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The Era of Friendship

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And this is where it all truly begins.

But first, I feel like I need to back it up a little. You probably remember our band of Rascals. As a group of teens, Hugo, Charlotte, Romain, Marie, Shanna and I were closer than ever. We were young, and handsome, and for some time at least, we worked perfectly together.

Together, we had the most amazing years.

But who were we exactly, you ask?

Charlotte was my best friend. She was sassy, funny, and in my eyes, and she had a terrific sense of style. Of course, we had very similar styles, so for teenage me, this was a validation of her and me both. Charlotte liked to make fun of people, but since her jokes were never about me, I could never find her really mean. It was, after all, all in good fun, wasn’t it?

Marie blossomed under Charlotte and my care. An introverted child at first, she slowly gained confidence, namely the confidence to show her true self through the clothes she wore. Perhaps influenced by Romain, we saw her ditch the shapeless shirts and large jeans and adopt the leather and plaid jackets. However, her confidence was fueled by the validation Charlotte and I provided, and that was the very basis of our friendship for the longest time.

Shanna was always aloof. Gorgeous, and confident on her own, she didn’t take any of Charlotte’s dubious jokes laying down. She had no problems hanging up on group calls because she was tired of us, or turning a girl’s night out down because she wanted to practice the guitar. Out of all of us, Shanna was probably the best friend you could have. She listened, didn’t judge, talked scarcely but always with great thought. It’s hard to be wise when you’re 16, but Shanna was closer to the mark than any of us. She grounded us all.

Hugo Lopez was new in town. He was barely aware of the hierarchy that exists between families around here. He was not a part of that hierarchy at all. All of my other friends had an ancestor whose name you could find in the region’s archives. The girls even had the same last name as me: no one alive could remember the time when the branches diverged, but the fact remained. Everybody in our group of rascals was descended from a founding family, but him.

What was beautiful about Hugo was, he did not care. He did not own a mansion, or a villa in Oasis Springs. He did not have any strings he could pull and that would guarantee him his dream job. But Hugo didn’t care that we did. He was a laid-back sim with his own ideas of what was important and what wasn’t. His own sense of wisdom.

Unfortunately, according to Hugo, the clothes you wore and putting your dishes in the sink when you were done eating — or better yet, washing them — wasn’t on the list of what was important.

And finally, there was Romain. A bit of an outsider as well, as he was not a member of the Stewarts family. He was a Barcet, a descendant of a family that had found shelter in Oasis Springs around the time that my great-great-great-great-great-grandmother was born, and quickly become the town outcasts. Outcasts though his ancestors were, he was a part of our community, which of course, came with some territory. Literally.

A handsome rebel with the same social status as mine — people rooted for us to fall in love.

And I guess we did. Romain and I, discreete though we were in our affection, were the Brindleton Bay it-couple. And the Willow Creek it-couple. And the Oasis Springs it-couple.

Romain and I, whether we wanted it or not, were the it-couple.

Blooming Personality

Older, and wiser, and with dreams bigger than ever.

My first great act as a teenager was to re-do my bedroom entirely. It hadn’t changed a smidgen since my own Mom had been a kid. The pink was adorable, and I had loved it as a kid, but now it was time for my style to take over. We exposed the bare stone, got hold of a much bigger bookcase, upgraded my bed and my desk, and to top it off, bought me a brand new computer. 

One of the many perks of having the world’s most renown painter as your grandmother is that the funds to customize your bedroom for your Sweet 16 are practically unlimited. And I was Grandma’s darling princess.

My relationship with Grandma only got better as we both grew older. She approved of my new style, which didn’t surprise me. If my head was in electronic circuits and programming languages, my clothes sported the unmistakable touch of a boho, laid-back upbringing. They still do.

Just like Grandma before me, I also chose sports as one of my hobbies, though never to the extremes she had reached. She told me that when she was my age, she was much curvier, more so even than Mom. One day, a new gymnasium had opened in Oasis Springs, and she had found a passion in sports, setting the all-time record on their climbing wall. Then as old age won her body over, she took to yoga.

I just went jogging fairly regularly.

And I wrote, too. Not novels like Great-Grandma Ariana, or newspaper articles like a good number of my ancestors, but in my diary. There, I confided all my hopes, dreams and ambitions. I drew diagrams, schematics, and I wrote about the young boys that spun my head around…

My new and improved room, where I remember eating many, many fruit yoghurts for some reason.

Jogging became a part of my daily routine. It helped me clear my head, and as trapped as leaving enclosed by water could make me feel, the Brindleton Bay Wharf indeniably had some enjoyable sights.

Also helping me clear my head, my dear diary. I liked to write on the poolside patio.

Or I would write in our hall, with the weak, flickering light of our old lamp.

Even though the hall often meant little to no privacy.

The Spice Market

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I fell in love with the cosmopolitan city of San Myshuno at age ten. We were visiting Miranda’s loft in town, and I was swept away.

She lived at the foot of a majestic bridge, where a docking bay used to be. She made it her own fairly fast by tagging a beautiful fresco on the ground. It was the kind of thing the San Myshuno sims do.

In the cozy atmosphere of her little warehouse, she stood at her dj booth and blasted music I had never heard before. She said it was the kind of beats that got you noticed in the Top Of The World Nightclub. Sitting on the highest building of the Fashion district, this two-story nightclub, she assured me, was the place to be.

Then she dragged us outside with her musical gear under her arm. She found the right spot, in a colorful curve of the plaza, and she laid down her violin case, got the instrument out, and she played for us. Mom, Ma and grandma were transported. Grandma, especially, was humming along the melody, perhaps remembering the time she had spent teaching Miranda how to hold her bow correctly.

