We arrived at the Hostel One Paralelo shortly before 11:00, which means that we had been traveling for eight and a half hours. Our journey from Paris had gone quite smoothly, save for a bit of wandering in confusion upon arrival (and believe me, I know of no greater discomfort than wandering in confusion in a foreign city -at night – where I don’t speak the language.)

We rang the bell and waited for a few moments. The door was opened by a tall man in a green Ramones t-shirt who cried out my name as if we were old friends. They had been expecting us. He asked if we had just arrived in Barcelona, and we replied that we had. He asked if we had eaten dinner yet, and we replied that we had not. He asked if we would like some pasta carbonara, and we replied that we would very much like some.

The next thing I knew, we were ushered into the common room of the Hostel One Paralelo where a lively crowd had gathered. Our green-shirted host, whose name was Angel, urged us to put down our bags and have a seat. Complimentary beers and plates of pasta quickly appeared in front of us. We had not even checked in yet.

A young woman approached us to say hello. We exchanged the usual small talk: our names, where we were from and what we do. Lauren was an American living in Bordeaux as an English teacher. She was delighted to hear that we were music teachers and told us that she had spent one year as a music major at Ithaca College before switching to a major in French.

Because of my involvement in the a cappella community, I happen to know quite a few music majors and recent graduates from Ithaca College. At least four of them are friends of Lauren. It is a very small world, indeed.

After a leisurely dinner and a lengthy session on the complimentary wifi, we finally got around to the check-in process. Angel gave us a tour of the hostel, including the fully stocked kitchen, courtyard, and hot tub. The walls were painted with Picasso and Dali-esque images, and at the reception desk they were playing The Eagles’ “Hell Freezes Over” at full volume. Angel carried our bags upstairs to our well-equipped room and informed us that at 12:30 he would be leading the group to a nearby club for the evening entertainment.

It should be noted that Eileen and I are undoubtedly the oldest guests in this hostel, and clubbing in Barcelona is not really our scene. Nor, I suspected, was it Lauren’s. So the three of us walked together to a nearby restaurant for wine and tapas.

It should also be noted that, even for old ladies like us (and, for that matter, much older ones indeed) going out after midnight is not at all unusual around here. We have not made it to bed before 2 am since our first night in Paris, and we are far from alone.

We enjoyed an unusually heavy and long sleep, wandering downstairs around 11 am to find that breakfast was still in full swing. We had been told that breakfast would cost 2€50, but none of the employees seemed to have the slightest interest in collecting our money.

We ate with Joe, Courtney, and Mike, three American teachers in their late twenties who are six months into a two-year contract at the American school in Kosovo. They are on vacation too this week and have spent it, as they spend most of their weekends and holidays, traveling around the continent. They have visited ten countries in the last six months.

After breakfast we took a leisurely stroll down to the beaches of Barcelona where we watched surfers and Eileen dipped her toes in the Mediterranean. We ate gelato and marveled at the captivating mix of Baroque architecture and modern sculpture and graffiti.

For lunch we went to La Champagneria, which came recommended to us by the overnight receptionist at our hostel. We would not have found it without his instructions. It was located on a small side street near the port. We walked past it at first, for there was no name on the door, and the assortment of pig parts hanging from the ceiling gave the impression that it was a butcher shop.

On second glance we realized that this was the eatery that had been recommended to us. On third glance, we realized that it was absolutely packed.

There are no chairs or tables at La Champagneria; only a long bar at which one can order from an assortment of Spanish hams, cheeses, salt cod, olives, and sardines. They serve three kinds of wine by the bottle. Diners belly up to the bar to place their orders and eat their meals standing wherever they can find a patch of floor in the narrow shop. It was the sort of environment that could easily intimidate a couple of American tourists, but two businessmen gestured for us to stand next to them at the bar and poured us glasses from their bottle of champagne.

We spent a very pleasant hour in the company of our new friends, who worked for a bank and were on their way to assess the value of a boat that was for sale in the port. Their English was only slightly better than our Spanish, but they were more than happy to introduce us to Barcelona’s local delicacies (and more champagne.) They were also more than happy to pay our bill.

For dinner we enjoyed the made-to-order paella at Bosque y Palermo. Upon walking in the door we enjoyed a Cheers-like greeting from a crowd of guests from our hostel, proving once again that it is a small world indeed. The paella came in a cast iron pan, brimming with mussels, clams, squid, prawns, and threads of saffron. at 9€ apiece, it was both a bargain and a tremendously satisfying local dish.

