I glanced down at the table. There was an envelope. “0%
APR. Get your MasterCard now!”
It was a nice evening. It was always nice here: kind people, incredible hosts, intelligent conversation, comfortable home, quality cognac…
“The quality of life in 18th century France was reflected in the rhythm of its poetic verses,” my host was saying. The conversations here always sounded something like this. And although I valued education and the intelligent people in my life, there was something strange about the conversation in this house, and I was never really able to follow.
“Every major war in world history has been followed by a change in fashion,” another host said.
I glanced at the name on the envelope: Elizabeth Carmen Arnou. The name itself looked like it came out of an epic 19th century novel. Everything here was like this. It was infused with history, literature, books. And every visit I tried to listen and understand, but I never felt in place.
Many people in my life were well educated. They discussed similar topics and I was intrigued; listened, learned, sometimes even had something to say. But here conversation was so focused on knowledge and facts that it seemed to crowd out everything else; everything that makes us human – feelings, friendship, laughter…
I had just come back from visiting a close friend in Salt Lake City. The weekend there was so simple, pleasant, enjoyable. Honest conversations, interesting discussions, jokes; we shared life experiences and our feelings about them.
“A lot of influence in Russia’s 19th century literature came from German writers…"
Was I just stupid? I tried to embrace my inferior role at this dinner table by reaching for the cat as it was passing by and nearly fell off the chair. For a minute the conversation stopped as everyone worked to pick up my chair and myself along with the cat.
Elizabeth Carmen Arnou.
Perhaps it was the lack of communication that bothered me here. They were talking, but they were not communicating. This cognac infused conversation was a mere line up of facts and quotes. It was not a dialog. There was little exchange of ideas or transfer of emotions, just back and forth facts. Is it not communication that makes humans so special? Is it not communication that has allowed us to learn from past mistakes, build, grow, and create a high quality of life? And is it not communication that has created written history and all the gorgeous facts my hosts were so proudly reciting?
I have always said that I enjoy “down to earth” people, but what does that mean? Does “down to earth” indicate stupidity? A lower socio-economic status? Or is it an interest in sharing with others? An ability to relate to someone who might not know so much about 19th century literature? A desire to learn from all the people in this world? A desire to communicate.
The envelope caught my eye again. I looked at the return address: P.O. Box 457286, Salt Lake City, UT.
It was a nice evening. It was always nice here: kind people, incredible hosts, intelligent conversation, comfortable home, quality cognac…
“The quality of life in 18th century France was reflected in the rhythm of its poetic verses,” my host was saying. The conversations here always sounded something like this. And although I valued education and the intelligent people in my life, there was something strange about the conversation in this house, and I was never really able to follow.
“Every major war in world history has been followed by a change in fashion,” another host said.
I glanced at the name on the envelope: Elizabeth Carmen Arnou. The name itself looked like it came out of an epic 19th century novel. Everything here was like this. It was infused with history, literature, books. And every visit I tried to listen and understand, but I never felt in place.
Many people in my life were well educated. They discussed similar topics and I was intrigued; listened, learned, sometimes even had something to say. But here conversation was so focused on knowledge and facts that it seemed to crowd out everything else; everything that makes us human – feelings, friendship, laughter…
I had just come back from visiting a close friend in Salt Lake City. The weekend there was so simple, pleasant, enjoyable. Honest conversations, interesting discussions, jokes; we shared life experiences and our feelings about them.
“A lot of influence in Russia’s 19th century literature came from German writers…"
Was I just stupid? I tried to embrace my inferior role at this dinner table by reaching for the cat as it was passing by and nearly fell off the chair. For a minute the conversation stopped as everyone worked to pick up my chair and myself along with the cat.
Elizabeth Carmen Arnou.
Perhaps it was the lack of communication that bothered me here. They were talking, but they were not communicating. This cognac infused conversation was a mere line up of facts and quotes. It was not a dialog. There was little exchange of ideas or transfer of emotions, just back and forth facts. Is it not communication that makes humans so special? Is it not communication that has allowed us to learn from past mistakes, build, grow, and create a high quality of life? And is it not communication that has created written history and all the gorgeous facts my hosts were so proudly reciting?
I have always said that I enjoy “down to earth” people, but what does that mean? Does “down to earth” indicate stupidity? A lower socio-economic status? Or is it an interest in sharing with others? An ability to relate to someone who might not know so much about 19th century literature? A desire to learn from all the people in this world? A desire to communicate.
The envelope caught my eye again. I looked at the return address: P.O. Box 457286, Salt Lake City, UT.
