What a week, time for a break, from work, from everything, it's Friday night.
Calgon, take me away!!!
I draw the bath, search the library for something old and random and find a collection of essays, circa '87, I slide right in, then begin to read about a German translator slated with the task of interpreting Lolita.
Which is the most apt metaphor he wonders? "old Europe debauching young America?" or "young America debauching old Europe?".
Who cares, I prefer Nabokov's "Pnin", but it does invite the exercise. Or does it, I imagine the Economist has run out, and listening to commentators last week, none are memorable. 'Cept for the Scottish guy.
So Saturday arrives, finally, it's unseasonably warm and sunny, encouraging optimism, not to mention a day off.
We take our morning stroll, me, c n g, so content, relaxed, "c'est mignon, coucouc' and such endearing endearments, such a swell morning as we turn the corner and suddenly, that horrible sound of metal buckling, collapsing, occurs, so jarring to the ear,; a car has thrown a motorcyclist far from his vehicle. The poor guy is flat on his back, in shock, the crowd begins to surround, kneeling down, investigating the damage, life or death, shall be decided in a minutes.
Now, there's a metaphor.
I luv the Frenchies but they are horrifically hopeless and should be labeled 'vehicularly challenged', the most distracted drivers I've even seen. When I am on my bike, w/ thuh muffins in the basket I am on the offensive at all times I tell you...
We wait, watch, it appears he may be fine, but who really knows.
I deposit C n G to bask in the sun pouring throughout the flat while I head uphill towards the Luxembourg Gardens. As I exit the outer peripheral, ideal for joggers and speed walkers, I walk by my favorite part, the reflecting pool, towards the central section, Stevie Wonder's 'As' is playing on the Ipod but you have to view this in silence; the gravel looks so very white, as if mirage, maybe, against the bright sun, a very black and absolutely glamorous wedding party is walking towards me, I'm trying to adjust my eyes....
I step to the side, as I should, in honour, smiling, how can you not, the bride is clothed in white satin avec simple white floral arrangement, lovely, with 12 groomsmen carrying her satin and lace train, they are clothed in oyster colored suits, impeccable tailoring, you can tell from afar, 8 bridesmaids following the men, dressed in the softest celadon satin green, delicate gowns, so soft and long, hanging off beautifully shaped bodies, so much contrast, the flowers, the statues, the austerity, everywhere, want to take a pic, but can't, no camera, per usual, but it's just one of those moments, so hopeful...
Then, when I get home I receive an email re Gail, a gal I'd called just last week, I've blogged about often, one of my special uber idols, a friend who'd just visited chez bay, or so it feels, I'd just stayed with in Seattle, or so it feels, the email is from her husband, Ren:
Gail’s bilateral mastectomy went “exceedingly well” yesterday. It was a long day for her having arrived at 7:30am and finally getting to her room at 6pm last night. Dr Clarfeld was a fabulous surgeon (the surgery itself was almost 5 hours long) and expressed nothing but praise for how well she did.
She will be coming home later this afternoon and I (in my role as Nurse Cratchit) will make sure she gets all the TLC she needs.
Thanks to all of you for your prayers – it looks like the “Big Guy” upstairs has responded positively.
I start crying because I'm so happy for her....I'm so grateful for the world putting it all in perspective, but I think i need a bit of a breather...
Calgon, take me away....

