活及愛情。旁邊的另一張床上睡的是來自舊金山的朋友，她剛剛恢復(fù)單身，正享受著一個(gè)人的生活。我們的主人——那位藝術(shù)家,那個(gè)周末與來自舊金山，就職IT行業(yè)的一位已婚姐妹同住一間房。是的，我們變得不同了，但我們又仍然未變。我們的青春歲月可以證明這一切。

The apartment was open and we talked late into the night, our voices carrying back and forth between the rooms as we laughed, cackling about things that would only be humorous to friends with this kind of history. The next morning, I awoke to a brilliant blue sky, beautifully contrasted by the earthy brown of the surrounding adobe. It was Saturday and the art enthusiasts were out, so, with coffee in hand, I dropped off our host at work. I returned to find the others still deep in slumber, deep lines on their faces evidence of a restfulsleep.