For 6 euros, fresh squeezed juice and a song

We are in Europe now. We arrived in Paris, bleary-eyed from the night plane, last Wednesday morning. The day was cloudy with some sun, warm and cold at the same time. We tried to accustom our jet lagged bodies by walking through the Tuilleries, casually looking at the Eiffel Tower and the Arc de Triomphe as if we saw these structures everyday and that it was no big deal to have them as our backdrop.

Paris was as stunningly beautiful as I remembered it from our trip five years ago. Almost too much beauty to take in all at once. Too many croissants and crepes. I wish that I could spread it out in my life.

We walked back to our old neighbourhood, our apartment on Rue Vavin, the Luxembourg Gardens, the place where we would get gelato. 

Then we tried to fit in as many new experiences as we could. We had dinner in St. Germaine, we went shopping on Rue Coomerce, we visited Sacre Coeur in Monmartre, and we strolled the streets of Canal St. Martin.  Everything is expensive in Paris, but our best 6 euros spent was for a bottle of fresh squeezed juice in Monmartre where the vendor sang while he made juice for us. "Chante," he said to Aveen.

 Our trip was completely different than the one five years ago because this time the kids can walk a lot. So we walked and walked and soaked Paris up as much as we could in less than three says. It was too short. I could definitely live in Paris. Maybe one day, we will stay for a month.

A Letter to Robin Williams

Dear Robin,

I have been thinking a lot about you this week, as has everyone else.  Like everyone else, I was surprised that you had suffered severe depression and took your life last Monday. 

Surprised and not surprised. I had not really given much thought to whether you had been depressed or not, but if I had, I might have guessed that you were.  After all, you have, at various points in your life, abused drugs and alcohol (I would never characterize you as a drug addict or an alcoholic as that would debase you to only the negative parts of you and why do that when there were so many wonderful parts to you?), and generally people do those things when they are unhappy and want to escape something.

So I wasn't really surprised, but I was sad.  I was sad that you felt such despair that you would take your life.  I am sad that you did not have someone you felt you could turn to or that you saw no way out.  I was sad that even someone so funny could be so depressed.  You had a kind face.  You must have had people who loved you.  And yet you took your life.

I can't say that I don't understand that.  I mean, I have people who love me, and yet, I have been depressed at various times in my life, especially in the last two years.  I have had good reason, I think, at times in the last two years to be depressed from time to time.  I don't even think it is considered depression if you have a good reason to be.  I think that is called being normal.  Then, again, maybe it isn't.  After all, I had good reason to be anxious, yet my psychologist said I had an anxiety disorder.  (Yes, I know it probably has to do with the degree to which you are anxious or depressed about difficult things in life.)

Today, I felt a bit down.  It was the 5th day of cold, rainy, gloomy weather.  Oh, and it's not October.  It's the middle of August.  The weather network is calling it Augtober.

And we have been going through a difficult time with my father.  Not in the cancer sense.  But still, we are waiting for results of imaging.  And I so love doing that.  (Read this last line in a sarcastic or ironic.)

It rained and rained today. And there was nothing to do all day.  And I felt so lonely.  I wanted to call a friend to go for coffee.  But I didn't.

Did you call a friend to go for coffee, Robin?  I bet you didn't either.  Because people often don't reach out when they need to.  I wish I had been your friend.  I wish I could have gone for coffee with you.  Not that I am narcicistic and delusional and think that I could have saved you from killing yourself.  (No, I'm just a bad speller and can't figure out where the spell check is on this blogger.)  But I just think we might have had a good talk.  In fact, I could have used a coffee with you today.  I'm sure you would have made me laugh.

Don't worry about me. The forecast is for sun tomorrow.  I'm sure I will feel better as soon as I can get out for a bike ride or a swim. 

It's just that it's too late for you.

If it rains again, tomorrow, I'll ask someone to go for coffee.

Rest in peace.

Sunset Salads

It is the middle of August.  The summer is slipping past me, too fast.  I can't hold on to it.  It's over before it's over.  A particularly cold and wet week - the week I am OFF work - gives us a preview of fall.  It gives us time to be cozy, to sleep late, clean the house, bake cookies.  We even went shopping for school supplies and fall clothes, before November this year!  But really, I would take a messy house and be ill-prepared for back-to-school for cheerful, sunny days. 

I can`t say that we haven`t had our share of sunny days this summer.  We have been swimming and eating our dinners outside.  Almost every evening, we take our salad to the second floor balcony and eat watching the sunset.  Every night, we go to bed too late.

Despite summer slipping by fast, the world seems to tilt slowly on its axis.  My father`s torn leg muscle has covered our summer in a blanket of slowness, reflecting the slowness of his movement and his progress. So slow that he wonders what is going on and has asked his doctor to do an x-ray.  The results are slow to come in.  We have spent slow-moving visits at my parents` apartment, talking and arguing, providing company and not much help.  Hoping to see improvement.  Then being happy to leave.

My father`s leg has taken my mind off, ever so slightly, of my own health.  Yet, I notice subtle differences in myself.  I feel ... changed.  I have difficulty relating to the world.  I have lost interest in certain things, it seems, permanently.  I sometimes feel impatient.  I sometimes don't understand and feel that others don`t understand.  How can they?  It doesn`t mean anything, except that I sometimes feel alone. 

I have been less scared.  Though I still replay the events over and over in my head, it is less often.  Though I still have he same symptoms repeating, they are less severe.  The experience is fading, somewhat, in my memory.

Yet, sometimes, I will react to things in a way people don`t understand.  The cleaning lady comes at a different hour than the one that we agreed on, and I realize that Aveen has been at home, enveloped in the fumes of cleaning supplies, for over an hour.  I am panicked and angry and get Aveen out of the house urgently. 

No one understands why.

I am kept waiting for dinner.  And I don't eat until late.  And it makes me too full, and I can`t sleep that night.  I lie awake, and everything hits me.  And I wonder how I could have spent the day not scared.  At dawn, I finally sleep for a couple of hours.  And when the sun comes up, things are less dramatic and I wish I could have just let myself sleep.

But.  The memory is fading.  Ever so slowly.  But fading.  Like the sunset.  The memory is fading into darkness. 

Moving on is a slow and gradual process.  Little by little, new experiences replace older ones.

And I have sunrise to look forward to.  And a new day.