No more sahnweech.
The second time I went to Monaco I walked endlessly until I found the most charming sandwich shop to buy an idyllic Monacan lunch.
Veggies grilled to perfection encased in a doughy baguette with a lightly crisped exterior, drizzled in oil and a touch of salt. After attempting my purchase in shameful American girl French, I blissfully bumbled over to an outdoor bench to sit under the sun and gaze at the vast marina before me, peppered with mega-yachts belonging to various sultans and finance giants.
The scenery was mesmerizing and I felt like a true Princess Grace with my blonde locks fluttering in the gentle breeze (this is so not how it likely looked IRL). Waiting for a handsome prince to slip into the empty seat to my left specifically (it’s my better side) while I delicately nibbled on my panini.
Feeling romantic, I slowly pulled out my lunch from its crinkly paper wrapping. I was simply famished, mouth watering in anticipation of my first savory bite.
THUNK.
OMG. It was like a memory foam pillow the size of the Liberty Bell pummeled directly into the back of my head. Questions exploded. Am I getting robbed? Did a meteor just break the earth’s 6 atmospheric layers and land on my head? Did a giant bag of money divebomb from the sky onto my skull?
Wait, where is my sandwich?
My beautiful sandwich! It’s gone!!
I looked left. There he was. The culprit. His evil, beady eyes seared into mine as he tauntingly picked at the remains of my veggie sandwich, now scattered on the ground.
He was the biggest seagull I had ever seen in my entire life.
Infuriated, I marched right back to that sandwich shop with as dramatic an air as I could muster and insisted on another to replace the mangled, shredded carcass that remained on Monaco’s regal and quiet promenade.
“No.”
That’s it. Just no. In the Frenchest way possible. No more sahnweech. Cased closed.
Shocked, I stomped back to the bench, cursed at the seagull, and plopped down, stomach rumbling and thoughts racing faster than a bullet train from Tokyo to Kyoto.
These damn Monacans. Both the birds and the baristas. Rude and heartless.
My day in Monaco was absolutely RUINED.
For about 5 minutes. Because I decided very quickly that this was just a funny little moment in my life. To be honest, had this not occurred I might not recall that day at all. But the memory is forever seared, with precision, into my remembrance log. And the memory always makes me happy.
A few days ago I was on the phone with a friend. She told me that she just wants to get to the stage where she’s happy. Where she falls in love, makes a lot of money, travels without abandon. YES! I thought. ME TOO.
Yet here I am, living in a city I’ve wanted to live in since 2015, going to the market for fresh local fruits on Sundays, typing up a storm like Carrie Bradshaw in cozy cafes on Mondays like I’ve long imagined. Aren’t I happy now?
Happy isn’t perfect. There will always be something off. You can meet the man of your dreams and fall into the most magical of relationships, but he will still leave the toilet seat up. Your side gig as a writer could be thriving, but you’re still scratching the bottom of the barrel for rent (anyone hiring?). You can go on the world’s greatest vacation in the Maldives, but you’ll still get sunburn. Aren’t you mostly happy as you slather aloe onto your lobster legs for the umpteenth time?
We’re misdirected to think that if we do the internal work, we will arrive at a point in life where we are just coasting perfection. It doesn’t work like that.
Life is good, it’s bad, it’s weird, it’s sad (Gosh should I start writing poetry??), but it’s never perfect. Which is perfectly okay.
Jodi Sweetin, AKA Stephanie Tanner from Full House, (which I had to Google, I never liked that show, need to state that for the record), once said:
There are good moments and bad moments and not everything will tie together nicely in the end. But that's life, and I think I'm finally starting to get it.
It takes a while to get it, but when it hits it hits. For me, my hit was literal, coming in the form of a fat seagull crashing into my occipital knob.
It wasn’t the perfect day in Monaco. It was a happy day in Monaco.
What else do you need?
I know! You need to pre-order my book. Let me know here if you’re interested.
With love,
Bethany
