In full disclosure: Paris and I didn’t groove together as well as London and I did. My trip to London was a dream, from start to finish. Paris, however, was a struggle. This was partly due to the fact that I had already been traveling for nine days by the time I got to Paris, and I was getting tired. This was also due to the language barrier, which caused my stay to feel more like an intensely difficult challenge than a carefree vacation. But the most important reason why Paris was a struggle for me was that . . . I had wardrobe issues. And so, without further ado, let’s discuss what to wear in Paris, as well as what not to wear, in case you wish to pack a suitcase more appropriately than I did, before traveling to the famously stylish capital of France.

Do wear traditional Parisian styles and colors.

I saw a lot of stripes in Paris. There were a lot of black and white stripes. And navy blue and white stripes. There was also a lot of solid red. And there were a lot of berets. It’s perfectly okay to wear stereotypically Parisian attire in Paris!

For example, here’s a woman in red and white stripes, exiting the famous cafe Les Deux Magots:

Hemingway and other famous writers used to hang out at this cafe. I had intended to hang out at this cafe, as well; but as you can see, it was very crowded when I was there. So I went elsewhere. Guess I’m not as cool as Hemingway. But back to clothing. I noticed that, for men, funky hats and colorful shoes are in. Check out the dude in the crosswalk with a white hat and neon green shoes.

And did you notice the young woman in full-on traditional Parisian attire in the crowd before the Mona Lisa, in my first blog post about the Louvre? Here’s a detail of the photo. I did not notice her until after I got home and looked at my photos, so it’s not like she stood out to me as bizarrely dressed. On the contrary—she fit right in.

It’s also okay to add modern flair to traditional fashions. Check out the dude in red and black walking past the Notre Dame cathedral in the first photo (at the beginning of this blog post). Now here’s a fellow who knows how to go traditional, but with a modern flair. And note that he, also, is wearing a funky hat and colorful shoes.

Do be fashionable and stylish.

I shared this photo earlier, in my blog post about migraines and other health issues. I wish you could see more clearly how well dressed this young couple was—the two whose heads are leaning romantically toward each other. I was in awe, particularly of the woman. She had short hair, styled chicly, as you can perhaps see here. She was wearing a dress that had two thick, long, black, vertical stripes from collar to the hem at her knees. And her fabulous shoes had heels, but also a hardcore, stabilizing thickness to them—which was a good thing, as she needed to stand on them for hours at this concert.

Later, I was near this piece of outdoor wall art—one of those works that’s easier to read when you step back—when I met another fashionably well-dressed person. He looked like he had walked right out of the 60s. But he also looked very modern. I loved the jazzy hat, the double-lapelled jacket, the stylish shoes. He turned out to be, like me, a lost American. Luckily, I had just found where he was trying to go, and he then found where I was trying to go. He was in a hurry, so we exchanged numbers, and after a series of comical mishaps, met up for drinks very late that night. Kudos to him for knowing how to dress in Paris to impress a woman! And we parted friends (and nothing more; no one freak out).

Do go au naturel . . . depending on who you are.

I visited the famous Paris Opera House, known as Palais Garnier, on my first evening in the city. Here’s a shot of the appropriately majestic exterior, with a bus photobombing the scene just to remind us what century we’re in. Thus I fulfilled my original inspiration for traveling to Paris, which I explained in this earlier post.

The interior was equally majestic, with a colorful ceiling fresco painted by Marc Chagall. This photo does not do justice to the massiveness of the chandelier. I would not want to be under it if it fell!

So what does this have to do with what to wear in Paris? At the opera house, I saw an excellent ballet. I especially enjoyed the first dance, set to music by the great Philip Glass (the second movement of Symphony No. 2); Sol León and Paul Lightfoot were the choreographers and set/costume designers. Two of the many dancers were stationary on extremely tall stilts, except for their arms, which danced at key intervals to the music. It was a very interesting performance. It got even more interesting when, halfway through, one of those two tall dancers, the female one, dropped her shirt and performed the remainder of the dance topless.

