Speaker 1: Hi, sweet, How are you okay?
Speaker 2: So?
Speaker 1: I was just thinking about all that you do. You're
Speaker 1: a mother, a professional, m D, a friend, and for
Speaker 1: all of that, I just wanted to say to you, bravo.
Speaker 1: You know what that's doing to me? Right, I'm just
Speaker 1: trying to say bravo. Do you remember who once said
Speaker 1: bravo to you and you didn't like it?
Speaker 3: Yeah, some girl at a party.
Speaker 1: It really upset you. You don't like to be bravo.
Speaker 1: I don't like attention, but don't you feel you're a
Speaker 1: person who deserves attention?
Speaker 3: It just makes me tense.
Speaker 1: Well, I'd like to shine a spotlight onto you.
Speaker 3: But if I don't like attention, why do you then
Speaker 3: say a spotlight?
Speaker 1: A spotlight doesn't A red hot spotlight does not necessarily
Speaker 1: mean attention. It's just a spotlight from Gimblet Media. I'm
Speaker 1: Jonathan Goldstein and this is Heavyweight. Today's episode Isabelle. In
Speaker 1: nineteen ninety nine, an old fashioned rectangular suitcase was found
Speaker 1: on a Brooklyn street corner by a man named Ed.
Speaker 1: For fifteen years, Ed kept the suitcase stowed away in
Speaker 1: a storage locker in his basement when he accepted a
Speaker 1: job overseas he carried it over to his neighbor, a
Speaker 1: woman named Kendra. Kendra pushed the suitcase under an armchair,
Speaker 1: and that's where it's been sitting ever since, collecting dust
Speaker 1: until today. Kendra lives in a small apartment building on
Speaker 1: a residential street, shoes off either way. She takes me
Speaker 1: into her living room and pulls the suitcase out from
Speaker 1: under an armchair. It's battered and old, like something you'd
Speaker 1: see in a black and white documentary, clutched in the
Speaker 1: hand of a door to door salesman drifting from town
Speaker 1: to town.
Speaker 2: Scott like sneeps.
Speaker 1: She opens up the suitcase and there they are the letters,
Speaker 1: hundreds of them, charting from beginning to end, the relationship
Speaker 1: between a young man named Brad and a young woman
Speaker 1: named Isabelle. This is a lot the letters were written
Speaker 1: over the five years they dated. The relationship was almost
Speaker 1: entirely long distance. Isabelle was from Venezuela and Brad was
Speaker 1: from North Carolina.
Speaker 4: He I know went to art school, because a number
Speaker 4: of letters are addressed to him there.
Speaker 1: Uh huh.
Speaker 4: She I don't know where she went to school, but
Speaker 4: she clearly is also an artist. I mean, look at this,
Speaker 4: like wow.
Speaker 1: Kendra pulls out three photos attached by spiderwebs of white thread.
Speaker 1: Each photo shows Isabelle, tussled hair and heavy eyeliner, folding
Speaker 1: an old brownie camera. During those ignorant days, the only
Speaker 1: way to create a selfie or self portrait, as historians
Speaker 1: tell us they were called, was to pose with a
Speaker 1: camera in front of a mirror, like an animal.
Speaker 4: They're really really cute.
Speaker 1: In another photo, Isabelle and Brad sit on the beach
Speaker 1: in sunglasses and formal wear. The photo looks like a
Speaker 1: still from a black and white film by John Luke Dard.
Speaker 1: They're in their teens early twenties. They are young and beautiful.
Speaker 4: This is a menu.
Speaker 1: Among the letters and photos are dozens of keepsakes, ticket stubs,
Speaker 1: and coins from foreign countries.
Speaker 4: Well this one has a leaf in it.
Speaker 1: Oh well look at that. Open that up. Each letter
Speaker 1: is a mini handmade art project. Even the envelopes are
Speaker 1: carefully decorated. On one, just under Brad's name, Isabell's drawn
Speaker 1: a row of fish swimming by. The letters were written
Speaker 1: by Isabelle and sent to Brad, who filed away each
Speaker 1: one in his suitcase. The story of their relationship told
Speaker 1: through Isabelle's letters is like a diary where half the
Speaker 1: pages are missing. Kendra pulls out a letter at random.
