“In the sweetness of friendship let there be laughter, and sharing of pleasures. For in the dew of little things the heart finds its morning and is refreshed”

Kahlil Gibran.

The Color Lady

While in Germany, three friends and I were persuaded to have our colors done by a Scottish lady who was recommended as an expert. For those of you unfamiliar with the concept, our skin and hair tones were to be analyzed so the most compatible colors could be suggested for clothing purchases. We gathered at one friend’s apartment and waited for this person with high hopes for an upgrade to our looks. 

Not that my friends needed much of an upgrade. One was French, and like many of her countrywomen, she gave much attention to detail and took her off-the-rack purchases to a tailor for a perfect fit. She always looked impeccable. Another was a woman who always purchased quality pieces, stuck with styles that were classic and dressed to the nines. The third was a woman who had her own more casual, but distinctive style. I was the least elegant of the quartet but I wore what I liked and could afford. The one thing we all admitted was not giving much thought to a color palette. We were open to learning.

When our expert arrived, we practically had to shield our eyes, her outfit was so ablaze. She wore a sweeping full-skirted sun-yellow shirtwaist dress, pumpkin-orange heels, orange jewelry, orange purse and orange lipstick. I could sense a group virtual eyeroll and stifled giggles and one friend whispered, “She’s going to tell us what colors to wear? Give me a break.” 

However, we were nothing if not polite to her, and we smiled our way through the session. It turned out she gave us pretty good advice. She just hadn’t done so well for herself! 

The Bus Station  

Driving around the city of Quito, Ecuador was actually pretty easy but one day we missed a turn and ended up in a lane we couldn’t get out of. It led us into the central bus station. We felt like stupid gringos and it was scary. However, the crowd on the platform above us was waving and laughing. Though the three of us in the car wanted to cringe with shame, we made apologetic smiles and waved back. Still, we were never so happy to exit a place in one piece. Our relief made us silly and we laughed for a long time as we drove away.

Lights Out

We drove to Firenze, excited to meet up with American friends arriving by train from the north. We checked into our pensione in the afternoon and warned the signora our friends would be arriving too late to do a proper check-in until morning.  In the meantime, we would pick them up at the station and let them stay in our room for a few hours. “Senza Problema,” she said.

By the time we all got back to the pensione, it was in the wee hours of the morning and we were all dead tired. One friend pulled an electric coffee pot out of her luggage. The coffee would help us stay awake. The machine was American-made but she had brought a converter. Problem solved, or so it seemed. 

When the coffee began to perk, the lights went out. Since it was an old building, we figured it might be a usual occurrence that the signora would know how to deal with. We sat in the dark for several minutes and, sure enough, the lights came back on.

We started up the coffee maker again and the lights went out once more. We looked at one another knowing it probably wasn’t a coincidence. When the lights came on again, we hoped the cause of the disruptions would not be traced to us.

A knock on the door and a weary-looking signora ruined that hope. She firmly instructed us to unplug so she could get some sleep. When the sun was up, she would provide the morning caffe without causing a power outage.

We apologized profusely and said “Buona notte.”  Sleep-deprived and slap-happy, we teased our friend with the lethal coffee pot, alternately dozing and laughing among ourselves and awaiting the sunlight and a most welcome hot cup of caffe latte.

Crossing the Border

My friend had recently lost her husband and I agreed to accompany her on a southern California timeshare stay they had planned. It would be a girls’ week instead of a couple’s getaway and we were determined to have fun, despite the sad circumstances leading up to it. The condo association where we were staying offered a bus trip to Ensenada, Mexico and we thought, Why not?

Early one morning we boarded a bus with a driver determined to entertain us and get us in the mood for our visit. His radio was at full blast on a Mexican music station.

As we neared the border crossing, my cell rang. My mother was calling to inform me that one of my uncles had died and the background music on my end was the lively “Mexican Hat Song.” So inappropriate for a sad moment.

“Where ARE you?” She sounded incredulous.

I explained and gave my condolences which were heartfelt; he had been a sweet guy.

 She gave me details for the funeral being held on the East Coast and I apologized about not returning in time. I was on that trip to console the living.

Though it was a sad occasion, I still giggle when I think of the incongruity between the sad loss of my uncle and that happy, frenetic song, Da,da, da, da, DAH! Da, da, da da, DAH!.

Mercedes Taxi

Four of us wanted to travel from a town in the western hills of central Morocco to the coastal resort of Essaouira but we had no car. Our friends, who were stationed there with the Peace Corps, told us we had two options, a bus or a taxi, and we decided to opt for the first one to come along the road. We ended up in an old Mercedes taxi that already had five other passengers. The driver insisted there was still room. Our friends shrugged and said it was normal. 

My female friend was squeezed into the passenger side of the front seat, forcing the two male passengers over toward the driver. One of the guys actually ended up riding behind the wheel with the driver. I was packed like a sardine in the back seat with four men, my husband, our male friend and two locals. The cell phone of the stranger to my left started ringing but he was wearing a djellaba (a man’s outer robe) and it was in the pocket facing me. He kept giving me apologetic looks and trying to wriggle enough to get it out but we were wedged too tight. Some relief came when he and another guy were dropped off at a town a few miles down the road. We were down to seven. 

When we hit the highway toward the coast and there was a police checkpoint ahead, the driver muttered it was a good thing the others were gone because that many passengers had been illegal. Ya think?

When we got out at Essaouira, our friends said we were lucky none of the passengers had chickens! 

Beaucoup!

Finally, the silly thing that still makes my whole family giggle is my husband’s answer to a toll taker on the French Autopiste. 

She said, “Merci!”

Without thinking, he said, “Beaucoup!”

It had been a long drive:)