I should have stopped at the honeymoon. The honeymoon was great, the honeymoon was ideal, the honeymoon was enough, and I should have stopped at the honeymoon.
I had looked forward to it, I had prepared for it, and I had mastered it.
I had eaten well in preparation for a high dose of too many restaurants. I had slept as much as I could so that I wouldn’t mind a few late nights. I had worked enough so that I wouldn’t have to open my laptop.
My mother is the most fantastic person you’ll ever meet. She has that charm that captivates people. A laser-sharp intelligence. A wit. Something in her eye.
She started as an immigrant with no formal education and never belonged anywhere, which means that her mind was never really shaped or tamed by a specific environment. She will say the most outrageous things without batting an eye, which makes her one of those people that will challenge your thoughts, shift your views, and make you barf with laughter.
Last day in Andalusia. The atmosphere is bright and soft, the sky is blue, and everything reminds me of California.
When I was living in Los Angeles, I always felt the same—carried by a smooth energy. And every Sunday morning, I’d go to a yoga class, and I called it church.
It was one of those classes that stretch in time. The room was full of light, the music was enveloping, and the teacher would infuse the class with yoga sayings that would fill my heart.
My friend, famous and beautiful, one of those fantastic ladies that look like they made life their b*tch (ridiculous expression, yet, in her case, so appropriate), has all of the secrets to glamour and charisma, and knew exactly what I needed when I asked her what I should get for my husband’s birthday.
“This.” She said as I received a photo of herself in her lingerie, so sexy that I gasped.
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It was a few years ago. We sat around the tiny coffee table, under the platanes, the plane trees that line every city square in France and whose seeds, come spring, have you scratching anytime there is a gust of wind.
The air was crisp, but she wanted to sit outside. We ordered coffees and sat quietly, watching her children play in an improvised playground right in front of us.
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I remember the first time I heard this expression. It was in New York, in the gritty but chic apartment—typical downtown loft, elevator opening into the living room, absolutely no light in the bedrooms whatsoever, tear jerking rent each month—I was sharing with an ex of mine who won’t be named*.
He was talking to me about my personal brand, and I was still so French (I’m not anymore. I am an odd blend of different cultures) that I was huffing and puffing and rolling my eyes all the way to our tin ceiling because this concept was way too pedestrian for the refined woman that I was.
As I am walking down the aisle at the arm of my father, all I can feel is a sense of intense panic and eternity—beyond emotion. Inside, it’s blank.
The bagpipes stop. Everyone cheers, and I see the man I am about to marry, his face tense and warm. I turn around to see my brother sobbing, my dog freaking out, and the expressionless face of my mother, who, I can feel it, is beyond shock herself.
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