Speaker 4: This is from Christmas Eve nineteen ninety and she says, Brad,
Speaker 4: today I got the best Christmas present ever. I'm talking
Speaker 4: about your letter and picture. Thank you so much for
Speaker 4: telling me your true feelings. Ooh, this is like a
Speaker 4: really personal one. You should not be afraid that I
Speaker 4: won't be there for you when you might need me.
Speaker 4: I want to be there. You are my boyfriend and friend. Also,
Speaker 4: to me, you're more important than any other friend I have.
Speaker 4: I guess that with time, our trust toward each other
Speaker 4: will grow, just as each day I feel I know
Speaker 4: you a little bit more. Believe me. I'm also scared
Speaker 4: of getting hurt. I figured that if I'm scared that
Speaker 4: you might hurt me, and you're scared that I might
Speaker 4: hurt you, then it must mean that we both know
Speaker 4: we don't want to hurt the other person. No, the
Speaker 4: last thing I would want to do is to hurt
Speaker 4: you or even see you hurt. It's so romantic, it's
Speaker 4: just so.
Speaker 2: It's so vulnerable.
Speaker 4: They both were so afraid of getting hurt, and I
Speaker 4: mean that's how people always go into relationships, you know,
Speaker 4: and then probably at least one of them did get
Speaker 4: hurt in the end.
Speaker 1: Kendra happens to be going into a relationship right now.
Speaker 1: She's about to move in with her boyfriend. This is
Speaker 1: why she's called me here today. Starting a new relationship
Speaker 1: with a suitcase containing a dead relationship feels inauspicious, so
Speaker 1: she can't keep it, but at the same time, she
Speaker 1: doesn't want to throw the lets away. So you've gone
Speaker 1: through all of these Yeah.
Speaker 4: I don't read Spanish, and a lot is in Spanish,
Speaker 4: so I haven't read the ones in Spanish.
Speaker 1: But it sounds like you've you've created like little stories
Speaker 1: about what it what, what their relationship could it possibly
Speaker 1: have been?
Speaker 4: I mean it's kind of irresistible.
Speaker 1: Yeah, to do that, and what what's your take? Like,
Speaker 1: you think that it ended up on the sidewalk and
Speaker 1: found by your friend because it was disposed of.
Speaker 4: I think it was disposed of. Yeah, my gut is
Speaker 4: that he got rid of it, possibly because he was
Speaker 4: in another relationship and New York apartments don't have room
Speaker 4: for a lot of I don't want to say secrets.
Speaker 4: I don't think this was a secret, but a lot
Speaker 4: of past stuff. We should find her and we should
Speaker 4: get it to her, because it's an amazing time capsule
Speaker 4: of who she was at this time, and it would
Speaker 4: like reopen this part of herself that she maybe forgot about.
Speaker 4: I mean, imagine if somebody contacted you out of the
Speaker 4: blue and they were like, hey, guess what, I have
Speaker 4: a bunch of art and photos and stuff that you
Speaker 4: made and that was about you from the time that
Speaker 4: you were I don't know whatever, like sixteen to twenty
Speaker 4: two or whatever it is. I mean, wouldn't you want
Speaker 4: that back?
Speaker 1: Of course I would, especially if it were something so irreplaceable.
Speaker 1: None of us will probably ever again have a collection
Speaker 1: of one hundred handwritten letters mailed to us with photographs
Speaker 1: developed by an enlarger in a dark room. One day,
Speaker 1: when drones capture our every moment, when each of our pensis,
Speaker 1: written or perhaps unwritten, is housed in an ever expanding cloud,
Speaker 1: there may not be a need for such suitcases at all.
Speaker 1: All right, So I'm gonna I'm gonna take this off
Speaker 1: your hands, and I'm gonna do you sound sad?
Speaker 4: I am sad now that it's like, really the moment
Speaker 4: to say goodbye.
Speaker 2: Take good care of it.
Speaker 5: Thanks for going.
Speaker 1: We say our goodbyes, and Kendra walks me, suitcase in hand,
Speaker 1: to the front door of her apartment. This one up here,
Speaker 1: my marching orders had been handed to me.
Speaker 4: Oh no, it's just the top one.
Speaker 1: I was determined to find Isabelle.
Speaker 2: I think you lots the.
