Underneath the Mango Tree, Honey & Me

I’m lying on the porch swing right now, out in the lower stretches of our garden. Fridays are half-days during the summer, and I haven’t felt this degree of liberty in a while. Vacation days make me feel oddly guilty – all the strain of knowing that others are deep in the throes of industry while you’re lounging in the sunshine, etc. But on communal holidays like this, I feel like someone’s holding out a golden apple with my name on it -- a day given back, a day to just live.

I’m generally the kind of person who stops to smell flowers, to read people’s scribbles in books, on the pavement, on trees. But it’s nice to feel that I can do these things – be gladly conscious of life and society, I suppose – in a sanctioned manner. I was never great at playing hooky. It’s like that line in a Simon & Garfunkel song: “I’ve got nothing to do today but smile.” When I left work around one, I knew that the only thing I wanted to do was to buy fresh bell peppers for dinner, to amble a little in the sun-dappled grass. And so I did.

I’ve been really ill all this week, so bear with me if this post seems disordered. Since returning from Japan, things have been a bit on the go. I can’t even remember all of it – a Depeche Mode concert along the way, a visit to Peonyland,* a charming and romantic evening with Ben up at Columbia, a rather intricately sketched 23rd Birthday weekend, etc. My birthday was fun, but I think next year I’m going to keep it much simpler. By the end I was utterly wiped out and ready to yield to welcoming arms of my mattress. But what did I actually do? Well!

Day One: Saw X-3, had a drink with Mike and Patty at the Alchemist & Barrister.
Day Two: Went to the sculpture gardens in Hamilton, and had brunch with Vanessa and Christoph in a delightful restaurant that was a throwback to Casablanca. We had the nicest conversation about, well, everything: personalities, business agendas, our future hopes and desires. I even got a little birthday message on my dessert plate!
In the evening we had dinner with PUP friends at Mexican Village, where everyone graciously went round the table and toasted me – “thank you, AK, for being so young and beautiful…she introduced me to some good music, but I introduced her to better…she’s got a needle-tongue, this one…AK’s, umm, a lady.” Yup, me in a nutshell.
Day Three: Drive to the city with V, singing all the way. Lunch with Chris and Abby at The Casablanca Tea Room, then a lovely hour pottering downtown. Later, dinner with my high-school clan: Sarah, Katy and Caroline at Perbacco in the LES. I’d say the high point was laughing at our server's t-shirt, which read: “I like to watch lesbians.” How authentically Italian.
Day Four: Brunch, quiet trip home, homemade risotto with Bob.

* A trip that evolved into a bit of an odyssey, since we got completely lost on the way back and circled through Bucks County, PA (I’d take it off your list of things ‘to do before I die’) for about 4 hours. Peonies, should you not recall them immediately, are rather cabbage-y flowers that come in pink, white, and yellow hues. I suppose I prefer more streamlined flora myself, since the cabbage motif was uppermost in my mind. But the wonderful thing about peonies is that they smell incredible. As our guide told us, people often make the mistake of thrusting their noses straight into the heart of the flower, rather than sniffing the petals at the perimeter. I have to say, there’s nothing like being dressed down for shoving your nose into the sexual organs of a flower.

A Brilliant Scheme for the Immediate Future

My plans for the next few days entail huge expanses of time spent in bed, and alternately, on the porch swing outside. Last weekend – being a guest at Princeton Reunions (think Woodstock with more beautiful people, more alcohol, and gothic architecture…oh, and dancing with my ridiculous but gorgeous Greek and Persian housemates. It was like I was the star of a Jay-Z video), hosting my first party, and going to a bridal shower in Long Island – was a lot of fun, but by its end, I was physically battered. Right now I’m glad the week is over and I finally have time to put the brakes on.

Our house is in a bit of a bad way, because four of my original housemates have gone. I’m not the best at goodbyes, but in this case, I feel like instead of a rousing cheer and the clinking of glasses, the velvet curtain just collapsed on the past year. The worst part is walking into a room and seeing vacant spaces where there were once belongings: a dining table, a chair, a photograph. There aren’t familiar voices in the corridor, or faces scurrying by, no familial ease to give succor to the worst day. The sense of ‘belonging’ just packed up and moved out without saying farewell.

Christoph called from California the night before he left for Brazil. I miss him. I miss seeing his face across the table, and I miss hearing his “hey, what’s up?” or “ah, want to hear a funny story?” because they always make me smile. There are other things I miss – Reza’s odd moments of kindness, his quick response to my humour. Carrie’s shy grace and immediate understanding -- her boundless sympathy. Yorgo’s warmth and affection, qualities that radiate from his face and body. I miss these people because despite only admitting each other to our lives with varying degrees of trust, we have lived together for almost a year. And suddenly it feels like we’ve splintered off, like our physical bonds have been broken, leaving rough edges on which I keep cutting myself.

As silly as this may sound, I’m suddenly realizing that my life isn’t about making friendships that endure for decades. More and more it seems to be about intersecting with unexpected people in unexpected places, wherein our lives briefly run parallel before one or both of us move on. It’s strange to share your thoughts and words - the little trickles of fancy running in your head and heart – with people who, three months later, suddenly disappear. They revisit your life, no doubt, but you can’t recreate sentiment and intimacy – at least not in an authentic way.

Not to be macabre, but it’s a bit like staging a burial when friendships close. It’s only the tokens – Borges quotes, aftershave, dated wine-corks, pressed leaves, lavender – that survive. And words, of course. At least the words don’t lose their potency.