Last Saturday, around 2:00 p.m.:
Beast: Is there a washing machine at our Airbnb in Hydra?
Foodie: I don’t think so. There’s also no WiFi. I hope that not a problem.
Beast: Well that’s really going to mess up all my high power business calls but I can live with that. But no washer means we will have to think carefully about what we pack.
Foodie: You’re not going to wear one pair of underwear for four days, like last year, and then rip them off?
We’ve had a couple of extraordinary date nights during the last couple of weeks.
Last night the Beast suggested we pick up Maker Pizza after work and finish watching Paul Thomas Anderson’s The Master. We’d started the film the night before but I couldn’t stay up to finish it, maybe because I was full of an incredible minestrone-style soup the Beast had made (the secret, he says, is popping in some parmigiano rinds as it simmers, and sautéing the mirepoix in more butter than you think you need) and this Sicilian Nero d’Avola, which was worth every cent of the splurge. Or perhaps it was because we’d already finished Francois Truffault’s The 400 Blows, a movie that the Beast gets quite choked up about, especially the ending, and which I remember not warming to in the same way. This time around, however, it hit home in all the right ways. What a beautifully sad film!
It’s been an odd summer.
Actually, Summer, maybe it’s not you. I think it’s me.
I feel restless, aimless, and have a hard time focusing. It could be work anxiety. It could be the headlines. It could be that I’m itching to get away but can’t decide where I want to go. It could be that time is ticking and one day I will be dead. On top of this, my beloved Thoreau keychain broke, which feels symbolic.