Speaker 1: Bottom, and I would work tirelessly until I did.
Speaker 4: Can you want me to No?
Speaker 1: I got it. Actually, although New York apartments might not
Speaker 1: have a lot of room for past stuff, they certainly
Speaker 1: make up for it with an abundance of locks. Yeah, actually,
Speaker 1: maybe you should. Okay, sorry, but as soon as I
Speaker 1: could get out, I'd set off in search of Isabelle.
Speaker 1: That's yeah, you should probably figure that out. It's probably
Speaker 1: like a fire hazard if you. Oh, okay, okay, great
Speaker 1: after the break life outside this facacta apartment.
Speaker 5: Okay, take care, bye, bye bye. You'll say get guero
Speaker 5: so s tode lo case las muchachas. No, this isn't
Speaker 5: Latin lover Antonio banderis, but Latin lover because he loves Latin.
Speaker 5: Jonathan Goldstein. Since most of the letters between Brad and
Speaker 5: Isabel are in Spanish and my own Spanish is like that,
Speaker 5: of a nineteen fifties Canadian housewife wandering ta one in
Speaker 5: a novelty sized sombrero. I need a translator, someone to
Speaker 5: help me understand the letters and get them back to Isabelle.
Speaker 5: And so I enlisted Gimblet Media editor, or hey, just
Speaker 5: are you ready for this? Jorge and I are always
Speaker 5: getting up to what CEO and Gimblet Media founder Alex
Speaker 5: Bloomberg calls shenanigans, doing stuff like Jorge hiding my chair
Speaker 5: each morning, or Jorge stealing my laptop while I'm in
Speaker 5: the bathroom and liking a whole bunch of nickelback fan pages.
Speaker 5: Alex discourages quote fraternizing on company time unless there's a
Speaker 5: valid business reason. Well, Alex does returning a suitcase full
Speaker 5: of personal history to its rightful owners strike you as
Speaker 5: a valid business reason. Only God can judge me, Alex,
Speaker 5: so stand back and let my father do his job
Speaker 5: and let Jorge and me do hours.
Speaker 1: Gordeau are is Gordou means something in Spanish.
Speaker 2: Means fat fat. But it might be a nickname like
Speaker 2: a you know.
Speaker 1: Like my little fat one.
Speaker 2: Yeah, but it's it's a term of endearment.
Speaker 1: Jorge and I spend the afternoon, snacking on honeydew slices
Speaker 1: and sifting through honeydew juice soap letters. We try to
Speaker 1: construct a timeline that will lead us from the relationships
Speaker 1: beginning to the discarded suitcase on the street.
Speaker 2: So this is September twenty ninth, nineteen ninety three, third
Speaker 2: of March nineteen ninety two, eighteenth, nineteen ninety four, August ninth,
Speaker 2: nineteen ninety three.
Speaker 1: The correspondence begins in December of nineteen ninety when Brad
Speaker 1: and Isabelle first met on Christmas vacation in Florida. In
Speaker 1: these early letters, Isabelle offers up little Spanish lessons, teaching
Speaker 1: Brad basic vocabulary and grammar.
Speaker 2: I'm going to show you the future tents to caminas
Speaker 2: do usmana you walk, You're going to walk.
Speaker 1: It perhaps speaks through the intensity of his feelings. But
Speaker 1: before very long at all, Brad's language is good enough
Speaker 1: for her to switch over to Spanish.
Speaker 2: Completely olaos mar Cambo, Skvoa and de lunez.
Speaker 1: Isabelle travels a lot, so her letters come from all over.
Speaker 1: Each one is composed of precise capital letters and arrives
Speaker 1: in an envelope that Brad meticulously slits, always along the width,
Speaker 1: careful not to tear the drawings. A lot of the
Speaker 1: letters are mundane stuff you'd share across a dinner table
Speaker 1: or through rapid texts.
Speaker 2: Stucks. My ears started to hurt and I went back
Speaker 2: to the apartment. I don't like it when my ears hurt.
Speaker 1: But for Isabelle and Brad, this kind of chit chat
Speaker 1: was a slow process. Between each message was a weight
Speaker 1: that lasted days. Brad would wait to hear if Isabel's
Speaker 1: family had begun to soften to the idea of her
Speaker 1: attending art school, and Isabelle would wait to hear if
Speaker 1: Brad had saved up enough money to fix the brakes
Speaker 1: on his car, whether he finally bought that photo and
Speaker 1: larger he had his eye on.