This was was my first night in Paris. Welcome to France, Liza!!

However, I did not see any other topless ladies in Paris. Unless, of course, you count the lovely Venus de Milo and other statues, such as this impressive collection in a cafe window:

 
So I don’t necessarily recommend going the au naturel route. It is a good idea to pack a suitcase before traveling to Paris. With clothes in it.

Do wear swan feathers . . . if you are a swan.

Check out this elegant Parisian look:

 
This fashionable style merits a closeup of the models on the runway . . . er, swimway:

 

This idea is for daring, fashion-forward types only.

These cottonlike seeds were falling from trees all over Paris when I was there. They were wafting through the open doors of cafes and collecting in clumps on the ground. At times, I found it difficult to eat a meal and enjoy a view in peace, for these kept falling into my food and face.

Are these from cottonwood trees? I have no idea. But perhaps Lady Gaga, or someone else on the cutting edge of fashion, might hire someone to make a dress out of these for their next red-carpet appearance. Just a suggestion.

Don’t wear uncomfortable shoes.

So there I was, sitting at a cafe called The New York, which was, oddly, the only cafe I could find at this particular location, across the Seine River from the Eiffel Tower. So I ordered some New York cheesecake (“When in Rome . . .”) and a glass of wine, and sat back to enjoy the view.

The view was obstructed, but it was still a very good view. So I snapped a photo. Those cottonlike seeds were everywhere, so I turned around in my seat and snapped the photo above.

And then I snapped a photo of my little reminder of home (the napkin and cheesecake), my little reminder of Paris (the wine), and my little reminder that fashion and style are not—contrary to popular belief!—the most important things to consider, when packing a suitcase to travel to Paris.
You see, In London, my shoes broke. I found a shoe store and bought a new pair. These were sensible flats with style. Of course, walking around all day, for days on end, in new, unbroken-in shoes is never a good idea. By the time I got to Paris, I had developed a massive blister on my foot. I bought some foot pads at a pharmacy, which helped with my comfort while walking. But the blister remained stubbornly alive . . . and kept growing.

After a couple miserable days, I transferred my new foot pads to my running shoes and started walking around Paris in comfort. Duh—why did I not do that sooner?

I confess, I have shoe issues. Like many (dare I say most?) women, I love fashionable shoes. But even more, I love running. And walking. And gardening. And strolling through London and Paris and Washington, D.C. Time and again, my cute shoes let me down. Time and again, I revert to my trusty running shoes . . . and then get bored of the sporty look and long to switch things up in favor of the stylish look . . . and feel lucky one day . . . and try the cute shoes again . . . and it’s a terrible, vicious circle.

I keep telling myself that, one of these days, I’m going to give up on fashion and start wearing running shoes everywhere I go. That would be fine for Paris, but I’m not sure how that would go over at my next work conference. . . .

TL;DR

You’re wondering what to wear in Paris? Here’s a quick-glance guide:

1. Wear comfortable shoes. That way, you can walk around all day and enjoy the world-class architecture, museums, gardens, and more.
2. Bonus points if you dress stylishly.
3. Triple bonus points if you manage to do both 1 and 2 at once! (And if you do, or have suggestions for managing this perennial dilemma, let me know your thoughts!)

What should one eat while traveling in London? I’m glad you asked! I have been overwhelmed, actually, by requests from family, friends, blog readers, acquaintances, and strangers who heard that I am traveling in London.

“Okay, so you are in Europe,” they say to me. “Okay, so there’s art and culture and fascinating people and bloody weird language permutations and beautiful buildings and elaborate ceremony and centuries of history and a bridge that is falling down, my fair lady. All very good. But what did you eat?!!”

All right, all right, all right! By popular demand, here is a blog post about food in London.

