Glamorous, For A Given Value of Glamor…

/glam·or·ous/ [glam-er-uhs] adj.

Having glamour, alluringly appealing.

One of the last intriguing Glaswegian conversations T. had was with the electrician who came to replace the various burnt out bulbs in the kitchen with the equivalent of white Christmas lights (what else is a 9 volt bulb?). After the usual opening salvo of “California? What the (insert whichever Glaswegian word) are you doing in Glasgow?” he went a step beyond the usual. “What, so it’s not as glamorous as it looks on TV?”

“Eh, no,” T. told him, imagining her denim-and-boot clad self exuding glamor. “Least my life’s not.”

On the other hand, after being here a week and a few days, she’s thinking she might have answered differently.

What is glamor, after all, other than something each of us measures differently? It’s not just sparkle — or every puddle and little piece of rock at the beach would be glamorous, no? It’s not just what you wear or what you do, but it’s some of that, too. It’s some ineffable rightness of the moment, the people — tied all together in a shimmering bow.

For us its the white-washed expanse of blue sky, the lights at night in the city, sunlight slanting on the floor, the fog spilling over a ring of distant hills, the starkness of a green hill against a dark sky, or the flutter of birds in the oak. We have glamorous friends — musicians and doctors and professors and clergy — who go glamorous places like the symphony and the theater and the ballet. And the library. We are staying in a glamorous house with a glamorous view…

Our lives at this moment are thoroughly glamorous, sans high heels and velvet lapels. Glamorous, for a given value of glamor.

The funniest thing was that when the electrician went on to talk about his trips to the U.S., T. was struck by the things in his life which could have been described as glamorous. “Oh, aye, after Martha’s Vineyard, we we went up to, well, you know that show on the telly, American Chopper or whatnot? We had dinner with those folks, and they showed us their bikes. And we rode out with them for a bit, that was nice.”

Nice. For a given value of…?

Recent days have separated the intrepid Hobbits; T. has had to slow down tremendously as she had a tiny sinus infection which has morphed into something giant and lung-invading that comes with fevers and chills and nasty migraines and endless coughing. Meanwhile, D. has been working that glamor angle a little, and spent Sunday on the southern end of the state, visiting what relatives of his insist on living there (ALL of them.), and trying not to breathe the air of Scumbernadino — er, San Bernadino — too deeply. (Okay, as you can see by the pristine skies in the picture, Southern Cal’s not that bad smog-wise this time of year. At least it doesn’t smell like Tennant’s in the morning.)

Ah, the glamorous lives of the jet-set!

Apologies to those of you who wonder where we are — especialy those of you kind enough to want to meet us for brunch or lunch or what all — we’re still alive, and can’t wait to see you. As for the rest, regular communications should continue shortly.

P.S. — Many of you have expressed concern about us ever getting back to Scotland! We’ve been directed to contact our congressional representative. If that seems like a long shot, it is — but it’s worked for other people before, so… fingers crossed

– D & T

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