Speaker 2: I'm really happy that you bought the enlarger. I know
Speaker 2: that that's a great thing and that you really wanted it. Truly,
Speaker 2: it makes me really happy.
Speaker 1: Brad would wait to hear about what Isabelle's plans were
Speaker 1: for the.
Speaker 2: Night velcro jumping. Tonight, we're going out to a disco
Speaker 2: where there'll be velcro jumping. This really is truly nineteen
Speaker 2: ninety two.
Speaker 1: He'd wait to hear about her trip to Boston.
Speaker 2: I'm really happy. I really really like Boston, and I
Speaker 2: think that you'd like it too. When I went to
Speaker 2: the Art Museum, I wanted to have you with me.
Speaker 2: We'd be enjoying each other so much. Well, someday we
Speaker 2: will right.
Speaker 1: The letter is stamped March of nineteen ninety two. If
Speaker 1: Brad had been at the museum, the two young photographers
Speaker 1: might have seen the work of another young photographer, Ansel Adams,
Speaker 1: whose early photographs were on exhibit at the time. Many
Speaker 1: of his early photos weren't of the barren landscapes that
Speaker 1: made him famous, but if people smoking, talking, dancing. The
Speaker 1: photos in the suitcase are also portraits that Brad and
Speaker 1: isabel took of themselves and each other.
Speaker 6: Oh wow, they're so young, yeah, Brad and Isabelle at
Speaker 6: a wedding, Brad and isabel at a hike, sitting by
Speaker 6: a lake, holding onto each other.
Speaker 2: In every single one, they're looking at the camera and not.
Speaker 1: Smiling because they're cool art students.
Speaker 2: That is definitely seemed that way.
Speaker 1: And when they weren't together, they were making plans, always
Speaker 1: looking forward to the things they do when they next
Speaker 1: meet like watching the tenth anniversary of the David Letterman Show.
Speaker 2: Yeah, gorddo, when you fix your VCR, we can rent
Speaker 2: it and watch it together.
Speaker 1: O Gordeau had a broken VCR.
Speaker 2: That's so nice though.
Speaker 1: Yeah, Isabelle says that you'd already watched the episode, but
Speaker 1: wanted to watch it with Brad. Watch Brad as he
Speaker 1: watched Letterman rowe watermelons off a roof and herd sheep
Speaker 1: into a cab headed to LaGuardia Airport. And then there
Speaker 1: are the love letters, and the love that Isabelle expresses
Speaker 1: has the feeling of a kid in love for the
Speaker 1: very first time.
Speaker 2: And when I thought that I couldn't love you anymore,
Speaker 2: every day I love you more. I'm so happy to
Speaker 2: know that we're together. Sometimes I wish I could just
Speaker 2: put time on pause so that everything could get fixed,
Speaker 2: and when I was ready to breastplay, we could just
Speaker 2: continue happy and together.
Speaker 1: Throughout these letters that span five birthdays. That looks like
Speaker 1: a birthday one. This is a birthday one for five Christmases,
Speaker 1: five summers and winters.
Speaker 2: It started to snow last night and it's still going that.
Speaker 1: Span years and countries. There's always this vague hope that
Speaker 1: one day they'd be together, really together, in the same city,
Speaker 1: the same home, for good. But in the end Isabelle
Speaker 1: remained in Venezuela, except Venezuela no longer felt like home.
Speaker 1: She was aimless, knowing she should get a job, but
Speaker 1: not knowing what she wanted to do.
Speaker 2: March fourteenth, nineteen ninety four, and it's a fax.
Speaker 1: She ended up taking a job at her brother's office,
Speaker 1: which had a fax machine.
Speaker 2: No se parami vida. I feel totally lost. I have
Speaker 2: no idea what I want for myself or for my life.
Speaker 1: As unsure as she was, there remained one thing she
Speaker 1: always seemed sure of her and Brad, because at no
Speaker 1: point is there ever any sense that a suitcase full
Speaker 1: of her letters would one day end up abandoned. Orge
Speaker 1: felt the same way.