Upon our return to the Hostel One Paralelo, we were greeted by a new evening receptionist, a handsome young Italian man who wondered why we had not joined everyone for the complimentary dinner, which he had cooked. He showed us the recipe for tomorrow’s meal and invited us to help with the cooking.

I can think of far worse ways to spend an evening.

Eileen is just discovering travel’s most magical truth, which is that the world is full of good people, and through the grace of chance or fate we will meet the ones we are supposed to meet.

We arrived last night at La Mère Agitée and were immediately greeted by friendly faces. Christophe and Julien rose from their dinner to kiss our cheeks and welcome us. Christophe introduced us to the proprietress, explaining that we were American musicians who had come to hear them play.

Our evening exceeded our expectations – not so much in terms of the music and the food, for we already knew that we were in for a treat in both respects, but because of the fascinating people that surrounded us. Christophe and Julien were performing in a converted wine cellar that comfortably seated sixteen diners. We eyed our companions with fascination – particularly the elderly Parisians who, despite their advanced age, were more stylish and cosmopolitan than … well … us.

While the duo played, we all enjoyed a meal selected by la mère agitée herself – pâté on toast over lightly dressed greens and a savory stew of veal and carrots in a delicate cream sauce over rice. Eileen and I noted that these were not dishes that either one of us would have chosen off of a menu, but it was one of the most unforgettable meals we had ever eaten. It just goes to show that once in a while we diners should set aside our prejudices and trust the chef.

Dinner ended shortly before midnight, and the room emptied out for a cigarette break. A woman approached me by the staircase and asked if I was the American musician she had heard about. She asked why I was not up on stage, and I stammered a response that was clearly unsatisfactory to her. (The truth is that Christophe and Julien had invited me up on stage several times already and, as badly as I wanted to join them, my mind went blank every time I contemplated what I might perform.) The woman, whose name was Domenica, peered at me through darkly-lined eyes and told me an artist can not be shy. She was, of course, completely right.

Domenica, who had moved to Turkey with her husband, was paying a visit to her parents who, in their late seventies, looked perfectly at home at a late-night jazz show. Accompanying them was a family friend – a flight attendant who Domenica had befriended years ago en route to Paris – and Domenica’s Turkish husband Cengiz, who seemed at once bemused by and completely in love with his vibrant wife.

One by one, performers and spectators returned to the little basement and, in lieu of a third set, we pulled our chairs into a circle and talked and laughed over bottomless bottles of the unlabeled house red. The language barrier was significant, and yet not. Words and accents mattered less than laughter and friendly eyes. We talked of Barcelona, and of our respective misadventures on the railway. I told her that I am no strangers to the SNCF, having embarked on a solo journey a few years ago. She rolled her eyes in mild disgust, and Cengiz explained that in her impatience, his wife favors the speed of flight over the slowly evolving landscape of train travel.

Well after 1 am, the proprietress shooed us out of her basement. Domenica pressed her phone number into my hand and urged us to visit her soon in Istanbul. Eileen approached La Mère to pay for our meal, and it was evident that the collection of money had been an afterthought.

Christophe hailed us a cab, and Julien accompanied us back to our neighborhood because the Metro had long since stopped running. Dazzled by our incredible evening, we got out several blocks from our hostel and enjoyed a giddy walk through the garish lights of Pigalle before returning to our beds.

Even in my sixth visit, Paris does not fail to enchant. Today I am sad to leave behind Domenica’s larger-than-life personality and her youthful, jovial family, I’ll never forget the way Julien sang through his violin or, if I am to be perfectly honest, the way my stomach flipped under his piercing gaze. Nor will I forget his father’s warmth and easy laugh. They will be filed away in my memory along with a variety of treasured chance encounters over the years.

Fascinating people are everywhere. Lots of them tend to congregate in Paris. Hopefully Barcelona, too.

This sounds like my kind of place.

We are going to La Mère Agitée to listen to a performance by our new friends Christophe and Julien, a father and son jazz duo upon whom we stumbled in Montmartre after being turned away from a sold-out opera performance. Which is to say that everything happens for a reason.

We were amazed to find that the Monday night performance of “Rigoletto” was sold out at the Bastille. Eileen waited in line at the ticket booth in case of a last-minute opening while I joined a crowd of other desperate shut-outs in front of the opera house, holding a sign that said “CHERCHE 2 PLACES.” All it got me were a few slightly suspicious once-overs from passers-by. We were amazed and slightly envious of a culture that packs opera houses on Monday nights.

