I wrote what's below this morning, to The Foodinista, adding that, I thought sad. She, worthier and wittier than I, wrote back:
Sad, but also sort of marvelous. I love this! Were Truman Capote alive today, he would approve and he would agree. How is it that you dream as beautifully as you write? Flattered to have been a part of the dream, and rubbing elbows with Martha and Michelle. We do get around, don't we?
I dreamt this morning that you and I were on a business trip to DC. It
was some sort of Easter celebration; we were touring this very grand
old estate, where people were serving very elegant foods; outside,
there was Martha Stewart (who complimented the coat I was wearing!)
with a table full of very festive and Easter-egg hued desserts, which
we were sampling; you particularly liked something with lemon. Then, it
was off to a receiving line in a casual living room of sorts in the
White House; we said our goodbyes, including to Michelle Obama (who
gave me a hug!); you'd be staying in DC, for a White House meal the
next day, but I was was going to try to catch an evening flight back to
Portland. We walked outside...
Where we were now (of course) on the corner of 57th and Fifth in NY, right outside Tiffany's.
"I love Tiffany's," I said.
"Me,
too," you said, and we headed inside, through the heavy glass doors, my
telling you that there was a particular ring Din was trying to
find for me (which is true) but which had been discontinued, but maybe
they had it.
Once
inside, we were immediately approached by a tall, sort of oily Puerto
Rican guy trying to soft-sell us. I told him what I was looking for,
and he led us to a counter. But everything was wrong: Tiffany's was
about a quarter of its size, the ceilings had been dropped; there was a
bad white paint job and on the walls were hanging little plastic packs
of earrings and geegaws; it looked like a bad airport jewelry shop.
We
came to the counter where the ring was supposed to be. Behind it were
two slovenly men and a skinny Puerto Rican gal chewing gum. I asked
about the ring. They pulled out a box with a few things thrown in
chockablock; what I wanted wasn't there; I began to explain, the ring
I wanted had been discontinued...
"They don't teach us how to repair anything
or nothing," said the gal; she was bitter about her job and wanted it
to be known. The men sort of nodded. You'd moved down to the end of the
counter, and as I passed you, I whispered, "This is a disaster."
"It is," you said.
I
walked around, I looked; I thought, why did they do this? I knew it had
something to do with real estate; the building had been bought and
Tiffany's was forced to downsize. But it was so ugly, and there was
nothing of what it had been left, and as I stood by one wall of cheap
stuff, I actually started to cry. I thought, Heather and I, we
grew up with this as an ideal, this sparkling if girly but so lovely
dream, of being able to buy something at Tiffany's, and now that we
might actually afford it, it's gone.
I looked up. There was a long
zinc bar in Tiffany's, you were at the end, ordering a Cinzano. I went
and sat next to you, and told the bartender, "I'll take one, too."
