A Scene in Front of a Fountain

A while back, Papa was telling me about an argument that he had with Mama.

“We had real scene in front of fountain,” he told me, in Russian, which I am indicating by writing in English but nonetheless leaving out all the articles, so you can feel the Russianness. Let me know how that’s working out for you.

“What’s a scene in front of a fountain?” I asked, also in Russian, but as written in English with articles, because I apparently can’t help myself.

And Papa explained that in many operatic and theatrical productions, there is a where a young couple has a Dramatic Moment â„¢ and it is often in front of a fountain.

Needless to say, I fell in love with the expression.

And I told the Guy I Went to Ireland With about it. It turns out that he was a good choice of a person to tell, because now whenever we walk past a fountain, he stops and we have a mini-scene. I see it as him paying tribute to my cultural heritage. He sees it as “straightening [your] shit out” or, as he has recently called it, “fecal realignment”.

Also, whenever one of us walks past a fountain, we take a photo and text it to the other. Well, at least I do. Now that I think of it, he’s been a little light on the Fountain Foto Footage.

Here, as Exhibit A, is a photo that I recently texted him, of a fountain in Brooklyn:

Please note that there are no images of fountains that he sent me, so, if I were the type to keep score (which I am not), it would be Marinka: 1; The Guy I Went to Ireland With: 0.

Anyway, this part is prologue.

What I want to tell you now is that I’m going on vacation and you can’t stop me. I don’t know why you’d want to, anyway.

I knew it was time to go on vacation because of these dreams that I’ve been having. Now you probably know how I feel about people who tell their dreams to other people, but fortunately I’ve been blessed with the gift of hypocrisy so those standards don’t apply to me.

This is an example of the dreams I’ve been having:

I’m in the supermarket. I’m buying yoghurt, fruit, milk, orange juice, cereal. YOU KNOW THE THINGS I BUY IN THE STORE EVERY WEEK OF MY LIFE. Is Ryan Gosling in this dream, scantily clad and proposing to me? No, he is not. Am I involved in a car chase or anything else quasi-heroic? Again, no. I am just shopping. And I don’t even have any coupons.

Another dream:

I am at home and my son comes home. “How was school?” I ask him. “Fine,” he says. End of dream.

What the fuck is that?

Why do I have to waste precious dream time having such banal dreams?

Is this the part of menopause that no one tells you about because they’re too embarrassed?

I mean, even my real life isn’t that boring and I strive for dullness.

So I’m going on vacation with my Beautiful Daughter and The Guy I Went to Ireland With, who recently complained about his moniker ending with a preposition, which is a fine how-do-you-do, having waited a year for the name to set, if you ask me. Changing his blog-name now would be akin to renaming a foster child or something. Not that we have that kind of a relationship, of course.

But things are about to look up, I feel it in my bones. Unless that’s osteoporosis.

Because we are going to Rome.
And do you know what Rome has?

Fountains.

Like this one:

It’s going to be some scene.

(And of course I can’t help but think of my trip to Rome last year. And how different things were in some ways.)

One year ago ...

• Erotica - 2013