Letter from the Vineyard

The rose-colored sunset is gone, and the world is dark.  My friend Larry is on the wraparound porch, conversing with a friend whose call he needed to return.  Jazz is playing; Larry and I have returned from a lovely dinner at Flammerie, an amazing restaurant in Kinderhook, where I had the bratwurst of the day [Oh My God!!!] after an amazing soup with layers of flavor, including pickled onions.

It has been a day of organizing; throwing things away and finding what is needed for the summer.  I thought I had no khaki pants; turns out I have twelve pair.  I thought I was short of t-shirts, black, that’s my color now.  I have fourteen, at least.

The truth is, I don’t track what I have. Never have.  It was a joke one time in my life that every time I went to the grocery store, I came back with ketchup because I didn’t think I had any.  When I had twelve bottles, it finally occurred to me I needed no more ketchup, for a long time.

So, what I am doing is sorting things out to find out what I actually have.  It’s fun and frustrating and amusing.  Because almost everything is done electronically, I had no idea until today what I had done with my checkbooks.  They are now discovered, even if I don’t use them again.

I have more sweaters than I realized.  More of some things I thought I had lots of and less of things I thought I had lots of – whatever happened to all those white socks?  This is my time of finding out.

And, soon, I will be headed to the Vineyard.

Outside, the sky is a swirl of raspberry and white, portending the predicted rain.  After a day of life maintenance things, a very long conference call, and a quick-ish run to the store, I have put on some jazz, snuggled into my Keene Farm corner and begun tapping out a letter.

It is here that I will refuge mostly until it is time for the Vineyard summer; from here I will stage my departure for the summer, figure out what I need to take and to leave behind, though I have accomplished some of that.

Sunset comes later every evening and I am grateful.  While not here for all of winter, everywhere I went on this sun-kissed day, people told me how grateful they were as the winter had gone on too long.  It had had a wet chill, piercing down to the bone, with a grey shroud, dampening everyone’s spirit, pressing down with a constant reminder of mortality and the fear that spring would not come, that we had descended into the world of C.S. Lewis’ Narnia, where it was always winter but never Christmas.

This week I dined with friends, Fred Morris, Claire and Len Behr, at the beloved Red Dot, having so much fun we agreed to meet again next Monday for dinner at Chez Morris, not too far from the Keene Farm. So glad to share laughter with friends in a place that means so much to me.

Easter Sunday was all about trains, planes and automobiles, working my way from Baltimore to upstate New York – a plane from Baltimore to Albany, train from Albany to Hudson, car to Alicia and Larry’s for a traditional Easter dinner.

The last time I wrote, Notre-Dame was burning. Today, I discovered a robot was used by French firefighters to get where they were not able to go; rebuilding will be assisted by 3-D scans created over the last few years.  Technology helps save us though I will stand on my soapbox and say we need to re-train for the age of AI and I don’t think we are.  That’s the rant of the night.

Truly, I don’t have a lot to rant about.  One of the life maintenance things was to have my hearing tested; I am on the cusp of needing “augmentation.”  Another sign I am no longer the youngest person in the room. Sigh! And LOL!

What adventures I have had!  And will have.

A friend’s mother passed away this past week.  We spoke yesterday.  She told me it had been profound for her she had been present when her mother left as her mother had been when she entered.  And that is a yes.

I am falling into a very sweet spot this evening.  The great Julie London is singing in the background, the sun has set over the Catskills, black has enveloped the world and I will curl up with my mystery, “The Risk of Darkness,” by Susan Hill, one of her Simon Serrallier books, very satisfying if you like mysteries.

On a grey, drizzly day in the summer of 1978, I entered the aged greyed walls of Notre Dame de Paris, purchased a slim taper of a candle and lit it, saying a prayer for love, in gratitude, against the backdrop of the loneliness of that time, the only sound the scuffling of shoes on stone floors and the deep breathing of those around me praying. The Cathedral filled me with the sense of ages as did much of Paris; I knew I was in a solemn place, filled with the memories of the long dead and the hopes of the living surrounding me.