And I would like to note that we are definitely on the same page here. Truly, I believe that feeding oneself properly is of utmost importance in life. And that goes for not just physical food . . . but also spiritual food. Oh, I fed myself well in London!

Food for Mind, Senses, and Spirit: Theatre

I partook well of the theatres in London: This is some seriously good sustenance. I saw three productions that blew me away. They were quite similar in theme—which I didn’t realize would be the case when purchasing my tickets. They were about women and the societal forces that keep them (us!) in submission.

Here is a photo of the chandelier at Duke of York’s Theatre, where I saw Rosmersholm by Henrik Isben. If it had not been for the characters’ clothing, this play, written in 1886, could have taken place in modern times. The themes—politics, gender, and religion—are just as relevant today as they were 100+ years ago.

I had the feeling that I had heard the name of the heroine before: Rebecca West. She must feature large in literary criticism, and rightfully so. This play is a masterpiece that I somehow missed studying in college. It’s about the constraints of society. It’s about people who disagree with the majority opinion and must choose to either conform (and stifle themselves) or, bravely, live uniquely and work to change society (and risk becoming an outcast and losing everything).

Ditto pretty much all of the above in regard to The Three Sisters by Anton Chekhov. How did I miss encountering this masterpiece earlier in my life? The Three Sisters was written in 1900 and, like Rosmersholm, spotlights the plight of an intelligent woman—that is, three intelligent women, who are being stifled by the town and circumstances in which they live. Also like Rosmersholm, the production was spectacular. The choreography, costumes, lighting, dancing, and acting were phenomenal. I laughed, I cried; it was great. (Thanks to R. for recommending this theatre and production to me!)

Embarrassingly, I could not stop crying through Emilia by Morgan Lloyd Malcolm, a play written last year. This does not usually happen to me. Near the beginning of the play, tears began streaming down my face and dripping off my chin. I controlled myself. It happened again in the middle of the play. Again, I controlled myself. At the end of the play, however, it was a losing battle. I was sobbing outright, though I managed to say silent. Luckily, I was sitting far back in the orchestra section (so far back that opera glasses were available for rent), so I felt inconspicuous. Also, there were empty seats around me. When the production ended, I slipped out of the theatre with a wet face and crazy eyes. Instead of descending into the Tube, I walked for a couple of miles, weeping in the dark of the London streets. OMG, I’m tearing up again—let me move on and write about something else!

But I suppose I should explain the cause of all this emotiveness. The heroine of Emilia, Emilia Bassano, is a historical figure who lived in Shakespeare’s time and may have been the “Dark Lady” he writes about in his sonnets. I do not know how much of the play was based on known facts, how much was speculation, and how much exaggeration. In any case, the play dramatizes the plight of a woman who wanted to be a writer, despite prejudice against her due to her gender, and who wrote feminist poetry (that survives today!). The play uses many of Emilia’s own words, written 400 years ago. And it is very funny. It features an all-female cast, who play both the female and male characters—which is hysterical considering that in Shakespeare’s time only men acted (men dressed as both men and women on the stage).

Food for Thought

Amidst all of this theatre going, I visited many cafes and bars, seeking out quaint places to work on my laptop. I found some adorable venues and ate some delicious food: I remember a lot of eggs, avocado, fancy cheese, spinach, nuts, and smoked salmon, along with numerous pots of tea with milk. However, I was starting to get frustrated because I kept choosing places to work where the music was a bit too loud, or the chairs and tables a bit too crowded together for comfort. And then, one day when I was feeling homesick for my quiet office in my house in Maryland, I experienced the glory of stumbling across . . . a Starbucks! I ordered a cup of tea! The barista poured milk into my tea without asking permission, but that was okay with me! The music was low! And it wasn’t very crowded! God bless the USA!!!!

More Food for Thought: Books

My original strategy on book buying was that I must not buy any books. Why heft a book across an ocean, when I can have it delivered to my home?

Naturally, that didn’t work out so well. I see a bookshop, I enter it. I enter it, I see a book. I see a book, I want to buy it. Well, I compromised by buying only small, skinny books.