Speaker 2: The more I read, the more surprised I am that
Speaker 2: these letters aren't you know, somewhere with Brad, that they're
Speaker 2: not in the basement that they owned together.
Speaker 1: We searched the suitcase looking for the last letter ever written.
Speaker 1: The postmarks and addresses are many and keep changing. Florida, Savannah, Boston,
Speaker 1: and finally Venezuela. That's the very last letter. The last
Speaker 1: letter was sent by Isabelle in March of nineteen ninety five,
Speaker 1: almost five years after they first met.
Speaker 2: She says, Lodluya, No York, Mikhayokomo, shock se Emperor prefeti Boston,
Speaker 2: Solo pros solo.
Speaker 1: The address it's mail to is in New York. It
Speaker 1: seems brad it just moved there to start grad school
Speaker 1: in photography.
Speaker 2: She's saying, she's really sad. She was shocked that he
Speaker 2: decided to move to New York, oh really, and that
Speaker 2: that she knew that he had been thinking about moving,
Speaker 2: but that she never thought that he would move to
Speaker 2: New York. And then she says that she talked to
Speaker 2: her mom, and her mom helped her, helped her think
Speaker 2: through it and understand that it was a good decision
Speaker 2: for his career and that that's why he was doing it.
Speaker 2: And that's why she says, it's true. You know, it's
Speaker 2: the center of photography. And she says, God, you're very
Speaker 2: good at photography. I'm sure you. When you get your
Speaker 2: portfolio together, you'll find everything that you want. One thing
Speaker 2: that I noticed is that there everybody in New York
Speaker 2: has an air of confidence, of believing that they're the best.
Speaker 2: And if I saw that, then you don't have to worry,
Speaker 2: because you too are good. You're better than all of them.
Speaker 2: I'm sure that it will go well for you. You
Speaker 2: told me that you're not going to have a telephone
Speaker 2: in New York. You know, I want to hear from you.
Speaker 2: I need to know how you're doing. I miss you
Speaker 2: when you move. I'd love to have your address. Please
Speaker 2: call me and tell me what it is. I promise
Speaker 2: you that we'll we'll talk only you know, as little
Speaker 2: as possible, only what's necessary. I imagine the last thing
Speaker 2: you need are big fat telephone bills.
Speaker 1: Sounds like he chose his photography over their relationship.
Speaker 2: Yeah, for sure.
Speaker 1: And this is the last letter because he never maybe
Speaker 1: he never sent her his address.
Speaker 2: And the way that she signs it off is you
Speaker 2: sa ps, try to write when you have time.
Speaker 1: Oh am, I just getting like really sentimental or is
Speaker 1: this like sad?
Speaker 2: It's sad. Yeah.
Speaker 1: Kendra's friend found the suitcase in nineteen ninety nine, which
Speaker 1: means after that last letter, Brad continued to hold onto
Speaker 1: the suitcase in his small New York apartment for four
Speaker 1: more years. Isabelle had a very common name and no
Speaker 1: presence on the Internet. So I began looking for Brad.
Speaker 1: Since all the letters were from Isabelle's pen, I'd only
Speaker 1: gotten to know him through her as a young man
Speaker 1: with a letter of and are in a broken VCR
Speaker 1: determined to become a photographer, someone who could hardly afford
Speaker 1: breaks for his car, but was still going all in
Speaker 1: on a new photo and larger and it looked like
Speaker 1: his determination paid off. Brad is now an architectural photographer,
Speaker 1: still living in New York. His photographs are no longer portraits,
Speaker 1: but sparse empty interiors, a school without children, a hotel
Speaker 1: without guests. I dialed the number on his website and
Speaker 1: explained that a suitcase was found on a Brooklyn street
Speaker 1: corner and passed on to a woman named Kendra, who
Speaker 1: passed it on to me. Anyway, long story short, it's
Speaker 1: a suitcase that has all of these letters. Does that
Speaker 1: ring any bells?
Speaker 3: Yes?
Speaker 1: What happened? Like? How did this suitcase end up where
Speaker 1: it was found on the street?
Speaker 3: I let it go?
Speaker 1: You mean you you you you? You threw it out?
Speaker 3: Yes?
