TOGETHER AGAIN
March 12 2014 TOGETHER AGAINThis post will be in two parts: the first part I wrote last week in Paris, when I was beginning the countdown to Joel’s return. The second part, written today is….well, read on…. Part 1. March 6 2014 ME AND MONAIt’s Joel’s birthday today, only the second one in 24 years in which we have not been together. I’m sitting in the Luxmbourg Gardens in Paris. The sky, cross-hatched here and there by the wake of planes, is otherwise a clear, sweet baby blue. The sun is warm, untouched by a breeze. The magnolia trees are already showing off, the debutantes of the season, although the forsythia is no slouch. But here’s the thing; no-one is jogging, there are no skate-boarders or cyclists, no radios. There are plenty of people; singles and couples, small groups. Everyone has their face turned to the sun. Some are reading, a few nap while others are in animated conversation, no doubt of the intellectual kind. It is France, after all. What joy, to be alone yet surrounded by civility.
I love this city, from its crooked streets and magnificent architecture to the uniqueness of the artisanal shops; this one specializing only in candles, from holy to decadent; this one crammed with a thousand different kinds of beads; this one sells only ancient tiles, while over there a sliver of a shop is filled with caramels. Also still thriving here are the hardware shops of the kind that some of us remember from childhood, while every boutique is an expression of the owner’s aesthetic, no mass production here. And cheek by jowl you have the charcouterie, boulangerie, patisserie, the fishmongers and a chocolate-maker on every block. It is a feast for the senses. This my fourth day here and I have become both acclimated to city life as well as eager to return to the Luberon tomorrow and to our tiny village.The first day, however, held some come-uppance for me. On the train up, a woman in her 80’s was returning from the toilet to her seat next to her even older husband. I noticed her sweet, cheery face beneath a rather trendy haircut and gave a silent salute to her sass. The train swerved around a bend and she took a nasty fall, the sound of pain screaming out of her. The conductor was summoned and announcement made asking if a doctor was on board, which there was and when he examined her he determined that she had broken some ribs. Heartbreaking. When we arrived at Gare de Lyon the ambulance was waiting for her.As I said to Joel, once settled in my hotel, that’s life: one minute you’re going along and the next, boom. I told him that as we age we must be conscious of our surroundings and not take chances. We promised each other that from now on whenever we are on a train we’ll hold on to the seat backs while making our way down the aisle.Not an hour later I was peering in a shop window, then turned to walk away and smacked right into a metal box protruding from a wall. I was sure my glasses must be in smithereens but no, a nod to Warby Parker, their maker. So then I thought perhaps it was my face that was in smithereens. The pain was shocking and yet at the same time I continued walking as if nothing had happened, just in case anyone had witnessed my idiocy. Talk about ego. At the hotel I applied arnica and a cold coke can and was relieved that nothing was broken, just some swelling and a small bruise.The next day, having ordered a pot of tea in my room I jumped up from the desk to answer the door and ran straight into the wrought iron bench at the end of the bed. Another howl of pain. More arnica. A tearful Skype with Joel. And finally, a hot bath and bed. The bruise on my thigh is magnificent and will, I’m sure, entertain me with a delightful color show over the next couple of weeks.But what was really shocking was the reminder that I am no different from that old woman on the train. I, too, am fallible. And yet how unlike me, I thought, who pride myself on my grace and agility. Who knew I could be such a klutz…and why? And then I remembered what it was like those first few days on our return to NY after a whole year away. How surprised I had been by the amount of attention it took to navigate the streets. The mind continually scanning for potholes and sidewalk cracks, patches of ice and bike messengers, and pedestrians oblivious to others while deep in cell phone usage.Space is tight in a city and I realized this week that while I haven’t gained any weight, my body has relaxed, has spread itself out in the freedom of country living where the spaciousness of our natural environment allows us to see where we are instead of having to look where we’re going.I’m not cut out for crowds anymore. I spent the afternoon in the Louvre yesterday, jostling the thousands of other people for a glimpse of art.
After a couple of hours I quit. I’m not sure if it was the somnambulance of the visitors or the corridor of Madonna’s whose facial expressions seemed to reflect boredom and/or resignation. I had a momentary Tourettes-like urge to yell “hey, Mama, don’t you know that’s Jesus sucking on your tit..?” or maybe it was my first and, for sure, last sighting of the Mona Lisa whose smile is still imperceptible. A small painting, although for my money, not small enough, old Mona now resides on a beige, unlit wall between two gigantic signs warning of pickpockets. Her mingey smile, if that’s what you can call it, seemed to have an effect on the throngs standing in front of her, most of them facing away in order to have their smartphone photos taken. I have never seen so many insincere, hesitant attempts at smiling in one room.I fled. And avoiding metal obstacles of any kind, made my way free of injury to Pierre Hermé where I treated myself to some caramel beurre de sel macaroons that would put a smile on anyone’s face.Part 2. 12 March 2014 THE COUNTDOWNFive weeks, then 5 days, and then those last, interminable 5 minutes at the airport, waiting for the doors to slide open and then there he was: my Joel, jubilant and ageless. The clichéd run into each other arms, the long kiss. The miracle of flesh and blood, never mind the miracle of his being safely delivered from two flights. And then the two of us like teenagers in the back of the car because, yes, damn right I hired a driver. The thought of my having to drive for an hour unable to look at or touch my man…what, are you crazy?They say the shortest distance between two people is a smile. And so dear readers, rather than bore you all with a sappy post about the joy of reunion, of being this age and still in love, the bliss of a shared bath, the simple comfort of spooning each other to sleep and the giddiness upon waking to find each other still here…let’s just say we are wearing the proverbial ear-to-ear smiles. Eat your heart out Mona.