So now I must heft a huge pile of small, skinny books across an ocean. Sigh.

The silver lining is, skinny books are quicker to read and thus will help me reach my goal of 50 books per year. LOL.

Also: Have you read Girl on the Train by Paula Hawkins? (That book about a grown woman on a train?) Well, I took a train from London to the Midlands and, very truly, the backs of houses are lined up against the train tracks! (I did not see any people suspiciously kissing, though.)

Food for Ears: Music

I traveled to the Midlands to see Kate Rusby, who was performing in Derby to celebrate the release of her new album, Philosophers, Poets and Kings. As she explained during the performance, the title track is not about philosophy, poetry, or royalty. It’s about wine: now that’s a song I can get behind! (With due moderation, that is: and there ends my similarity to the grown woman on the train.)

Kate Rusby’s performance was impeccable, really wonderful. I love the simple beauty of her folk music. She sings on universal themes like love, death, birds, and the night sky. She often takes centuries-old ballads and sets them to her own music. I adore her—thanks for a great time, Kate!

Next, I saw Thea Gilmore in concert at Union Chapel. What a beautiful venue this is! Thea Gilmore is a singer and songwriter whose lyrics are remarkable for their wit, insight, and irreverence. It felt strange (in a way that is apropos to her music and persona and vibe) to see her perform in a church. However, this is a church with a bar. Alcohol is not permitted in the chapel itself; but for some reason, irreverent, subversive music is completely acceptable. . . .

Thanks, Thea, for an amazing performance. I adore your (literal and metaphorical) voice!

Food for Companionship

As long as we’re back to playing our old game of Find the Hidden Item in the Photo (did you find not one but two fluorescent signs amidst the ornate architecture and Biblically themed stained glass in that last one?), let’s move on to the story of this photo.

While sitting in a Parisian cafe in London—not to be confused with a Parisian cafe in Paris—I asked the man sitting at the next table to take a photo of me, which he kindly did:

As the well-dressed men behind me had a serious conversation about Jesus, my companion and I had a witty conversation about, among other things, the genius of Bertrand Russell, of whom both of us, it transpired, are fans.

However, as this blog post is about food, our conversation is irrelevant. And so—per your request—here’s what we ate in London over the next few days: Yorkshire pudding with meat, potatoes, and vegetables; beer; a cocktail garnished with an origami bird (me) and a virgin drink (him); tea; Caesar salad with chicken (me) and steak and potatoes (him). Also, we wished to order gelato at one restaurant, but the waiter didn’t visit the outdoor table where he’d seated us for half an hour, so we gave up on that idea.

At one point while walking around London, half lost (and half not), we stumbled across this church. It’s called All Souls Langham Place. Do you see something notable, hidden in the narrow gap between the church and a nearby building? (I was going to try to read a deeper meaning into this; however, thinking better of it, I shall move on to the final sentence in this paragraph.) It was nice to have a companion to hang around with during my stay in London, and we parted friends (and nothing more: nobody freak out).

Food for Eyes: Art

On my last full day in London, I visited Tate Modern, a spacious museum of modern art that looks, from the inside, like an empty factory. I saw many thought-provoking and lovely pieces, but the most nourishing food there, which sat best in my belly, was the Mark Rothko room. Mark Rothko is famous for his large, abstract expressionist paintings. These works of art often have just a few, large bands of color. They are beautiful. Furthermore, studying them quietly can offer one a meditatively spiritual experience. Here’s one of the Rothko paintings I saw.

I entered the Mark Rothko room, which was lighted only dimly, and sat on one of the benches in the center. The nine paintings surrounded me. I sat and looked at the paintings, occasionally turning to peer in different directions to see them all.

After two or three minutes, something astonishing happened. My eyes adjusted to the darkness, and the colors of the paintings emerged in all their brilliance. It was like the rising of the sun: a meditative and spiritual arising that I had not anticipated.

