Two Shining Afternoons Outside of Time

They say the act of observing something inevitably changes the thing being observed. So, when I tell a story from my past, my past changes. The facts may not change, but my understanding of them does, and that understanding IS my past. The actions of my past take on the glow of my finer intentions, infused with my current desire to be regarded well. Other people fare better as well; my memory makes them funnier, more generous, more respectful. I don't think this is out of kindness on my part, but to convince myself that I was in control, getting good things, having great times.

The First Afternoon
So, in the spirit of that understanding, I am going back to a day more than thirty years ago. I was with my boyfriend, Eric, and his brother Jon and his brother's girlfriend Cheryl, who were visiting from Toronto. We left San Francisco in the early morning, traveled to Muir Woods and strolled through the thick needles under the giant redwoods, looked up at the dewdrops falling off the top needles and staggered around trying to catch them on our tongues. We drove down to Monterey and went to the aquarium and then ended the day on a sand dune in Carmel, looking out at the Pacific as the sun sank low. It was beautiful, and perfect, even at the time.

The guys decided that such a momentous occasion deserved a grand gesture, and so they serenaded us. They each dropped to one knee in front of us; Eric took my hand as Jon took Cheryl's, and they began making the most god-awful sounds, loud, tuneless bellows similar to that of a deranged sea-lion, if it were either bereft or very angry. Jon pitched his voice up into a nasal shriek; Eric barked, "Huhr! HuhhUHHRrrurrh!" Cheryl and I laughed helplessly and so they both doubled their efforts; and the volume, the weirdness and the sheer length of it made it funnier and funnier. Only when Cheryl and I assured them sincerely and forcefully that we were utterly swept off our feet did they stop. Eric straightened up and said with quiet dignity to the people around us, "That was a serenade. We were demonstrating our love and devotion," and Jon said, gravely, "You are welcome." 

We flopped down in the sand, watching the slanted sunlight bounce and glitter on the waves. Someone mentioned being thirsty, and we all bemoaned how completely dehydrated we were. "I am so thirsty," Eric said to me, showing me a handful of sand, "I could put this in my mouth, and I would derive moisture from it." 

We talked for a while longer, waiting for the sunset. Eric mentioned a novel - I think it was by John Fowles - in which a man experiences a moment with a woman and some friends that seems almost to stop in time. Years later, the character is no longer with the woman, but he remembers that perfect moment. Eric said, to us, "I think this is that moment for me."

The Second Afternoon
On a different day, Eric and I were walking along in San Francisco, when he suddenly pulled me into a flower shop. "Point at a flower," he said. I pointed at a tulip. "I would like to buy that flower for this woman," he said. The exchange was made, he handed me the flower and we walked out into the street. We kept singing The Girl from Ipanema, all day long. We walked to Crissy Field, called his brother Rod from a pay phone using a phone card and wished him a happy birthday. We got a drink at Vesuvio, and were walking back toward Eric's flat when we passed a large crowd that had collected around a street performer putting away a saxophone. "One more!" - they were cajoling the musician, a big, tall Black guy with a shy grin. "All right," he said, picked up his instrument and quickly ran a scale up and began playing The Girl from Ipanema. We snapped our heads to look at each other, and Eric said, "Will you marry me?" We laughed and walked off, with our arms around each other, walking up the hill toward home. 

It's impossible to reconcile those moments with my life now, and of course, they're not supposed to fit. Those are shining, golden afternoons outside of time. It was decades ago; Eric lives in Toronto.  I correspond with him every five years or so, but never much, and not in a sustained way. There's a part of me that is afraid somehow he'll find this and read it, and think it's pathetic for me to remember and make so much of a relationship that fell apart so long ago. But there's another part of me that needs to commemorate it, to cry for the beauty of it, to mourn the loss of the promise yet again - and then let a sigh and a quiet smile be enough.

The Girl From Ipanema - Astrud Gilberto