We wandered aimlessly through the Marais, finding nothing to capture our interest. Live music was our ideal way to spend the evening, but we knew that our options were likely limited on a Monday night. I figured Montmartre was our best shot at finding a night spot with a suitable vibe, so we headed over on the metro and climbed the approximately 125 steps (we lost count) up the butte to the Sacre Cœur cathedral.

Behind the cathedral and around a corner we found Le Clairon des Chasseurs, a restaurant with mediocre, overpriced food and phenomenal ambience. In the corner by the window, Christophe and Julien were performing jazz standards on guitar and violin. After heavily courting our business out on the street, the maitre d’ seated us directly in front of the musicians. Their unparalleled skill quickly caught our eyes, and our enthusiastic appreciation quickly caught theirs.

Christophe, the father, is a virtuosic guitar player whose rapid and complex chord changes convinced me that he is the Johann Sebastian Bach of jazz. Julien’s passionate, virtuosic violin playing took on an almost hypnotic quality as he breathed with every phrase. We were utterly transfixed.

The two noticed our interest and our obvious familiarity with the songs, so they began soliciting song requests and asking about our musical background. They clearly enjoyed having an audience that understood their art form, and they played continuously for three hours, pausing only to ask us an occasional question in between songs.

The evening got even better when, around midnight, a teenage boy from the Czech Republic approached them and asked if he could sit in for a few songs. A second violin was procured – I never did figure out from where – and father and son welcomed this stranger into their band. They sounded as if they had played together for years. The boy was positively beaming as he and Julien traded riffs on their violins.

We stayed until the cafe closed, at which point we posed for a few pictures and Christophe informed us of their next gig at La Mère Agitée. He warned us that a reservation would be essential, given the small size and unique nature of this restaurant.

So we will spend our last night in Paris listening to phenomenal jazz while enjoying unlimited food and drink from a hole-in-the-wall Parisian restaurant with no menu.

Perhaps opera is overrated.

Amazing jazz in Montmartre

Paris is a photographer’s playground. I have spent this day capturing images of sumptuous food, awe-inspiring art and architecture as well as a few arm-length self-portraits.

So it is hard to say whether chance, fate, or my subconscious led us to Les Halles, a shopping enter on the right bank, where we rounded a corner and found ourselves face to face with one of my favorite memories of this city.

I first dined at Au Pied de Cochon in 2008. It was my last night in Paris, and I happened to find myself without accommodations. At the time I could not afford any of the available hotels, and I was still afraid of hostels (largely thanks to the infamous movie.) So irrational was my fear of hostels that I decided my safest bet was to stay out all night.

Yes, I am aware of how stupid that sounds.

But you’d be surprised by how many options there are for Parisian night owls. Even on a Sunday night, I had plenty of options, including a well-lit and heavily populated park and several hours on a cafe couch. I spent the majority of my night (from approximately midnight to five a.m.) in a booth at Au Pied de Cochon where I consumed French onion soup, magret du canard, and a carafe of Beaujolais while engrossed in a book. The staff was attentive but made no effort to rush me out, even after I stopped ordering food due to a painfully distended belly. I was waiting for the metro to begin running again so that I could catch a train to Charles de Gaulle airport for my return home.

At five o’ clock, as the trains were just beginning to rumble underground, the maitre d’ fetched my suitcase from the coat check room. I walked out the front door of the restaurant and found myself in a light drizzle. I knew I had packed a travel-sized umbrella, and that it was probably at the bottom of my suitcase after a week of sun.

My waiter saw me through the window and came out to inquire if I needed a umbrella. Of course, he asked in French, and I didn’t speak much French at the time. In fact, the only word I understood was “umbrella.” I assumed he was asking if I had one, so I nodded in the affirmative. He disappeared.

Moments later, just as I was pulling my rain gear out of my suitcase, my waiter reappeared with a full-sized umbrella. He would not listen to my protests as he pressed it into my hand. The umbrella was mine to keep, whether I needed it or not.

I still have it to this day. It is not of especially high quality, so it has fallen apart and poses a serious danger to any eyes that come in closes proximity. But I will never, ever throw it out.

The kindness of the staff at Au Pied de Cochon did not end there, for I walked to the metro station only to find it strangely locked. I attempted to occupy myself by walking laps around the nearby park, but they had long since turned off thelights, and the safe garden had take on a more sinister quality. I soon noticed a man trailing me at a distance of several hundred yards. I briskly made my way back to the nearest well-lit area, which happened to be outside of Au Pied de Cochon where the maitre d’ noticed me pacing outside.

