The friend who never says no to an adventure

When I think about some of my earliest cheerleaders I had for living abroad, the first person who comes to mind is my friend Hoël. If it were up to him, I probably would have made the leap a lot sooner.

Hoël has always had a way of seeing my next move before I could. He was the first person to encourage me to write a book. He saw clearly the promise and pitfalls of my relationships. And he was known to plant seeds about my potential to move to a bigger, better city.

So, who is this mysterious character with an unusual name? Let me take you back to the beginning. Consider this a tribute to our near decade-long friendship—and an ode to the power of friendship itself.

When I graduated from college in 2017, I had no plans to leave Boston. Presumably, there were plenty of media jobs in the city for an ambitious journalism grad like me. Why go anywhere else?

Well, finding myself dissatisfied with one those big-city media jobs, I applied on a lark to a small newspaper in upstate New York. Before long, the editor reeled me in, and I hauled my life up to Troy (neighbor of the better-known Albany), settling on the shores of the Hudson for a promising new gig.

I did not have any friends in this new town of mine. In fact, I never in my life had to be intentional about making friends at all: They always just came along as a byproduct of school or extra-curricular activities.

But here I was, at 22 years old, with not a friend in sight, and no obvious place to make them. So, one Friday night I joined a MeetUp group for local 20- and 30-somethings.

I walked a few blocks from my new downtown apartment, to an Asian food market staged temporarily in a municipal parking lot. The group of us, maybe 10 or 15 people, made obligatory introductions before wandering through the aisles, peeping at the dinner options in each vendor’s tent.

I fell into conversation with one Hoël, an ebullient twenty-something who had also just recently moved to the area for work. He wore a short-cropped mess of brown curls and a matching pair of leather chukkas. I probably learned that he was an energy analyst, and that he was born in France (hence the name).

I sensed quickly that Hoël possessed friend potential, and I didn’t want this to be a one-off conversation. I was approaching this new world of adult friend-making sort of like dating, so I asked for his number before he got in his car and drove home to his suburban apartment.

We kept talking and hanging out, using our time together to explore the region that was still new to both of us: We might spend an afternoon at a museum, or hit a string of bars on a weekend. On New Year’s Day, he invited me over for a breakfast of buckwheat galettes, a speciality of his homeland.

By the spring, Hoël was thoroughly charmed by Troy, and left his suburban apartment to move into an open room in a mutual friend’s place, just a short walk across the city from my own apartment. This allowed us to spend even more time together, and our friendship took on a delightfully spontaneous quality: Last-minute texts easily spawned shared outings across the city and beyond.

But I would not remain a close neighbor for too long. During my first year living in Troy, I began mulling the idea of buying a house. I loved my quirky downtown apartment, but my dad (who, it must be said, is a realtor), suggested I consider homeownership. The homes in Troy were cheap compared to those in my native New Jersey. My parents were willing to help me out a bit with a down payment, but I also had a good chunk of money saved up myself. I could probably buy a charming two-family home and use the rental income to cover most of my expenses. It seemed like a slam-dunk.

As that first year came to an end, I closed on the purchase of my home, a multifamily property with that coveted rental income. It was a gorgeous old brick row house, nearly a century old.

I didn’t waste much time diving into renovation projects. The first? Rebuilding the side porch, whose wood planks had rotted and chipped beyond salvation. I enlisted the help of my parents and friends to rip it all up and install new boards. Hoël, of course, jumped into the project with both feet, standing gamely on the dirt beneath the porch, smiling as he straddled the wood beams, helping clear out debris and all kinds of strange goodies we found down there.

The frenzy of moving and renovating, however, eventually cooled. And when it did, I found myself missing the vibrancy of my downtown life. My new home was only a mile down the road, but in a much sleepier residential neighborhood. Those impromptu hangouts I cherished now required a bit more planning, and a bit more traveling.

But Hoël, ever the enthusiastic pal, would make a point to pass by my house on his bike rides and spontaneously show up on my porch. I loved nothing more than these drop-ins. They made it feel like the old days, when we lived a five minute walk from each other. It made me feel like I wasn’t so alone.

I don’t remember what prompted me to look further afield from Troy, this place where I had so quickly (and eagerly) put down roots.