After a few more minutes, something else astonishing happened: the blocks of color began to invert. Whereas I had been seeing numerals like 0, I, and II, suddenly the inverse space appeared to be prison bars. But they were not imprisoning bars; no, they were safely nestling me in the meditative space. They were keeping me in a place of understanding and compassion, while sheltering me from the outside world of ignorance and cruelty. For me, the paintings had suddenly transformed into an expression of the life of the introvert: you erect shields to save yourself from the chaos of the outside world. Your shields keep you safe from panic, while warning others not to intrude. I was honored to be shielded by Rothko’s paintings for those few minutes of my life.

A brochure I received at the Tate Modern advertised a Vincent van Gogh exhibition at the Tate Britain, a museum in a different part of the city. I wanted to go, but I had a ticket for a matinee performance of The Merry Wives of Windsor at Shakespeare’s Globe. After the show (which was funny and silly—but not one of Shakespeare’s masterpieces), I completely forgot about the exhibition. So I stood here for ten or twenty minutes, listening to a street performer in front of the Tate Modern and, when I turned around, admiring the view of the Millennium Bridge over the Thames:

Then I moseyed on over somewhere else, whereupon I noticed that I had access to WiFi. That’s when it hit me that I should look up how to get to the Tate Britain and get there ASAP! So that’s what I did. I had to walk to the subway, take two trains, and walk to the museum. I got lost, and encountered a fellow traveler (from Sweden or Finland, I believe) who was also searching for the museum and the exhibit. We found the museum and entered 20 minutes before it closed. She had a museum pass already. As I was purchasing my ticket for £22 (about $29), the woman behind the counter warned me that there wasn’t enough time and asked whether I really wanted to buy it. I really did. Next, the man who took my ticket at the door looked at me in horror and said,

“A ticket, at this hour?!!”

I mainly wanted everybody to stop talking, so I could see the exhibit! So I quickly entered. And it was spectacular: another spiritual experience. Here are some of the Van Gogh paintings I saw. Ignoring the paintings not by Van Gogh, I focused on the masterpieces: and so they were. Looking at the paintings, I had this repeated thought: “He gets it. He gets it!” He understands this life. He understands the beauty and strangeness and spirituality and liveliness of the world. Every brushstroke, every color, is perfectly placed in those paintings. Looking at them, I feel as if I’m peering into the soul of the world, the essence of reality, something much more real than even reality itself. It’s hard to explain what I mean, but here’s another attempt:

There was a room full of paintings of sunflowers. I think these sunflowers were painted by contemporaries of Van Gogh—though I can’t be sure, as I did not dawdle to read the descriptions. I glanced at each of the paintings to see if it was by Van Gogh, until finally I came across the Van Gogh. My thoughts went like this: “Hmm, a painting of sunflowers, another painting of sunflowers, okay more sunflowers, geez lots of sunflowers in this room, here’s another vase of sunflowers, these sunflowers are kinda boring, more sunflowers over here . . . WOW—THOSE ARE SUNFLOWERS!!!!”

Yes, I had seen reproductions of that particular work of art before. No, it’s nothing like seeing the painting in person.

I made it through the ten or so rooms of the exhibit in ten minutes, which was exactly what I needed to do, as the guards started hustling people out ten minutes before the museum closed. The experience was worth every penny. (That is to say—it was worth all the pence!)

Food for a Brick in the Belly: Traditional British Fare

Then there was the day that I decided to go full-on traditional with my food. I had British tea with milk—always in England tea is served with milk—and carrot cake at a British bakery, as you can see here. Later, I had fish and chips, peas, and beer at a tavern. I don’t particularly like cake, fried food, or peas, and the beer was subpar; but I ate and drank with gusto anyway. (I thoroughly enjoyed the tea with milk.) The next day, my belly felt not so good. Despite that inconvenient fact, God save the Queen!!!!

