An account of a brief moment of unexplained bliss.
Twice in my life that I can remember I have had what I can only describe as a perfect state of mind. The first time was six years ago when I was walking the dog in the park. There was nobody else around, the sun was in a perfect blue sky and the dry Port Hills were visible at the back of my view. As the dog turned to chase the ball, or whatever it was I sent him after, I was suddenly aware of a perfect serene feeling that was new to me. I only remember the details vaguely but the feeling was unforgettable.
I’ve moved on a dog now and changed jobs a couple of times before starting up my own business nine months ago. Over those six years I had regarded the experience as a one off, maybe a lucky coincidence of physical and emotional circumstances. That was until the other day. Now that it has happened again there is no doubt in my mind that it is a state of mind I have desired to live with all my life. I had referred to the original experience as a moment of “self actualization” but I’ve since discovered that has a completely different meaning. I can’t remember the finer details of the first event but I wish I could so I could tie in the common elements of those two moments and learn to recreate them. If I can build a routine in my life that produces a constant state…
The recent episode is the easiest to describe. I left work at about four and headed to the café on the block across the road from the museum and botanical gardens. It is all part of the Arts Centre where I have an upstairs office overlooking a car-park that used to be one of the old university quads. The buildings are granite stone, gothic structures that are beautiful in the summer and autumn with their classic lines, steep slate roofs and large decorative windows partially concealed by sun filtering oak foliage. Trams amble past on a circuit that takes tourists along a carefully designed route via historic buildings, tree lined squares and pedestrian malls, arriving back at the gray facades of the old university for galleries and coffee. The boulevard alongside the old university is all but closed to traffic and the pedestrians are never overbearing in numbers.
The café is by the clock, an old European style clock that chimes out the hours in a steady formal way. There is a large courtyard full of tables and chairs stretching from the café building to the footpath. In the middle of this courtyard a large great oak spreads its branches protectively, filtering the sunlight on half the tables.
I walked through the maze of furniture to the door and stood just inside, gazing at the chalkboard high on the wall behind the counter. I wouldn’t normally do this but today I didn’t feel like coffee. A helpful waiter told me as I looked that it was all table service and if I took a seat they would come to me. I knew this.
I made my way out to one of the tables that were hard up against the low wall by the pavement. If the book didn’t work out I could watch people going by. I wondered if they would even notice that I had taken a seat. Perhaps they wouldn’t come for the order. It wouldn’t have worried me if they did miss me. I didn’t need the coffee. I really just wanted a bit of time out in their courtyard to read my book or whatever. You can’t really do that and not order anything but if they don’t come to you it’s not your problem.
I arranged the table in my ritualistic way. The mobile phone and keys went in the top corner, my wallet on the vacant seat next to me. The sugar bowl that I wouldn’t need whether they served me or not went with it. I opened the book to the marked spot and placed the bookmark under my wallet so it wouldn’t blow away.
The book was a collection of stories set in cities. I have a thing for writing set in cities. The cover and title of the book were enough to sell it to me – “In The City” with a picture of a couple sitting on a park bench staring out over what looked like the East River in New York – the Brooklyn Bridge spanning away from them. There is something really romantic about the classical image of the large cities. When I read these types of stories I love to visualize the settings. I’ve been to London, Paris and New York but the images I conjure up are more likely to come from old films or black and white photos taken in the fifties. I don’t mind that. That’s the beauty of reading. No matter how much description you are given there is still the onus on the reader to develop the image in the mind’s eye.
The story I start is actually set in Tokyo. A newly married man is confused as to why he feels like staying on the train after a night out drinking. He lets his stop just pass him by. There arrives in the carriage a strange character that mystically changes into different people until the young guy can voice what is bothering him. We get to hear about the differences he sees in his wife now that they have been married a couple of months. The strange character, in the guise of an attractive woman, manages to explore the idea of the “honeymoon period” with him and we walk through his insecurities about the future as the train travels past scenes at stations designed to help him understand his path ahead. The stranger leaves the newlywed in his seat and shuffles out, now as a derelict old man.