For some hours this afternoon, I watch Notre Dame de Paris burn, its spire tumbling into the hungry flames, as if the god Moloch had taken hold of the church, devouring her as he had the human sacrifices thrown to him. My senses numbed, not wanting feeling to overwhelm me.

Every time I have been in Paris, save the last, I have returned to Notre Dame to light a candle, for love, in gratitude, praying for what needed prayers at that moment.  Wandering Paris in October, my feet took me to many churches, in all of which I lit a candle, but my feet did not carry me to Notre Dame.

When I had paused at the Eiffel Tower, I had been startled by all the security, understandable in this destructive time when some have lost respect for the past, good or bad, that brought us here, hating symbols of so many kinds, so perhaps I feared the same thing or felt Notre Dame would be always waiting for me, paused in eternity for me to light another candle when the time came.

There is no regret I did not go and there is grief she is damaged, though perhaps not beyond repair, work that will not, I am sure, be finished in my lifetime and so a spot I counted upon is taken from me and all the others who come year after year in the millions to pay homage to the structure that has stood against wars and time.  She has suffered damage before and been rebuilt; it’s said not much of what burned today was original.  But Notre Dame has stood, started in the 12^thcentury, a miracle of faith climbing to the sky, nestled on her island, the Seine flowing all around her, a symbol of her country, a holy place for Christians of any persuasion, a site of historical weight and a place of spiritual rest.

Today’s burning reminds me of the transitory nature of all things, especially we fragile men, who are here a blink of time compared to Notre Dame. She stood in the background when the king and queen of France lost their heads to the guillotine. She saw Napoleon crown himself and Josephine, she saw him leave to exile, return and be exiled once again.  Places like Notre Dame are center points in history, places that bridge time and carry the spirits of the men and women who rest beneath their walls for a moment into the future when they are gone.

Once again, the sun is setting over the Catskill Mountains and I am watching the pale pink glow of the sun as it slips behind them, hoping the old adage, “red sun at night, sailor’s delight,” holds true as I have many things to accomplish tomorrow as Saturday, early, I am heading to DC to care for Zoey the cat.

One of the things I must do is replace the tire that went flat yesterday.  I rolled into a tire place just at five and the man said, “See ya!” AAA came forty-five minutes later and found multiple things wrong with the tire.  I went to my usual place as I think the tire might still be under warranty and found them inexplicably closed for the day.  I’ll go back tomorrow.

What is below is a poem, first sketched out in Oaxaca, while sitting in the Church of Our Lady of Solitude.  I don’t often share the poems I write though I thought I would send off this one to you.  Enjoy, or not.  Thanks!

Our Lady of Solitude, March, 2019

Our Lady of Solitude

sees me,

Her eyes pierce.

You are known,

She whispers,

All that solitude and loneliness.

Weighted by truth,

wanting to flee,

staying out of need,

glued to a pew meant

for believers,

I stay.

Yes, lady,

silent words

from the true part of

a once fecund soul.

Having conversation

with a statue, signals

madness never far

from

every separate day.

Seems fitting,

somehow,

Sebastian is at her side,

nearly naked,

before arrows robbed

him of young life.

It is evening, the sun is setting over Los Angeles, a steady stream of traffic flows east and west on Beverly Boulevard, the amazing panoply of Los Angeles’ vehicles, from the everyday to exotic brands I am unable to identify.  Last night, outside La Scala, where I was having dinner an enormous Rolls limo waited for someone, with an assortment of Range Rovers, Lamborghinis, Mercedes, and a BMW that was identified to me as a hybrid sportscar from that brand.

Once, June Lockhart’s manager, Pat Newby, said to me, when I lived here, that Los Angelino’s wore their cars like furs, parading status. She was persuading me to buy a Mercedes to up mine; I bought a Saab convertible.  This is a city that has been very good to me and a city in which I would not like to live again; it is now in my life’s wake and, while it is interesting to pause here, I am delighted it is a pause.