The maitre d’ – a large black man by the name of Remi – came outside to ask me if everything was okay. I replied that I was fine, but that I wasn’t sure when the metro was going to open, and that there was a man following me a little too closely.

Remi would hear no more. He fetched his umbrella and strode alongside me to the next nearest metro station, explaining to me that some – like theirs – open later than others. I arrived at the metro station safe, dry, and overwhelmed by the generosity of strangers.

So I was all too happy to pay them a visit today with Eileen. The food was even better than I remembered it – although they still served their signature meringue pigs alongside the post-dinner coffee. We were in no position to seek handouts or protection, but we were nonetheless deeply impressed by our waiter’s friendly and jovial demeanor.

It’s so nice to be able to return to a foreign city and feel like you are among friends.

—

Note to readers: my aforementioned lack of attention to packing means that I cannot share my trip photos with you until my return, due to the absence of one small but crucial adaptor. Sorry.

Travel can be a huge production. But it doesn’t have to be.

At this point I’ve got my packing routine down pat. I know exactly which items of clothing will hide stains, resist wrinkles, and coordinate sufficiently, along with a few well-chosen accessories, to give the illusion of a complete wardrobe. I know exactly how many times I can hand wash a pair of socks in the hostel bathroom before they start to get gross. (Twice, if you’re curious.) I know how to organize my gadgets and their respective electrical accoutrements, and I know exactly where to pack my quart-sized bag of 3-oz liquid products for easy access in the security line. I’ve learned to layer my heaviest items of clothing on the day of the flight so as to reduce the weight of my carry-on bag (because if I have any say in the matter, I never, ever check my bags.) So I don’t give packing much thought these days.

Likewise, I’ve become increasingly laissez-faire about travel planning. I’ve lost interest in travel guides and restaurant reviews. I’ve had enough plans fall through – and enjoyed enough unexpected adventures – to put much stock in preparation. My one area of holdout is my inability to resist booking my accommodations in advance. I envy the carefree travelers who wake up in the morning and say “what country should we go to today?” I hope to some day work up the nerve to do the same.

As packing and planning have become a no-brainers, I have also learned that travel requires other types of preparation. I got up at 5:45 this morning in an effort to get a head start on beating jet lag. I’ve done my yoga and consumed extra water in preparation for the discomfort of economy fare travel. These preparations take on increasing significance as I – ahem – get older. I also took the time to change my bed linens, wash a load of dishes, and empty the trash. Because nothing kills a good vacation buzz quicker than coming home to a messy house.

Naturally, all of this packing and cleaning and disruption to our weekend routine has aroused the suspicion of my dog. I have not yet told him that I am going on vacation, or that he is not invited. For his entire life I have endeavored to make my departure – whether for a day or a month – as uneventful as possible. I have been rewarded with a dog who, for the most part, is unconcerned to be left alone. He will spend the week under the care of my neighbor. I sincerely hope all goes well.

So à bientôt, readers. The next time you hear from me, I’ll be in Paris. And I will likely be dehydrated, stiff, and jet lagged. But I will be well-accessorized.

I just don’t want to. That is when I hope

to wow you with my iambs and my rhymes

so that you will not notice that the scope

of this here blog post isn’t very broad.

Are you sufficiently distracted yet?

And might I even get you to applaud

my cleverness? Or maybe you’ll forget

my soapbox pleas to carefully use words;

to say something of value when you speak

or write. Hey, look! I’ve now surpassed two thirds

of today’s post by using a technique

I haven’t practiced since I was a teen.

The Bard’s got nothing on this sonnet queen.

Judging by my blog stats, chances are you know who I am. You probably arrived here via a link from Facebook, or from the web page of my local paper. And unless you leave me a comment, chances are I will never know it was you that stopped by. This is our unspoken agreement. I publish the words, and you read them. I’m pretty much okay with our arrangement. I’m getting used to the realization that the person with whom I’m chatting in the lunch line might already know embarrassing details about my oral hygiene or where I’m going for my next vacation. When I launched this blog I weighed the pros and cons of going incognito and ultimately decided against it. It felt somehow dishonest. It also would have allowed for some pretty interesting stories. But as I’ve said before, I don’t have much respect for anonymous online writers without filters.