I looked around. There was a man in a golden attire, a few steps from us. In a swaying running pose, he pretended to be the statue of an astronaut. He, too, was staring at my sister, listening to her talent. He noticed me looking at him, and winked at me, then jumped into another pose.

In the background I could hear the street vendors and their haggling clients. The smell was incredible. They were smells and spices I had never known before. It was different from the fresh fish smell of the Brindleton Bay wharf, that I can tell you. People sat down at the creatively painted tables to eat, and I ogled at the colors in their plates.

When Miranda stopped playing, I told her about the food, and she laughed. “You’re in luck,” she said. “Tonight is the Spice Festival. You’ll be able to eat as much as you want! Try the Curry challenge… if you dare…”

And when the day turned purple, I saw, as she had predicted, that the Spice Market morphed into something taken straight out of a dream. Music started blasting from invisible speakers, and Miranda danced and played along. New stands appeared seemingly out of nowhere; gardeners brought their product to the plaza; food samples were installed on separate tables; and they brought a bubble blower that I was not allowed to try. Mom tried it; she turned blue.

The lights, the colors and the smells won me over.

One day, I would come back. I would try the curry again, and hold the fire in my mouth instead of spitting it out. I would dance with the crowd and blow bubbles with the adults.

That night, the Spice Market became my dream.

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A masterfully decorated house. On the coffee table, a bridge to match the one behind the house, and a lighthouse to remember home.

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I could have stayed there forever.

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We were all slightly afraid that the sound would bother some neighbors; Miranda laughed. Her neighbors often come down and party to the sound of her mixes.

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Such an incredible afternoon

Top notch toddler

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I was a playful child. Some will say, I was the young, tiny tyrant of the household, but I was a tyrant who ruled with cuteness, smiles, and sass. Always following my grandmother around, always up to mischief.

I didn’t go to kindergarten, or have any friends my age. Naomi taught me everything herself, and the Brindleton Bay Park was my second home. I wouldn’t trade any of that for the world.

It takes a village to raise a child, they say, and I had a village. I had a town and the town’s pets. The little princess of the Bay. I ate the best food, played with the best toys (the ball pit was my favorite), learned everything my cohort of guardians were willing to teach me. And I learned happily.

And my top-notch upbringing meant top-notch grades once I entered school. My teachers loved me. What I loved the most was science. Needless to say, everyone expected me to be the next artist of the family. Oh, the dioramas we made together. They were many, and of great quality. But I always went back to my robots and water rockets.

There is so much to learn, and discover, and see out there. A family legend has it that a great-great aunt of ours meddled with aliens. No one can tell now, but some even say that the green-skinned family in town is related to ours in some way.

I should probably warn you now. When your family is around for as long as ours, there are many things people will say about it. Many mysteries. Many secrets.

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Grandma played along with my silly games.

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Probably my favorite birthday picture.

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School projects as a family. Mom and Mam couldn’t help flirting with each other when they thought I wasn’t looking.

Miranda

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I could never adhere fully to the artsy, vegetarian, boho lifestyle. I deeply respect my grandma and my mothers, but a hippie’s life’s not for me.

I often think it started with my sister. When I was born, Miranda was already well on her way to adulthood, and I think she also knew that there was more out there than the Brindleton Bay wharf. 

Like our moms and grandma, Miranda was all about the arts. But where Mom had preferred the paintbrush, and found in Mam someone with the same paint-splattered drive, Miranda liked what pleased her ears. For her 16th birthday, Grandma had given her the most stylish guitar a teenager could wish for. I was only a toddler, but I remember drooling over it.

Much like I years later, Miranda wasn’t entirely satisfied with her peaceful little town, and at the young age of twenty, she fled the countryside and invested an old warehouse in the San Myshuno bay. She started a flourishing DJ career, living by night, blasting the Spice Market with the loud bass of her speakers, and as I learned much later, fluttering from good-looking man to good-looking man.

Miranda was my idol.

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Miranda, enchanting people with music anywhere, anytime, since before I was born. Camping trips were no exception.

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I was not invited to her 21st birthday at the restaurant, but they said it was a blast. Judging by the food, I believe them.

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Miranda took reading me bedtime stories very seriously.

The incipit

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I’m Azalea Stewarts, and I come from a long line of lovable weirdos.

No, I am not the woman above. That beautiful old lady is my grandmother, Naomi, the most amazing person I know. When my great-grandparents passed, she single-handedly raised her four younger siblings, along with her own son. 

She offered them the most amazing childhood, away from the tumult of San Myshuno, denying herself the right to marry the love of her life so that she could give them her undivided attention.

My mother was her youngest child. Unlike her brother and sisters, she was born after Grandma had reunited with Grandad. She had a perfect childhood, surrounded by love, two adorable dogs, and paintbrushes.

See, Grandma is also the best artist of her time. The best artist of the century! Every canvas her brushes touch is a masterpiece, every keyboard her fingers brush sings some new, incredible melody. Grandma raised us all, all three generations of us, to recognize the beauty that lies in art, in nature, in ourselves.

She also raised us to be vegetarians, and groomed us to take her place, when she dies, as the owners of the Windenburg Herbology Shop. You should see the garden she has in the back of the house. She and Mom spent their days there when I left.

Yes, I left.

The perfect life is a great life, but this was not the life for me.


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When Grandma got older, her herbology shop became her hobby and her passion.

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That, and yoga.