Suzy Says

Cloudy Sunday afternoon

Yesterday, I finally went to the City for the first time since my non-triumphal return. I have been spending far too much time on the wrong side of the Bay, first in suburban San Ramon (aka Generica) and now in “vibrantly diverse” (aka Keep your doors locked at all times) Oakland. While my neighborhood itself is quite nice, consisting of tiny houses, big palm trees, and no visible or audible neighbors*, if you venture a few blocks away you encounter folks with shopping carts hillbillied up with garbage bags, things and stuff, yelling at you or themselves.

The other day, I saw a chicken walking down the sidewalk. I have a feeling I’m not in Pacific Heights anymore.

The rental car took me away from all that, and I went to the California Palace of the Legion of Honor (that long enough for you?) to admire Marie Antoinette’s few remaining possessions from the Petit Trianon. The Petit Trianon was her refuge from the formal insanities of Court life, where she could wear loose muslin gowns and people didn’t have to stop what they were doing when she walked in the room. It was a place she could let down her powdered hair and relax.

She even had a rustic village, so it was a little like camping. I wish my camping were like Marie Antoinette’s, with the “plain” furniture and porcelain and swishy gowns, instead of peed-on deflating air mattresses and no furniture. Granted, I only lose my head figuratively and she lost hers literally, but I think we would have liked each other. The exhibit certainly impressed me with her flawless taste and remarkably forward-thinking ideas.

My head full of beauty and sadness, I repaired to the museum caf? for a bottle of luxury-priced water. The guy ahead of me in line refused to pay for his $10 PB&J sandwich until his mocha was on his tray with it. An elderly lady behind me in the lengthening line pointed out that her soup was getting cold – would he just pay and let the line move? He said he was ahead in line and wasn’t going to pay until he got his coffee. I said that they were making his coffee and they wouldn’t hold it hostage, but he replied again that he was ahead of me in line. The lady behind me got pretty upset and started waving her money at the cashier, who smiled and nodded and was probably glad he didn’t a) speak English very well; b) come from such a crazy-ass country. By the time Mocha Man got his coffee, the line was out the door and past the BC jewelry. What the…

*It’s a little Twilight Zone, to tell you the truth. The only people I have talked to since I moved here so far are the mailman and a guy who offered to mow my lawn, despite having no gardening equipment.