TL;DR

I know, this blog post is very long. So here’s the bottom line on what to eat in London. If you ever decide to travel to this truly great city, I recommend that you nourish yourself with theatre, books, music, art, companionship, tea with milk, alcohol, and, for good measure, actual food.

I’m off to Paris now. (If you’re wondering why, see my blog post about the unconscious mind.) Until next time—bon appétit!

Hello, fellow residents of our beautiful planet! I am writing this blog post from a cute Danish cafe in London. Here is a photo I took from my seat in the cafe. If you know me at least a bit, and if you look closely at the photo, you may be able to guess my favorite part of it. However, as that detail is rather inconsequential, let me tell you something of greater importance. Let me tell you how I got here.

Oops! How I got here is inconsequential, too. I flew. (That last sentence was a clue, RE the detail in the photo!) It was a long flight—at least for a travelphobe like me. I finished a book. Exciting! I love finishing books. But in the scheme of things, that was not so exciting, really, so let me please get to my point. Let me tell you why I got here.

Four months ago, as I explained in my post from January 25 called Dreams, I had a dream. I dream vividly most nights; but only the rare dream manifests as a sort of lesson-cum-guidepost, express from my unconscious mind.

In the dream, I bought a flight to London. I bought the ticket amidst a group of friends, as part of a special discount rate; but each of us was traveling separately, and I would be traveling alone. Once I arrived in London, I discovered that my family was staying in nearby rooms. However, I decided to ignore them, since they wanted to do things that I didn’t. What I really wanted to do while in London was see a performance at the Paris Opera House; and that’s what I was making plans to do when I woke up.

Strangely enough, this relates to the book I finished on the plane. I’ll be writing previews of that book shortly. This story about my dream and how it influenced my life will perhaps be useful as we try to piece together the central philosophical problem laid out in that book. But I am getting off track again! So here’s what happened next.

Upon waking, I understood that the dream was important, but I wasn’t sure what it meant. In full—that is, partial—disclosure, there was also a segment of the dream that pertained to my love life. I would not like to share the details; I would merely like to note that the dream had multiple significances to me. (A multiple significance, in case you were wondering, is somewhat similar to a multiple orgasm, except that it’s not just for women; but I am getting off track again!) And so, realizing that my unconscious mind may have been trying to tell my conscious mind something, I kept thinking about the dream.

Within a few days, I was astonished to realize that I wanted to take a solo trip to London and Paris. This might not seem like such an astonishing wish to you; lots of people want to go to London and Paris. It was shocking to me, however, because I have always been a travelphobe.

There were so many things about travel that frightened me. I was scared my plane would crash. I was scared I would get irredeemably lost in trying to navigate public transportation. I was scared I would lose my passport or get beaten or harrassed or raped. I was scared I would spend a ridiculous amount of money, only to instantly get homesick for my garden and birds (that was another clue!). I was scared I would be obliged to do something touristy that I didn’t want to do.

But most of all, I was scared that the jostling and angled sunshine and lack of sleep that are inherent to travel would trigger a migraine. As I explained in my post from December 26 called Medical Mysteries (Part 2), I have suffered from periodic migraines for my whole life. They always last exactly ten days. They are debilitating, involving level-10 pain, aversion to light and noise, expulsion of stomach contents, and much moaning and rolling around amidst bedsheets.

As I explained in that post from last December, I had been unexpectedly rescued by magnesium in an easily absorbable form. I had not experienced a ten-day migraine since beginning my vitamin supplement regimen; and that happy streak continues to this day.

A miracle! Was it a god of travel—perhaps Hermes, a.k.a. Mercury—who had come to my aid?! But I will stay on track with this story, I promise.

The point is, my unconscious mind had realized, long before the “I” that I’m better acquainted with did, that my recent deliverance from periodic migraine hell opened up the door for me to travel. It further realized that my dilapidated and largely nonexistent love life would be a boon to me while traveling, for I would not have to compromise on how I would spend my time. Moreover, it realized that London was a perfect destination for doing things I love to do—namely, enjoying literature and music. Finally, it realized that the Paris Opera House is not that far from London, in the global scheme of things; and what, it mused, is the point of middle age, if not to fulfill fantasies you had while 12 or 13 years old?