Speaker 1: That that makes me surprised because the letters from Isabelle
Speaker 1: sound and feel really very affectionate. You know, well, there
Speaker 1: there was love.
Speaker 3: Something happened. I don't know what. I asked her to
Speaker 3: marry me, gave her a ring. She wasn't living in
Speaker 3: the country. I wanted her to come move to New York.
Speaker 3: Uh huh, and she broke it off. Within a year
Speaker 3: of her breaking up with me, she got married. So
Speaker 3: there's not much to do after that. It's done.
Speaker 1: I guess the impression that I had was that maybe
Speaker 1: you had broken up with her.
Speaker 3: No, certainly not.
Speaker 1: What was she trying to preserve some kind of friendship
Speaker 1: or something or remain in touch.
Speaker 3: That would be likely. Yeah, yeah, And I what's what's
Speaker 3: the point of that? Once you've gone to that place
Speaker 3: with someone, you can't you can't take it back a notch.
Speaker 3: I mean, it's it's all or nothing. And she chose nothing.
Speaker 1: She chose nothing, she chose.
Speaker 3: Not married to me. That's that's how that seems to me.
Speaker 3: There's nothing that I would do differently at this point.
Speaker 3: It's this is I have a different life now. You know,
Speaker 3: I have an incredible wife who has worked with me
Speaker 3: and and we have I just feel like we've been
Speaker 3: through so much and you know, it's it's a. It's
Speaker 3: not the the path that I initially thought that I
Speaker 3: would be on. I was convinced that that that it
Speaker 3: would have been with Isabelle. But but at this point,
Speaker 3: I am happy to be here, happy to be where
Speaker 3: I am.
Speaker 2: Yeah, where are you?
Speaker 1: Where are you? Are you in a car right now?
Speaker 3: Yeah? I am?
Speaker 1: Are you heading home?
Speaker 5: Now?
Speaker 3: I'm going to pick up my daughter from school?
Speaker 1: Well, you know, I mean, it seemed like Isabelle. It
Speaker 1: seems like maybe the right thing to do would be
Speaker 1: to get them back to her. Do you know where
Speaker 1: she lives?
Speaker 2: She lives in Italy.
Speaker 1: Knowing that Isabelle's in Italy helped. After some searching around,
Speaker 1: I found her on Facebook. In her black and white
Speaker 1: profile picture, she's hold an old fashioned camera to her face,
Speaker 1: a self portrait in front of a mirror, just like
Speaker 1: the kind she'd take when she was a teenager. In
Speaker 1: the photo, the eye that is not looking into the
Speaker 1: viewfinder is opened wide. We'd assume that both eyes are
Speaker 1: opened wide. I send Isabelle a message telling her who
Speaker 1: I am, what I found, and how I want to
Speaker 1: give it back to her, and then I wait. The
Speaker 1: first day of my weight is spent imagining all the
Speaker 1: praise and gratitude that awaits me.
Speaker 2: Thank God for men like you. I never imagined there
Speaker 2: were gentlemen as generous as you. If you hand deliver
Speaker 2: the suitcase, I'll read you each letter after a picnic
Speaker 2: lunch of Italian delicacies and my father's vin grass You've
Speaker 2: not truly ever tasted salami, Goldstein grassias until you've eaten
Speaker 2: it under a Tuscan sun.
Speaker 1: The second day is spent indulging more of these lunatical
Speaker 1: imaginings and binge watching Mash in triumph. But by the
Speaker 1: third day, still not having heard back from Isabelle, I
Speaker 1: take to my bed for more Mash, though now binge
Speaker 1: watched in defeat. Why wasn't she getting back to me?
Speaker 1: And then, after a week and a half, I receive
Speaker 1: a message, Hello, Jonathan, Isabelle writes, the letters are a
Speaker 1: part of my history, and in history they stay. I
Speaker 1: do not want to explain anything, neither do I want
Speaker 1: the letters. Hope you understand. Life goes on. I have
Speaker 1: a life, wishing you all the best, Isabelle. Isabelle also
Speaker 1: tells me how she now has a family of her own.
Speaker 1: She has a life. Brad has a life, Kendra has
Speaker 1: a new life with a new relationship. Evidently, everyone has
Speaker 1: a life except for one person who stuck with an
Speaker 1: old suit case full of letters written in a language
Speaker 1: he doesn't even understand Hoblando, of which how fluent was
Speaker 1: Isabel's English? Anyway? Was something getting lost in the translation?