Yesterday, Joyce, who is the owner of Edgartown Books, and I got together and began to work out the threads of the summer. Events, staffing, how to order books – who would think ordering books for a bookstore would take an advanced degree? The process is mind boggling! And, to my great delight, three of my favorites from last year will be returning – the stalwart Comrade Vlad, from Romania; the amazing Tea, from Serbia, and the magnificent Alexander, just finishing his first year at Duke.  I am so pleased I could burst!

This morning, I had breakfast with Michael, once a boyfriend, now a friend, happy he is in a grand relationship with another man, whom he deserves.  It makes me smile to see him happy; something he richly deserves.  I was to have dinner tonight with a friend, postponed now to breakfast in the morning, due to a bronchial infection she is fighting.

The little hotel in which I am staying is one where I tarried for two months long ago when I was here on a project and for which I have fond memories.  It has no restaurant but serves a lovely breakfast in the morning and a nice wine reception in the evening and is surrounded by restaurants if you want more. I recommend it, called the Elan, just east of the Beverly Center.

Tomorrow evening I will have dinner with my much-loved godson, who I have not seen in many months and I am looking forward to that with much anticipation,  much to catch up on and his presence always brightens my life.

Monday, I will see my friend Tory, in from Nashville to visit her parents, have lunch with Medora and Meryl, my stalwart friends of long standing; we talk once a week, buttressing each other as the winds of life cause us to sway in its gusts.

Then back east on Tuesday morning, returning to The Keene Farm for a few days of rest and relaxation before a train takes me to DC.

The vagabond life goes on.  More to come. As always.

Outside my window, Banderas Bay shimmers with afternoon light while people fish off the concrete pier just down from my hotel and paragliders sail above it; a soft wind blows and cools the 80-degree plus day. Shortly, I will go for a walk, down to the Malecon, the mile-long boardwalk, where I have yet to go.

Unlike in Oaxaca and Mexico City, I have stayed close to my hotel, sitting quietly watching the water, reading endlessly about the chaos that is Brexit, fascinated as one is while watching a train wreck.  Every day seems more unbelievable than the last in this saga but, then, so does every day in politics.  Squeaky clean Trudeau is mired in a business scandal; Macron has his yellow vests, like yellow jackets swarming on his presidency, and we have Donald Trump, who doesn’t seem to know where his father was born. The man who has ruled Algeria for twenty years, Bouteflika,has resigned, I think.  Did he go today or is he going later?  Either way, the mobs that brought him down aren’t satisfied and won’t be until the powerful group around him is also gone.  And, of course, there is Brexit, again and, seemingly, always.

Two nights ago, I went to The Iguana Restaurant and Tequila Bar, housed in what was once the villa of Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton, an incredible space with equally incredible food; I had sopa de lima and a pork rib so succulent it fell to my fork without a struggle, followed by a chocolate mousse and blueberries!  Divine.

Less divine was the fact I sat alone in the middle of the room, as it was the only table for one available and everyone seemed to notice me, smiling nicely, if a little pityingly, as I ate alone, reading about, what else, Brexit.

When I ate alone in Oaxaca or in Mexico City I did not feel as on display as I did here in Puerto Vallarta – perhaps because this is a vacation town filled with couples and families, groups of friends.  It took a day of self-therapy to bring me back to my sunny self, a day spent writing and reading and remembering I choose to travel, alone.  If I waited for companions, I would probably still be sitting somewhere, waiting for schedules to align.

It is just that here, I felt a bit vulnerable; caught unaware, and a soupcon of self-pity slipped in unexpectedly and needed to be firmly wrestled back to the mat.  My normal, sprightly self took a bit of a whack amidst all these merry mates. Perhaps, it is because it is a very gay town with lots of couples wandering along.

But I am human and, as Alexander Pope once said, “Hope springs eternal in the human breast.”  So, being human, hope springs eternal.  Resting on my bed, legs crossed, laptop in lap, watching boats skim Banderas Bay while outside horns bleep and laughter rises up to my balcony, I tap away, merrily. Somewhere, not too far away, I smell cannabis burning as a resort town plays, and I adjust.