If and when a stressful moment arises during the day, I simply close my eyes and say, to myself, "West Texas Road Trip," which is what I have to look forward to next month. I can't wait to drop my fur coat like a bad habit and step into my swimsuit, as I am told that it should be nice enough to swim in the pool I plan to lounge beside for most of the day. I don't do anything in Texas. What to pack, of course, is the eternal question –– well, a mild one, at that. (If there is an eternal question, I like to think Catullus might've uttered it once, and well, he was too mad at you-know-who to contemplate a holiday). So what to wear on my feet after a winter cooped up? There's another one. These have caught my eye, as they would. I like to think a certain someone who rakishly proclaimed that Pink is the navy blue of India might approve.
My good friend Claire Oldman chronicles a couple of our evenings in her new diary at British Harper's Bazaar about swapping locales for a month. It's entitled "The Best Thing About London is Paris," after one of Diana Vreeland's immortal quips.
Late last night I returned from two weeks in Europe, during which I accompanied my publicity client, Stephanie LaCava, on her book tour for An Extraordinary Theory of Objects. It was a special and enchanting trip, in myriad ways, filled with laughter and care. In London, snowbound and cold, I spent hours with friends and curled up in front of a coal fire –– in a meditation on luxury in her memoir, Counting My Chickens, the Duchess of Devonshire observes, "If you've never dressed in front of a coal fire you don't know what luxury is," and I have learned that she's right. A friend booked me a massage at his hotel after we had breakfast upon my arrival, a fine cure for jetlag. Dancing the night away at Loulou's, and reading for hours of pleasure in my cozy bedroom, was another unexpected delight. In Paris, a friend put me on the list for an event in support of gay marriage. The debate, which seemed to feature every one of the country's premier intellectuals (and, in the audience, the first lady), included Juliette Gréco singing a Jacques Brel chanson that ended with her hands folded over her face, fingertips set to flutter like two of Nabokov's butterflies. I worked, and set up meetings, and attended events, and was occupied with the purpose of the trip, as well as keeping up with other projects, and yet, the other time was mine, and spent as it should be. As I wrote in reply to an old flame, Glad you're surfing again. I think of the walk, often, from your backsteps down to the ocean and into the waves as one of life's perfect wholly-contained beauties. Paris is lovely this time. I like myself here. I don't wear make-up, and I sleep in, and my hair is growing out, and I sit around drinking tea, and meeting friends in cafes and walking everywhere. It asks nothing of me that New York does, and it's wonderful. Now I'm back at home, enjoying a lovely Sunday after breakfast and several rounds of coffee with my sister and her beau, as I held court on our long, low, celadon silk-covered couches, clad in cream peignoir and fresh pearls, and the mood of delicate, introspective reverie that has characterized the year thus far remains. I've been engrossed in the copy of Giant I picked up at Shakespeare & Company, a memento of a magical evening, especially the gathering up above the shop, my favorite women, new friends and old, chic, warm. Noted, from the novel, "I love old silver and Maryland crabs and plenty of hot water day and night with bath salts, and one glass of very cold very dry champagne." A month here, and then I'm off to Texas to visit my brother and see some of the state, our first trip since that summer in Stockholm a few years ago. I wrote today, with regard to our plans for Marfa: How adventurous are you feeling?