Yes—in my youth, I had an obsession with The Phantom of the Opera, both the book and the musical. So I am going to go see that old building where some of the events depicted really occurred (and where some, being romantic exaggerations, did not). And I’m going to do many other literary- and musical-type activities in Paris; and I’m going to attempt to say something comprehensible in the language, and to understand something someone says to me. Because my adult, conscious mind has realized that the Paris Opera House is merely a sentimental excuse to force me to venture very far outside of my comfort zone. To experience something that, sure, lots of people experienced at a much younger age, but I have not yet: to be alone in a faraway culture of people who speak a language that’s foreign to me.

Speaking of language—I have been enjoying hearing British accents all around me. This is not a “pigeon” English, but the genuine article. (That was your third and final clue! If you have not solved the puzzle by now, I fear there is no hope for you . . . though perhaps the answer will come to you in a dream.)

But back to the point. The point is that the human brain has both conscious and unconscious parts. Managing the interplay between the two of them, in my experience, is key to living wisely. To be solely led by one or the other is a grievous mistake. In conclusion, here is a view of the interior of the Danish cafe, behind me. There are no hidden secrets in this photo . . . at least not that I know of. Those are elsewhere. Has your unconscious mind spoken to you lately?

During the past few weeks, I attempted, with minimal success, to read two books in French. One was Olivier Bourdeaut’s playful novel Waiting for Bojangles, a recent international bestseller. The other was Samuel Beckett’s haunting play Endgame, which premiered in 1957 and is a literary classic.

And so I was surprised, and a little weirded out, to learn that my pairing of these two works is more apropos than I had realized. According to this World Literature Today article, the title Waiting for Bojangles (in French, En attendant Bojangles) is an allusion to another famous and classic play by Beckett. Here’s what the article says about Waiting for Bojangles:

“With its irreverent reference to Samuel Beckett’s En attendant Godot (1952), the novel’s title is a call to be mindful of the futility of endlessly waiting for fun, love, or fulfillment.”

Waiting for Godot is not a play I have read. However, rumor has it that Godot never arrives. If Waiting for Godot is anything like Endgame, it’s a bleak and beautiful masterpiece that is likely to shuttle one into an existential depression, if one isn’t careful.

In contrast, Mr. Bojangles does arrive in Waiting for Bojangles—in sound and spirit, if not in the actual flesh. And while the story has its sad moments, it never falls into melancholy. And it definitely never descends into grim philosophical musings about the meaningless of existence.*

In the novel, the boy’s parents love to dance to the song “Mr. Bojangles” as sung by Nina Simone. But when the song’s not on, it’s not like the characters are moping around waiting for it to play again. No, they’re finding other ways to live it up. They’re dancing to other music, making up stories, throwing parties, and doing various outlandish things, all in the name of whimsical pleasure.

In this household, there’s no waiting around for joy to magically show up. No matter how horrible their circumstances get, the characters insist on enjoying life. And they insist on altering their circumstances to make life maximally enjoyable. They even insist on enjoying life to the very detriment of living. If they were in the play Waiting for Godot, I’m pretty sure they would be calling up Godot and harassing him with jokes and enticements and crazy stories until he gave up and made an appearance. He might arrive delighted, or he might arrive enraged—but you can bet that he would arrive.

Is the title Waiting for Bojangles, then, misleading? Since the characters aren’t exactly sitting around looking at their watches, waiting for something fun to happen, is the title more paradoxical than descriptive?

Not so fast. The French phrase en attendant can be translated as “waiting for”; but that is not the only translation. Other translations include “while waiting for,” “pending the arrival of,” and “in anticipation of.”