One interesting feature of my blog stats is that they reveal the search terms that have led readers to my site. I am intrigued by these search terms, which have included “Ingrid Andress Boston,” “Beth Delforge,” “americaine stupide,” and “Whole Foods resignation letter.”

But what to make of the numerous Google searches for Amanda Roeder?

Do you know how many people are performing Google searches on you?

Well. Welcome to my blog, readers and searchers of all sorts. I’m not sure what you’ve been looking for, but you’ve found me.

I’m fascinated by the role of social media in the exchange of information. I’ve watched numerous political debates, controversies, and social gaffes play out in the online forum. It’s interesting how, as information becomes increasingly accessible, we seem to understand each other less and less.  And thus, we resort to the strangest ways of learning about one another.

Lately I’ve been fretting over a suitably sensitive way to deflect the unwanted online advances of one particular gentleman. I have been thus far unsuccessful in communicating my lack of interest in this very persistent person, whose interpretation of written communication is no more nuanced than his interpretation of body language. His advances are getting downright uncomfortable. I’ve considered possible ways to put a stop to it, but the thought has crossed my mind: at least he’s up front about his curiosity. I am not always so forthright.

I’ll admit it: I use social media to seek answers to the questions I don’t know how to ask in person. That’s a diplomatic way to describe an activity that most people call Facebook stalking. Yes, I do it. If you use social media, chances are you do it too. I read and re-read the tweets from certain individuals. I have a fair number of pseudo-celebrity friends in the a cappella circuit over whom I am more star-struck than I care to admit, and I watch their YouTube videos. A lot. I have scoured the Facebook profile of the one who broke my heart, searching (unsuccessfully) for some crumb of the closure he could not provide. This is what the internet was invented for, right?

So here I am, managing the delicate balance between my public and private lives, and finding the junctions where they intersect with yours. As a result, the question keeps resonating in my brain: when I type a word or name in that search bar, what am I really looking for?

I mean, I really, seriously can’t stop thinking about it. Between talking about Paris, writing about Paris, and looking through old pictures of Paris, I’m actually a little bit surprised when I wake up each morning to find that I’m not there yet. I can visualize certain street corners. I can see the metro map on the backs of my eyelids. I can smell the croissants.

My flight takes off in 66 hours.

I once wrote on Facebook that my life was a series of counted days. At the time I was in a long distance relationship, so I had a very specific reason to say so. Truth be told, I was quite enjoying the sense of anticipation as I envisioned our reunion. So I was a little taken aback when a friend commented that counting days did not sound at all like a good way to live my life.

What she was trying to say is that anticipation robs us of the present moment. I’m still figuring out how to come to terms with this simple yet maddening truth. I spend at least as much time planning, dreaming, and reflecting as I do simply living. Being truly present is easier said than done.

Sometimes anticipation can lead one to blow things out of proportion. Case in point: my debilitating fear of oral surgery.

Tonight I enjoyed a dinner with a colleague who I rarely see. She and her husband are planning their own trip to Europe, so we traded travel tips over chimichangas and margaritas. When we had exhausted the subject, our thoughts turned to the senior class white water rafting trip at our school. Both of us have chaperoned several times.

Last year was a bit more of an adventure than we bargained for.

In what has come to be jokingly known as the Marblehead Massacre, the majority of the class of 2011 fell out of their rafts on the first set of rapids. My friend was among the first few rafts to successfully maneuver the waterfall that would send the rest of us on an unplanned swim. She watched as we scrambled atop capsized rafts or swam to shore to await rescue.

I can not wait for this year’s trip. My friend is uncertain whether she will be going. She can’t decide if her fear of falling into the water is worth facing. I don’t blame her – in fact, I’m beginning to think her experience was more frightening than mine.

For years I chaperoned the white water rafting trip. Each time we put our raft in the water I felt a familiar twinge of fear: what if we lost control and flipped?

When my raft approached the first drop last spring, I had only a moment to realize that it wasn’t going to go well. I heard the roaring of the rapids and my own screams. The next thing I knew, I was plunged into icy silence. There was a moment of stunned realization, and then a feeling of giddy elation as I bobbed to the surface and took the biggest breath I’ve ever breathed. I was fine. Better than fine, actually. I had lost control, faced my fear, and come up laughing.

The thought of not chaperoning the white water rafting trip has never crossed my mind. But if I had been in one of the lucky rafts that did not flip, I can imagine myself feeling quite differently. My friend has seen the dangers of the sport, and she is still anticipating her first surprise dunk. Flipping rafts is much more fun in hindsight.

