Arrivals and Departures

Not that it’s all about goodies, but in my limited experience, the superiority of the arrival over the departure is made manifest by how much more stuff you get while waiting by the roadside for them to arrive as opposed to wandering about trying to get a glimpse of them before they leave; I speak specifically about the Tour de France riders, but in a larger, more metaphorical sense about life in general, including seasons, children, and the waiter who may be bringing you your drink and your meal.

The anticipation of climax, is, by its very nature, more intense than the anticipation of debut; while this may not be true in the case of human life—although waiting to die is probably, for the individual involved, more consciously looked forward to than is waiting to be born—there is something about knowing you are experiencing the end of something rather than its beginning that makes it more rarified, more luminous, and more memorable.

So, for instance, as we come to the end of our stay in the south of France, each moment has a greater weight and concentration of sweetness; last night, by way of illustration, as we sat around a picnic table under a full moon, drinking, carrying on, and being serenaded on guitars by members of local musicians, Keskonfae, the images became etched in one’s mind particularly powerfully: there’s Mimi up on one table bench doing a furious tap routine with Nicki dancing the flamenco on the other; here’s Jen, her head thrown back laughing at French jokes neither of us quite understand; or look at me, carrying on the chorus to “Smoke on the Water” even though I don’t really know any of the lyrics.

Earlier in the day, things were a bit less magical, although we did get an autograph from one of the riders, a Belgian named Phillipe Gilbert; never heard of him before, but now he’s my favorite, both coming and going.