All in a day's life!

Out on the path, I noticed that I was catching up on a much older neighbor.  At a curve, when she stopped to look at a bird, she saw me.  She waited, and as I reached that spot, she said "may I join you until the bridge?"

It is a different culture here.  In the old country, I cannot imagine a "may I ...?" from another person, especially one who is much older.

"Of course.  Will be my pleasure" I replied.  I meant it.  I knew we would talk about France and the Dordogne, and her daughter's family, and her blueberry cobbler that was heavenly and divine.  We did.

"Speaking of France, did you catch the movie?" I asked her.

"Oh, wasn't it lovely!" she exclaimed.  And then came the thought to her that neither she nor I had referred to the movie by the title.  "You mean The Hundred-Foot Journey, right?"

I knew fully well that it was not my place right then to analyze the movie.  I did not want to tell her that I didn't find it to be lovely.  But then I am not into bullshitting either.  So, I focused on what really caught my attention.

"The part of France they showed was gorgeous.  And it reminded me so much of the old towns by the Dordogne."

"I understand the place is called Saint-Antoine" she said.  I made a mental note to Google it myself!

We were about a minute away from the bridge when I felt a sharp prick on my calf.  "Ouch!" I jumped.  "Looks like a damn bee or something got me."

"Like any animal, maybe you can also put your saliva on it" she suggested.  I did.

"You are not allergic to bee stings, are you?"  Thankfully not.

We went our separate ways.  Every once in a while, I stopped to examine my calf, which was slowly swelling up.  And itching.

I reached home.
Showered.
Ate.
I got into the car to run errands.

It was a gorgeous evening, with gathering dark clouds and a wonderful breeze.  I opened the sunroof. I thought an insect stung me.  I decided I was imagining things after that bee sting.

As I continued to drive, I felt another nasty one. And another. I could now feel the bumps on my hand. On my back.   I did not want to take my focus away from the road and my driving.

I reached the parking lot, and rushed out of the vehicle. I removed my t-shirt, stood topless and examined myself. And shook the shirt a few times. I examined the car seat.

Quite a spectacle I would have been--a middle-aged, gray and bald guy, topless, waving his t-shirt around like a mad man.

But, a man has got to do what a man has got to do.  After all, it is life in the wild, wild, west! ;)

Finding the direction in our lives ...

A decade ago, when I went to Dubai, I noticed that the table in the hotel room included an arrow that pointed in the direction of Mecca.  I suppose in Dubai or most parts of the Islamic world, there is always an explicit, or at least an implicit, orientation towards Mecca.

We have similar orientations in the secular world, too.  Artists, stereotypically, seem to be always oriented towards Paris. This city is their Mecca, even if the Eiffel Tower is not their Kaaba.

In The Summing Up, Somerset Maugham writes about his first experiences in Paris when he was a young man, struggling to create a life as a writer.  From the continent, and from across the channel, writers and painters and dancers and everybody seemed to converge on Paris.  It turned out that much later in life, Maugham didn't find Paris to be the charming and alluring place it was to him when he was young.  But, I would think that Paris did give him a frame of reference.

A neighbor has a similar Paris-orientation. Well, to all of France.  The artist that she is, it is an annual trip that she makes to that part of the world.

The Dordogne ... yes, I was there!

I wonder if that is her pilgrimage, as much as going on Hajj is to the devout Muslim, and like how I go on my own travels that are pilgrimages in the sense of how much they let me understand my place and purpose in this world.  We all do what we can in our own ways in order to get our bearings and to orient ourselves in the correct direction.

A couple of evenings ago, when the sun was shining, I saw this neighbor heading to the river.

Bonjour, madame, I yelled out from my front porch.

Without looking towards me, and not even pausing to wonder who said that, and almost as a reflex, she replied, bonjour, monsieur.

And then she turned towards me and said something that sounded like "bzz bzzz bzzzz bzzzzz ..."

"Hey, I used up all the French I know when I said bonjour, madame."

"That's all you need to know and say, really" she replied with a smile, as she continued on to the rivière.

A little after that, an old friend swung by to have coffee with me. After six years.

The coffee I brewed, and the eats were from the store:
salty plantain chips, pound cake, and amaretto cookies

A lot has happened in those six years.  C'est la vie!

Looking back, I am relieved, more than anything else, that over those years I didn't my lose sense of direction in life. My Mecca, my Paris, and my everything, are all within me?  Merci!