On March 13, 2013, I found out that my lifelong friend Barbara Weinstein had been killed the previous day in an auto accident. Never before had I experienced shock: the slowness, the sudden lack of familiarity with the most mundane things. Somewhere in that day I went to Cafe Yesterday. They called out what I thought was my coffee. I put creamer in it and then realized it wasn't mine. I did something I never would normally do: I failed to acknowledge my mistake, just walked away. Behind me I could hear the barista bitching: Who did this? This is expensive coffee, now it's ruined. I said nothing. Nothing, nothing at all.
“Digame,” she said. Talk to me. They’d honeymooned in Spain, taking the train from
Barcelona along the coast to Valencia and then to Alicante, and eventually
winding up in Madrid. All along the way they heard Spainards answering their
cell phones. Digame, they said.
Direct and to the point. Almost too brusque as far as she was concerned, but
this was her first trip overseas and she was willing to idealize just about
anything she saw. It was only years later that she realized she’d hated Spain. The
men looked at you as an object and the women, many wearing skintight purple
pants, evaluated you as their competition. Parties rang out in the streets up
until all hours. There was religion, morality and the need to drink as much as
I'm a writer and storyteller in Berkeley, CA. If you're wondering where that is, follow the smell of patchouli and skunkweed. There you'll find me with my kickass husband, gorgeous little boy, and manic Lab-Australian Shepherd mix pups. I'm represented by Miriam Altshuler of DeFiore & Co., but of course, my views are my own.