The Europe Challenge

Dear Ola

I am writing from the future. It was easy to locate you because I am you. While our peers are enjoying the bright May sun with friends or lovers, you are in the library. I know this because I’m here as well. You are here as a student, and me, as a professor. That’s right, years pass and here you are, still in this university library. In the tranquil atmosphere of academia, enveloped by the fragrance of old books and the gentle rustle of pages, you persist in your pursuit of knowledge. I can’t reveal much more about your future, but my presence here proves you will make it through.

I had the idea of writing a letter and slipping it into a book, allowing it to time travel (because, naturally, that’s possible). You would stumble upon it, respond, place it back in the book and forget about it. Then, many years later, you would return to this library as a professor and rediscover what you have written and what you had replied. I’m uncertain about the grammar in that last sentence; time travel is tricky. It would certainly be simpler if you, Ola the young woman, wrote a letter in your time and saved it for the Ola penning this letter. But that would be too easy, and we don’t like easy. So, here I am, writing a letter to myself because I know that right about now in your life, a letter would be welcome.

This semester feels different, I know. Something has happened. You haven’t been sleeping well. You’ve requested an extension on an assignment. Yesterday, you lingered underwater at the pool and came up gasping for air. At choir last Sunday, you sang flat. Now the sopranos won’t talk to you.

You might find this letter rather disappointing so far. I’m simply recounting experiences you’re currently enduring. Shouldn’t I be offering you advice? Aren’t I supposed to be the voice of reason and wise investments? I’m sorry to say it is not in my power to help you play the markets, nor am I able to end your suffering. I can’t tell you what will be on future exam papers and I can’t help you with your isolation. These struggles have already occurred in my life and they will occur in yours. But you are not alone, Ola. I am here with you. You are valued and seen.

I can actually see you right now! I’ve finished my classes for the day. I’m in the art history section, sandwiched between two rows of shelves. I approach a shelf at eye level and nudge aside a few books. Peeking through the slit I’ve created, I spot you sitting at a library table. The reading lamp is off and you are bent over a notebook, furiously writing. You are surrounded by stacks of textbooks. One book is propped open, held in place by your pencil case. I watch as your frizzy strands of hair slowly escape your single braid. You seem to be engrossed in your task, scribbling away. Eventually, you retrieve your highlighters and begin colour-coding your discoveries.

You finish, put the writing utensils down and smile. You select another book from the pile. You furiously flip through the pages until you find what you are looking for and then, it’s like you turn off. You are motionless. You read. As if you are in the book. If I were to leave you here after closing hours and come back tomorrow morning, you’d still be here. If I were to follow you home and watch you there, you’d still be studying. I know there is no exam, thesis defence or quiz this week. You are studying because you enjoy it. You are studying because it’s your only constant.

You reach into your back pocket and retrieve your mobile. After a glance at the screen, you stow it away at the bottom of your backpack. I recall the scenario vividly. It’s your boyfriend calling, but you’re not in the mood to chat with him. I watch as you rise from your seat. Gathering your books into a cloth bag, you carefully place your favourite pen into a small pocket in your backpack before departing. Moving past the purple reading sofas, you make your way across the checkout area, where sunlight streams in through the skylights, casting a warm glow on the library staff and readers. Ascending the stairs, you run your hands along the cool metal railing and then along the wooden desks once you reach the upper level. You enter the fiction section, take your time to select a book, drop your bags at your feet and crouch down in the aisle to read. You don’t even notice I am there. I watch you read once again. I remember that book. The butler did it.

Just kidding!

Finally, you get up and return the book to its place. However, instead of leaving, you continue deeper into the fiction section. Rows upon rows of novels surround us. I know where we are going. But, I wonder, do you? Or are you merely hoping to stumble upon something unexpected? Are you hoping to emerge from the stacks and gasp, like when you stay underwater for too long?

You linger behind a shelf. It’s your turn to spy. I’m aware of whom you’re watching, so I refrain from approaching, allowing you to gaze through the crevices of the books you’ve shifted aside. I don’t even need to sneak a glance. Her hair is cropped short and sleek, folding neatly under her chin. Blue ink stains adorn her fingertips, evidence of her diligent notetaking. Her reference textbooks are piled so high, you can’t tell if there is a person in the seat next to her. Although you can’t see what she’s reading or what she’s writing, your curiosity is piqued. You envisage her filling the pages with cramped handwriting and crafting clever references for tomorrow’s class. Only you will know that she made these discoveries at this precise moment.

You watch her intently as she studies; you love to watch her study.

You imagine studying with her. You imagine brushing shoulders, swapping books, and her blue ink on the page. You just might share your favourite pen. You imagine being surrounded by so many books, that you feel like the only people in this library.

Thoughts of her consume you, have you realised why?

The truth has long been buried in a dusty reference text. Now brought to light, it makes you sneeze. The realisation hits you with an overwhelming force. You love her. Accepting this part of yourself feels impossibly hard. In your darkest moments, the anguish seems relentless, leaving you to question how much more you can endure.

You contemplate whether sharing your feelings will help. You’ve thought about writing to her. You’ve often thought of slipping a note in her book and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. You imagine her reaction. You haven’t written to her yet, but she knows. You can feel it.

Ola, she doesn’t know. You never write, and she will never know. One day, you will journey back here and address her as an equal. One day, you will journey back here and it won’t be her you think about.

You are not ready to hear it, I understand. You are too frightened to think beyond this moment. You feel ashamed. Your friends might still love you, but what about your family? What will the sopranos at church think? How much will your boyfriend despise you when you reveal your feelings?

Despite these fears, you are still Ola and that will never change. You have a card for every library in town. You have more library cards than money in your wallet. Fine print doesn’t intimidate you. You grow plants as companions for your books. You are Ola in the library with your mountain of books and your favourite fountain pen. You are loved. You are also in love, I know. But now is not the time; that will come later.

And so, as you wait, I thought I would write a love letter to you.

Truly and deeply,

Ola from the future

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About the Author

Alexandra Ganzer (b. 1991) is a translator and arts and culture writer based in Paris, France. While her work encompasses various industries, she finds the greatest fulfilment in translating for art exhibitions, theatre, and literary authors. When writing, she is drawn to exploring the quiet moments of life. In her free time, she can be found reading or hiking in nature.