Many years ago when I was young and almost beautiful; I spent a summer in Europe meandering through small towns and bigger cities. I went shoe shopping in Florence; I found this tiny café in Paris that served the most delicious chocolate croissants. I visited the oldest synagogue in Rome where I sat quietly feeling the prayers of the thousands who had come before me. Eventually, I landed in Monte Carlo where I was to meet up with my mother. My mother liked to go out clubbing and so after a late night dinner, off we went to Jimmy'z, a local open air discotheque, to dance all night. I loved dancing so long and hard that sweat would pour off my body like water, and that night was no exception.
Later that evening, my sweaty self spotted a handsome hippie-ish looking fellow across the dance floor. He was wearing a pair of faded Levi's paired with a camel suede fringe vest, and had the most beautiful pale blue eyes. I was intrigued and boogied over to introduce myself. The hippie turned out to be a Russian magnate named Harry. Harry then proceeded to wine and dine my mother and me throughout the week we were in Monaco. Harry owned a conglomerate of hotels all over Europe and was in Monte Carlo to scout out new locations for his growing empire. I liked him well enough; and certainly appreciated the flowers and gifts he would bring me each night; but I did not think living in Europe was for me, (plus there was the small matter of me being a lesbian, but that is a longer story for a different blog) and so bid him adieu.
Months later, ensconced safely in my apartment, a postcard came in the mail. It is interesting to me still , that I remember this moment so well when so much of my life has been forgotten. Featured on the front of the postcard were two white Persian kittens, on the back was written a single sentence, 'Je pense a toi, toujours' (I think of you, always). There was no name, and no return address. I had a feeling the postcard might have come from Harry as the postmark was stamped from St.Petersburg, but those were the eighties, before the iPhone had come into existence, and I had misplaced my address book with Harry's number in it, so the owner of the postcard remains a mystery.
Flash forward many many years later, September 20th is the birthday of someone I once loved very much, and although we do not speak anymore and she will more than likely not see this posting 'JC, je pense a toi toujours. Joyeux Anniversaire.'