It was probably better when I was afraid of New York. Then, I observed and appreciated everything. When you’re petrified, you don’t opine or pose or spend time wishing you were elsewhere. The present consumes you. I would have written pages upon pages about this cloying, dangerous heat instead of staring blankly at a screen wishing that I were by the sea with all the lucky people.
But, now, a breeze of reality, naivete. A fresh perspective is moving to New York in the form of my completely unspoiled, small town boyfriend. He’s THRILLED to be here in August, not thinking twice about far-flung islands—Egadi, Balearics—in the blue.
“I thought that when I get up there on Sunday we could do some planting,” he says, his voice heavy with anticipation.
“I don’t do flowers. And I really don’t garden in August.” I sigh, cradling the phone to my right ear, rewinding “Il Postino.” Third time this week. Maybe I could write there, I think, on the island of Salina. Pablo Neruda’s character in the film was quietly invigorated by the isolation, uninterrupted sky, sequined sea, simplicity.
“Herbs, honey! What if I did a great-big window box full of basil, rosemary, thyme, chives, mint—you name it. Think of my roasts, your caprese salads, Mom’s mint iced…”
Five years ago I tasted the capers of Salina, drank the sweet Malvasian wine and sunbathed on the sand where Massimo Troissi courted Maria Grazia Cucinotta. Thinking, thinking, thinking while Jamie is busy making plans for the two of us, our kitchen, OUR New York.
“We’ve come a long way, baby,” he says, cutting off my thoughts and reminding me of those cigarette ads.
He’s right. We’ve done well over the past year. And I want to think that this time—tonight—when I watch my postman court his country girl, I’ll plan a trip for both of into the blue.
No comments:
Post a Comment