yes, please.

In the middle of Audubon Park, K. and I were waving wands that formed huge bubbles. A monk approached with an older woman who was fascinated by the bubbles that we made, chased, popped, blew back into the sky as they fell. I looked at her and said “You’d really like to give it a try wouldn’t you?” and she said excitedly “I do!”.

I passed the wand to her and she spun in circles, laughing the entire time while the monk smiled softly from beneath the cloth he was using to keep the sun off of his head. She tried to hand him the wand but he politely declined. We coaxed him gently into taking the wand and when the bubbles streamed from it his face lit up.

I watched K. as she hunted down her own bubbles, popping the ones she’d blown into the air; the flower in her straw hat blowing in the wind as she ran after them, her dress hugging her frame when she lept, twisted in the wind to reclaim each glimmering globe.

I looked back and forth between her and the smiling monk and I thought “you can never have enough moments like this in your life”.

I wish I were in Paris

Today I wish I was in Paris. I want to walk out the door of the little apartment in the 20th arrondissement and hear the clicking of the tricky lock which seemed to sound the start of so many adventures. I want the feeling that I had when I was sliding my hand along the railing that spiraled downwards with the winding steps, moving so quickly that it almost made me dizzy when I looked over the edge to the floor below. No matter how composed I was, I always felt like I was exploding out onto the street from the dark little hallway because of the excitement I had at exploring the city, getting lost and then finding myself again.

Today I want to get off the Metro at Hôtel de Ville and cross to the Île de la Cité from the far side, make my way through the square in front of Notre Dame and look up at the images of saints as I make my to the bridge and cross over to the left bank.

Today I want to go to Shakespeare and Company and browse through the books, have that thrill of knowing that I won’t have the time to make it through every one of them that I want to read and make myself choose just one, which I’ll probably finish at least half of while eating lunch.

Today, I wish I were in Paris.

The flowers are starting to bloom. I take walks in the afternoon, listening to music and thinking about what is the next best step for me might be. My pace matches the tempo of the music, the path that I chose while walking determined by how fast or slow the song will carry me.

I used a vintage typewriter from the 1940’s to type out the letter. I tapped at the keys, watching a simple message appear on the crisp, white paper. When I was done, I carefully wrapped the ring inside of the folded paper and slid it inside the envelope. I typed the name and address on the envelope as well and sealed it with a red wax monogramed seal like the one's we'd seen when we were in Venice. I placed two stamps on the front and put it in the mailbox.

I'd promised not to deposit the ring in the Mississippi river; she knew i'd considered it even without me telling her and she'd asked me not to, asked me to hold on to it. Having been in her position before and having made a similar request, I did, for her. It's been a year though, since we separated, moved to different states and now that I'm packing to move again I didn't want to take it with me. I've lived with it after the divorce, kept it one of the clear zippered pockets of my suitcase for more than a handful of trips and almost gave it back to her when I saw her last in person, but things were going alright between us for a change and I hadn't wanted to ruin that moment.

I kept my word and didn't slip it into the murky Mississippi. Instead, I typed out an explanation as to why it was being returned and now it's on it's way.

I walked down Royal street today with ear buds in my ears, listening to Rufus Wainwright cover Hallelujah as the sun hit my face. I walked past the human statues, the street musicians and gutter punks as I peeked into galleries, antique stores and moved onward, feeling like I was saying goodbye already, even though I'll linger a little longer.

She tied you to a kitchen chair, she broke your throne, she cut your hair, and from your lips she drew the Hallelujah

I listened to the song and it made me miss think of someone that I knew I was going to miss and had already started to;even before I've left. I don't know which I was saying goodbye to; New Orleans or the person on my mind, but today felt like a goodbye.

Wanderlust

Spent a few days in Georgia with friends, dropping one of them off to hike the Appalachian Trail. He started at Amicalola Falls and will end it in Maine in about six months (if it all goes well and he's able to complete it).

The trip to Amicalola Falls, the nine hour ride there and back gave me plenty of time to think about things, including the fact that I'm due to move to California at the end of the month. I haven't even started packing yet, somehow knowing in the back of my mind that there would be a complication, and there was. The friend that was supposed to be my roommate has opted to stay where she is, because her current roommate can't find a place she can afford alone and we haven't been able to find a place that meets all of our needs. I found this out while in the middle of the woods, listening to a friend talk about the fact that for the next six months all that he had to do was wake up and walk.

There is a part of me that wants to seize this opportunity and call it a sign that I wasn't meant to move west, that I should go to Europe instead, like I've wanted to all along. The wanderlust in me feels that moment of disconnect and wants to use it as the chance to travel, the excuse for a moveable feast.

I sat last night at a bar in New Orleans, meeting up with friends after I'd dropped my bags at home and gone to get food. I sat next to Elly, who's supposed to ride with me west, talking wildly about how I'd rather be going to Amsterdam and she humored me, telling me she'd make that trip with me instead. For a moment I let myself believe that was what would happen and in that moment I was happy.

Venice is one of my favorite places in the world. Most of the time it feels like a sunday afternoon there.

When it rains

It's raining. I'd left the house to go to a doctors appointment and walked the six or seven blocks to the garage where my car is parked. I drove uptown to Richard's office on Napoleon avenue and was in and out in under fifteen minutes, which is so quickly that I didn't have to pay for parking because of the grace period. He gave me a clean bill of health aside from my sinus infection and for that he gave me a prescription for antibiotics.

I drove back to the garage and parked my car, opened my umbrella before exiting to walk to the pharmacy and it bent in the wind, ready to fall apart but it held together long enough for me to make it inside, where I was made to wait for the prescription to be filled. The man behind the counter told me they'd just called it in, but I knew he was making an excuse because they were on the phone with him when I left Richard's office. I waited patiently until the pharmacists assistant called my name, paid for all my things and left.

I walked home and it was raining even harder. My umbrella finally snapped when I tipped it to clear other umbrella's that were passing by. I could feel my shoes filling up with water, the dampness rising on my jeans to a point just below the knee. I waved to my neighbor with the hand that contained the broken pieces of my umbrella and he smiled, waved back.

When I got into the house I started removing layers. I left the umbrella by the door and as I moved up the stairs took my jacket off. When I got to the top, I removed my shoes and left footprints where my wet socks touched the wood floors (you could see the outlines of my toes because the wet fabric had clung to my feet). I removed my socks and jeans and put them directly in the washer before pulling my sweater over my head and hanging it on the hook that I'd taken my bathrobe from before slipping into it.

I walked into my bedroom, picked out dry jeans, a fresh shirt and warm socks all of which I slipped into while noting that my neighbor was looking up at my office window from his front porch.