On some days – particularly the days leading up to vacation – anticipation is the only thing that gets me out of bed in the morning. But just as frequently, anticipation is the thing that makes me want to cower under the covers.

Perhaps there is something to be said for living in the moment.

I have mixed feelings about the holiday, and if I had to keep score, I’d have to admit that most Valentine’s Days have carried some degree of disappointment.

But a few have been especially sweet, and those are the ones that I most like to call to mind on days like today.

Valentine’s Day 1997 was probably the best one I’ve ever celebrated. My first love and I had finally mastered the art of high school courtship and declared our mutual interest with a tickle fight at a Superbowl party. By the time the Hallmark holiday rolled around, we were officially an item (not that we would have used that term. Nobody talked like that. We just called it “going out.”)

I thought at great length and sought the input of several friends on the optimal Valentine’s Day gift for our budding romance. I was not particularly experienced in the buying of presents for boys, particularly on a holiday as loaded as this one. We had been dating for just two and a half weeks, which constituted a relationship in high school terms, but clearly it was not a time to go over the top with romantic gestures.

I ultimately settled on homemade cookies – my mom’s Christmas sugar cookie recipe, cut out in heart shapes (finding the cookie cutter was surprisingly difficult) and decorated with red sprinkles.

He seemed to think it was the most awesome gift ever.

He had bought me a card with a cartoon of a man precariously balancing a heart-shaped box over his head. It said

“On this day, a five pound box of chocolate”

And, on the inside:

“… has been eaten in your honor.”

He added his own missive, which began with the words “Hey Amanda whats up? Not much here.” He went on to crack a slutty soprano joke, followed by a stupid soprano joke and then wished me a happy Valentine’s Day. He signed it “Love, Craig” and gave it to me along with a squishy foam rubber cow.

With both of us satisfied with our respective gifts, and probably equally relieved to be done with it, we spent the afternoon ice skating on the campus pond at our local college.

I miss the days when a dopey card and a foam rubber cow were romantic gestures. Most of the Valentine’s Days that followed were marred by unfulfilled expectations. Which is why 2011 was probably the second best Valentine’s Day of my life: it was my complete lack of expectation that made it so wonderful.

I was in the very early stages of what would soon become a serious relationship. I already knew I loved him, but it was too early to talk about such things. Our tacit agreement was to pretend that the holiday didn’t exist. We had seen each other the day before, and we would see each other the day after, so there was no particular need to put too much pressure on the day.

I had borrowed the “Valentine’s Day” DVD from my local library, and I was thoroughly looking forward to a date night with myself. I opened a bottle of Riesling and ordered a few maki from a local sushi restaurant that had left a menu on my doormat that afternoon.

Shortly after placing the order I was surprised to see my phone light up. It was a text message from an old and ill-fated flame who had consumed years of my energy and attention. There was a time (a long one, at that) when a text message from him was the focal point of my day, worthy of dissection and interpretation with the help of a few trusted friends. We had ended it and started it back up again more times than I could count, but this text message was the first after a long period of radio silence. It was entirely unexpected on this day of all days.

I read the message. I was pleased to hear from him, and to know that he was thinking of me. But for the first time in years, his cellular greeting failed to stir any emotion in my heart, aside from gratitude that I was no longer in his thrall. I deleted it and congratulated myself. It was a real milestone.

The sushi arrived shortly thereafter, and I tipped the delivery man generously. Inside the stapled paper bag was the assortment of maki I had ordered: spicy tuna, California, salmon and avocado artfully arranged in a foil tin. There were packets of soy sauce and lumps of wasabi and pickled ginger. A set of paper-wrapped chopsticks. A new take-out menu.

And, at the bottom, a small heart-shaped box of chocolate.

Perhaps the delivery man felt sorry for the woman who was ordering sushi for one on Valentine’s Day, but I prefer to simply think of it as an unexpected gesture of kindness. Those are always the best kind.

Just after the opening credits my phone buzzed again. The new Guy was calling because, despite our tacet agreement to disregard this day, he apparently couldn’t wait 24 more hours to say hello. I paused the movie and set down my sushi. We talked for twenty minutes.

Never had I been so happy to receive a “hello” phone call.

None of these men are in my life today – some left a trail of regrets to mark their passing while others inspire happy memories. Even the sushi delivery guy is absent tonight – I ate dinner with friends. Food, wine, and laughter were in great abundance. It might not have been especially romantic, but as Valentine’s Days go, it was one of my best.