On the Veranda

In the middle of the day, it was then that I met my nemesis as I was sipping a refreshing tropical punch on the veranda of very same hotel where, decades earlier, Count Lundgren and the Duchess of Lambourg had their infamous tête-à-tête that altered the course of fashion and style in so many subtle yet profound ways.

The veranda faced on a winding street teeming with pushcarts and perambulators, commerce writ small, bumping and jostling in a Brownian motion that was both exciting and consoling to observe. Overhead, a small aeroplane engaged in skywriting; “Lulu I love you,” the message said. Lulu’s misfortune, to be loved by a pilot or someone who pays pilots. I took another sip of my punch, enjoying the light breeze on my face and relishing my solid connection to Terra Firma.

Fate has a way of sneaking up and surprising you, much like a pesky street urchin with a water balloon. An unexpected hand clap on the shoulder is like sudden transport into an alternate dimension where logic is topsy-turvy and experience useless.