My Hurricane Experience

I missed the hurricane. Years from now when my grandchildren ask me, "Where were you, BB, when the Schuykill overflowed?" I'll have to say I was in Stockholm, Sweden being a tourist, a job I'm at which I'm very accomplished. I'm almost sorry I missed the hurricane. It might have fun sitting on my window seat in the kitchen watching the rain and listening to the wind. Then again maybe that wouldn't have been such a good idea.

I'm glad I haven't missed seeing Stockholm. The city is beautiful and clean and charming and filled with beautiful and clean and very white people, all of whom speak English--which is a good thing since Danish is completely incomprehensible. So far I've done the historic thing. I've wondered through the cobblestone streets and alleys of the old town getting lost but somehow finding my way back to my hotel. I toured the royal palace, saw the changing of the guard and visited the modern museum. I've eaten fish at a harbor side restaurant. Today I plan to do the real work--a thorough survey of the fashion and design scene i.e. shopping.

Surprisely for a city that seems so homogenous and placid compared to the grit and texture of Philly, Stockholm isn't boring. There's an edginess to the city--lots of cool looking young people all wearing Jack Purcell Converse sneakers and skinny jeans while riding their bikes. One thing I did notice is that no one crosses the street until the light turns green. Everyone--hipster, business person, housewife (Is there such a thing in Stockholm?)--waits patiently until the light changes. That sure as hell wouldn't happen back in Philly!

Reading Life

I think I am about to go on a John Cheever binge.

At 6 o'clock this morning I read the last chapter of Falconer, an amazing and beautiful book, more a meditation than a novel. It's so exciting to discover an author new to me and to think of the books waiting for me to get into. I'll be heading to Barnes and Noble today for sure and, without a doubt, I'll come home with a stack of new books to add to the pile on the table in my study, a sort of visible to do list--but all pleasure here, no onerous tasks to slog through. How satisfying it is to take a book from that pile and then once I've finished it, write my name and the date inside--my personal ritual--and then find its rightful place on the shelves that line my study.

Best Day of the Summer

It's days like this that I wonder why the hell I am running back to Philly from Maine. I pretended I was young again today. I went for a run early in the morning when the air was fresh and cool. Then I cruised around the lake on our new paddle board for an hour enjoying the stillness and the quiet of the water. In the afternoon there was yoga on the deck followed by three sets of tennis at the end of the day. A quick hot shower and then sunset and a glass of wine on the dock. Oh, and three advil for a chaser. Perfecto!

Leaving

My final week in Maine. It's been raining for two days now. No running, no tennis. I did yoga to the sound of the rain. I went to bed listening to the rain on the roof. I woke up to a gray vista of mist and clouds and wet leaves. I'm looking forward to going home but sad at the same time. What will it be like when I come back here again next year? Isn't this my home too?

All I know is that I am leaving my husband here on a hill overlooking the lake. Last weekend we placed a granite bench there to mark where he sleeps. Sweet dreams.
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A Happy Man

One Year Later

It’s almost on year since Steve died. I’ve been very good. I’ve taken care of things. I’ve been strong, sensible, acted rationally most of the time. I’ve gotten through the year, still standing. So now what? Where’s the prize for behaving so admirably? Where’s my reward, my gold star? He’s still not coming back. I’m still alone facing yet another year and another year and years and years ahead of me without him. Right after he died, I kept repeating like a mantra, “I have to get through this year. I have to get through this year.” If I pass this test, survive this pain then something--what I didn’t know and certainly couldn’t verbalize—would happen. I knew it was a fantasy but maybe I needed it. Because here I am one year out, still feeling sad and angry and above all exhausted from it all. I miss my husband. I miss the intensity of his attention, the fierceness of his being. I miss being together even though it wasn’t always easy being together. I miss you Steve.

Going with the Flow

Sometimes life takes you in weird directions. This morning I woke up in the throes of a major anxiety attack--edgy and restless, lots of tears, couldn't run, couldn't do yoga, couldn't do ANYTHING except play countless games of Boggle on my Ipad. Finally, when I guzzled down a whole container of hummus a mere two hours after eating breakfast, I realized I had to get out of Maine despite the fact that it was yet another quintessential sunny and beautiful Maine day. It was just too painful to be there all alone especially this week as I/we count down to the one year anniversary. Ok, I take control. I make a decision. I make a reservation to go home to Philly, to my beautiful, sexy boudoir, to my new library, to life in the big city where I can go the gym, yoga class and maybe, just maybe not feel so sad and lonely.

Cut to the chase, I get to the Portland airport and discover that in my addled and anxious state I have made a reservation in the WRONG direction i.e. from Philly to Portland. This is clear evidence that I am losing my mind, despite the fact that every day I faithfully do the NYTimes crossword puzzle.

Happy ending: I spend the night in Portland and have an absolutely fantastic dinner at Emilitsa--fried cheese with Turkish figs in a sweet balsamic sauce followed by a perfectly grilled whole fish on a bed of chard, all washed down, of course, with several glasses of white wine.

I toddle back to my hotel happy at last.