The alternate titles While Waiting for Bojangles, Pending the Arrival of Bojangles, and In Anticipation of Bojangles strike me as more precisely true to the story. The boy’s mom and dad are always looking forward to dancing to the song. This is their best bliss. But in the meantime (which is another translation of en attendant), they are living it up in grandly wonderful ways.

Of course, the title as given is the best choice. It’s the most concise and lovely. And it refers back to Beckett’s play. But I find it fascinating that it has connotations in French that do not translate into English.

Are you sitting around looking at your watch, as you wait for Godot or Mr. Bojangles or whomever or whatever to show up? Waiting is a reality of life. The important question is, what are you doing in the meantime?

*This is merely to state a fact. I have no bias against bleak works of literature that question the meaning of existence. Actually, I like them. A lot.

The memoir A Mind Unraveled, by Kurt Eichenwald, is astonishing in so many ways.

Anyone can run up against health problems and other major life difficulties, but Eichenwald’s story is uniquely interesting and instructive because of his attitude toward his struggles, as well as his phenomenal ability to analyze situations and make wise and brave decisions in even the worst of them.

His struggles were great. For years, doctors were unable to help him control his epileptic seizures. He could have one anywhere. When he had a seizure, people would often react with fear, ignorance about how to help, or hostility. Some of his college peers did not want to be his friend. Some of his college administrators did not want him to stay enrolled at the university. Some of his employers did not want him to remain working for them. One of his doctors told him that he should avoid stress by giving up on his education and career goals.

Fortunately, Eichenwald had an epiphany one day, while lying in a hospital bed:

“If I faced people who feared me or denied me work, I could control whether I gave up or tried to change their minds. I couldn’t force someone to hire me, but I could work hard, assembling a strong enough résumé to prove that I was a candidate worth considering. I couldn’t make someone love me, but I could be a person worthy of love. . . . I possessed more control than I had believed. Healthy people didn’t always understand the scope of how much could be overcome. I certainly never had before I got sick. As for what I didn’t control—the seizures, how others reacted to me—to hell with it. I could control how I reacted to the uncontrollable.”

Within this section, Eichenwald compares life to someone in an elevator. He notes that you can control whether you push a button, but you can’t control when, or whether, you will arrive. I like this metaphor a lot. I would like to offer another one, though, because life is so much more continuous and complicated than an elevator with its choice of maybe a dozen (or several dozen) buttons.

Life is being the dude or dudette sitting behind the audio mixer (a.k.a. mixing console) at a wild and large musical event. Your job is to control what the audio sounds like when it’s projected from the speakers.

There’s a lot you can control. The vast number of different buttons and levers before you would definitely baffle someone with less experience and intelligence than you. In fact, they baffle and overwhelm you at times. But if you concentrate on your task, you can create a good mix of musical sound.

There’s a lot you can’t control, though. If one of the musicians is playing off key, you can fiddle with the controls for that input, but you can’t change the fact that the musician is playing off key. If someone at that wild, live event knocks over a speaker and breaks it, you can’t control when or whether it will be replaced or fixed; you’ll simply have to proceed in broadcasting from just the working speakers.

I have read and experienced many times the truth, which Eichenwald also states, about the value of enduring hard times. When things are running smoothly, it’s tempting to sit back and enjoy the show, even if it’s not that great. But when things are going haywire? What, half of the musicians are drunk, and half of the speakers are malfunctioning? Then you’re faced with a choice. You can give up; or you can make some serious efforts to refine those controls to try to achieve the best outcome you can.

And, do you know what? Often times, the dude or dudette who’s putting the most, and most prolonged, effort into fiddling with the controls is the one who achieves the most awesome sound, regardless of the number and intensity of obstacles.

Is your life going smoothly? Or is something slightly off key? Or is everything totally haywire? No matter how easy or difficult your life is, you have the power to control many (though certainly not all) things. Are you fiddling with the buttons and levers of your audio mixer to try to maximize the quality of your sound?