Speaker 1: I write her back, explaining that I don't want anything
Speaker 1: from her. I don't even need to understand what happened
Speaker 1: between her and Brad. That really all I want is
Speaker 1: to give her back her letters. The next day, Isabel
Speaker 1: writes back Jonathan. She writes, I appreciate all the trouble
Speaker 1: you've gone through to get a hold of me. I
Speaker 1: have beautiful memories, but people grow and change. I am
Speaker 1: no longer the person who wrote those letters, Isabel. While
Speaker 1: all the peripheral characters, the Kendras, the Jorgees, the Jonathans,
Speaker 1: feel so invested in these letters that neither belong to
Speaker 1: nor concern them, both Isabel and Brad are not. They
Speaker 1: have a similar way of being in the world, and
Speaker 1: you can understand how they might have been drawn to
Speaker 1: one another. They both seem to get it, get something,
Speaker 1: something that, for the life of me, I don't understand
Speaker 1: at all, Isabelle, I write. For me, the most interesting
Speaker 1: thing about revisiting the past and the person I was
Speaker 1: isn't even finding out the ways in which I've changed,
Speaker 1: but rather finding the ways in which I'm still the
Speaker 1: same person. Discovering that common thread, that thing that holds
Speaker 1: our lives together, gives our lives continuity and meaning. Maybe
Speaker 1: I'm talking about a person's soul. I'd come to know
Speaker 1: Isabelle through her letters, and it feels fitting that I'm
Speaker 1: still getting to know her through her letters. And in
Speaker 1: spite of all the technological advances of the intervening years,
Speaker 1: I'm still left sitting around waiting. Isabelle writes back, I
Speaker 1: take from the past the lesson it offers me and
Speaker 1: move on. That's the only thing that matters. That we
Speaker 1: learn something from every situation lived, good or bad. So
Speaker 1: to me, she writes, life is one lesson after another,
Speaker 1: which makes our soul grow and change. I personally do
Speaker 1: not have one letter from anyone in my past, and
Speaker 1: that doesn't mean I had a bad past. It means
Speaker 1: that I've learned and moved on. I stop reading not
Speaker 1: one letter from her past. I'm the kind of person
Speaker 1: who saves post it notes stuck to his computer screen
Speaker 1: by colleagues in the nineties, someone who never once erased
Speaker 1: the contact from his phone. Since you are antithetical to
Speaker 1: my way of being, Isabelle writes, I also leave you
Speaker 1: the challenge of discarding that bunch of letters. I am
Speaker 1: counting on you to do that. Who knows, maybe doing
Speaker 1: it will help you in some aspects of your own life.
Speaker 1: Just remember, the future is built as we move forward.
Speaker 1: Take care, Jonathan, and as always, the best to you, Isabelle.
Speaker 1: After his death in nineteen twenty four, Franz Kafka left
Speaker 1: behind a will instructing his friend Max Brod to burn
Speaker 1: all of his remaining writings, the unfinished novels, the journals,
Speaker 1: the letters. In nineteen thirty nine, just before the Nazis
Speaker 1: invaded Prague, broad clutching a suitcase containing all the papers
Speaker 1: that could fit, boarded a train and set out for Palestine,
Speaker 1: and with that some of the most important writing in
Speaker 1: the twentieth century was saved. Max Brod's reasoning was that
Speaker 1: if Kafka had really wanted his stuff destroyed, he never
Speaker 1: would have asked Brod to do it. He had to
Speaker 1: have known that Brod was the last person who destroy
Speaker 1: work that he loved so much. Isabelle is not Kafka,
Speaker 1: and I, though I do admire is self justifying prevaricating style,
Speaker 1: am not max Broad. Yet after that final exchange, I
Speaker 1: unscrew a bottle of bourbon, turn on mash and struggle
Speaker 1: over Isabel's challenge. It felt like a paradox. On one hand,
Speaker 1: these letters don't mean anything to me, but on the
Speaker 1: other hand, discarding them just feels wrong. Throughout your life,
Speaker 1: if it's a good long life, you let go, and
Speaker 1: you let go of your ambitions, your hair, the people
Speaker 1: you love most, and then one day, after a lifetime
Speaker 1: of saying goodbye to the most important things, you suddenly
Speaker 1: find yourself unable to unclutch your hand from the handle
Speaker 1: of a suitcase that isn't even yours. And for close
Speaker 1: to thirty years, it seems no one who carried this
Speaker 1: suitcase could easily let go, not ed, not Kendra, even Brad,
Speaker 1: the most motivated, could only pack the suitcase, exit the
Speaker 1: front door, and make it only so far as the curb.
Speaker 1: And why why can't any of us destroy the letters?
Speaker 1: Is it because we believe in stories about love, the
Speaker 1: beauty of youth, the idea that somehow, contained within this
Speaker 1: little suitcase, a relationship still exists, one that's a stand
Speaker 1: in for a relationship that we've all had and lost.
Speaker 1: I've been looking forward to giving Isabelle back these memories,
Speaker 1: but Isabelle doesn't want my unsolicited gift. Instead, she's offering
Speaker 1: a gift to me, permission to do the thing I
Speaker 1: normally cannot do, to simply let go of the past.
Speaker 1: Being unable to let go of the past feel small
Speaker 1: somehow and marks you as petty, the kind of person
Speaker 1: who holds onto grudges and painful memories. But in that
Speaker 1: net of memory, beautiful things get trapped too, moments and
Speaker 1: emotions that once moved you, or a version of you,
Speaker 1: a first love, a great meal, or that one fall
Speaker 1: evening when you pick up an innocuous looking suitcase that
Speaker 1: had been sitting under your desk for months and leave
Speaker 1: your office early with a Spanish speaking friend.
Speaker 2: We want to make sure it's also and.
Speaker 1: Head out into the dark street, looking for the perfect
Speaker 1: Brooklyn Street corner on which to let it go.
Speaker 2: There, how about under that street that.
Speaker 1: Okay, hang on, I'll I'll be right back. Part of
Speaker 1: you hopes that someone else someone like you will find
Speaker 1: it and treasure it at least for a little while,
Speaker 1: all right, And then you run to catch up with
Speaker 1: your Spanish speaking friend who was already half a block away,
Speaker 1: prattling gleefully about something you barely understand, and that more
Speaker 1: than likely neither of you will remember.
Speaker 2: You want to grab a beer? Yeah?
Speaker 1: You know a place around here?
Speaker 2: Yeah? I think there's a place on the corner.
Speaker 1: Is it that place that you told me that only
Speaker 1: takes bitcoins?
Speaker 2: Of lying about that day, I asked you. Now that
Speaker 2: the fernures returned into it's.
Speaker 6: Goodwill hall, now that the last month's rent is skiming with.
Speaker 3: The damage to pozzle, take this moment to.
Speaker 2: Do so.
Speaker 1: If we imagine flee to.
Speaker 6: Or felt from the Thames at as Lee.
Speaker 1: Heavyweight is hosted and produced by me Jonathan Goldstein along
Speaker 1: with Khalila Holt. The senior producer is Caitlin Roberts, editing
Speaker 1: by Jorge just and Alex Bloomberg. Special thanks to Emily Condon,
Speaker 1: Meg Driscoll, Kelly Coonan, Nicole Wong, Jonathan Zanti, Alvin Melth,
Speaker 1: Chris Neary and Silk from the Museum of Fine Arts
Speaker 1: in Boston and Jackie Cohen. The show is mixed by
Speaker 1: Kate Bolinski, music by Christine Fellows and John K. Samson.
Speaker 1: Additional music credits for this episode can be found on
Speaker 1: our website Gimbletmedia dot com slash Heavyweight. Our theme song
Speaker 1: is by The Weaker Thands courtesy of Epitaph Records, and
Speaker 1: our ad music is by Hailey Shaw. Follow us on
Speaker 1: Twitter at Heavyweight or email us at Heavyweight at gimblimedia
Speaker 1: dot com. Join us next week for the last episode
Speaker 1: of the season, Walls and.
Speaker 2: We Repainted in an empty room, sign in an empty room,
Speaker 2: in an empty ro How about this. Everybody clap your hands.
Speaker 1: And people know when to stop.
Speaker 2: Well, there's no stopping really,