A waitress arrived at my shoulder as I was just finishing the story and asked if I wanted to order. I don’t know why but green tea seemed to be the logical thing.
I’ve never ordered green tea in my life. I’ve had it when offered as a guest somewhere and I’ve tried to drink it at home but I’d never considered paying café prices for it. It didn’t seem to matter to me at the time though – perhaps because I thought I didn’t really feel like anything.
When it arrived there were a cup and saucer, a pot of hot water and a green paper sachet.
The waitress set the items down on the table and smiled. She didn’t just smile but she smiled with deliberate eye contact. I had seen her before and remembered that this was her way of being friendly with customers.
She was east European and her eyes and smile were her beauty. I’m sure she has had to fend off the occasional misunderstanding – a male customer that got the wrong idea. For those of us who knew what it meant it was the warmest “I hope you enjoy that” you could imagine.
I didn’t know whether I should put the teabag in the pot or pour the water over it as it sat in the cup. I looked around as I tore the sachet open to see if anyone else had herbal tea. I was fairly sure I could see a string hanging over the side of a cup on the far side of the courtyard so I went with that.
The water was so hot that it hissed as I poured it on the dry bag. A yellow-green began to take over the white of the cup. I raised it to my lips and sipped.
I wouldn’t call it a pleasant taste. I can’t imagine that many drink it to please their taste buds. It certainly had a flavour, which is an advantage over fruit teas. I remember a comedian commenting on how fruit teas are designed to tease and frustrate you. All the way to your mouth the nose is saying raspberry, raspberry, raspberry and when it reaches the mouth the taste buds say hot water. You couldn’t accuse green tea of that.
I carried on sipping and started another story.
This one was about a man who flew to New York on business and as he got off the plane he was struck down with appendicitis. The story follows his treatment and recovery in a New York hospital, describing the patients and staff he encounters during that time. When he is discharged he is taken directly to the airport and leaves without venturing into the city at all.
In his musings about the whole ordeal he realizes that he had a view of the city that many visitors miss out on. His view was through the people worked and convalesced in the hospital. He had been forced to encounter New Yorkers where they were. He imagined the staff going home to their apartments at night or the patients returning to their tenements when recovered. He built an image of these places and their atmosphere by being with those who lived in them.
As I finished the story I thought it was unusual for me to read so long without being distracted by things around me. Apart from the waitress I had not broken off reading for anything. Normally I would gaze at people passing by occasionally or at others at tables around me. A conversation at a nearby table would catch my attention and I would find myself reading across words in the book but not taking it in as I eavesdropped. Discovering this and having to reread a paragraph or two is normal practice for me. Not that day though. The characters in the two stories had had my full attention from start to finish.
I closed the book briefly and took another sip of my tea. Then my attention was fully on the tea and the sipping, tasting, swallowing, cup refilling, sipping cycle.
As the tea slipped down I started to recognize just how “splendid” I was feeling. My breathing was shallow and easy. I could hardly notice it at all.
Sometimes shallow breathing can be a sign of stress but then tight muscles accompany it, tension in the face and shoulders – I had none of that.
At that time of the day I often get the shakes. My wife has told me this is because I have bad eating habits – not regular enough – lack of protein etc. If it’s not the shakes then it could be nausea. Neither of these that day, in fact if it is possible to have the opposite of nausea that’s what I had.
I looked at the cover of the book again and drained my cup. There was a little more hot water so I emptied the pot into the cup and while it infused I tried to imagine the conversation taking place on the cover.
- When I first came to New York I would never have come to a place like this to relax. All the stories I heard had me thinking I’d be killed if I set foot outside the apartment in an area like this.
- Urban myths. You’ve got no more chance of being mugged here than you did in your hometown. What was its name?
- Lawrence.
- Yeah Lawrence. Sleepy little Lawrence had just as many shady characters per capita as The Apple.
- No one ever got mugged in Lawrence while I was there.
- I’ve never seen a mugging here either. I guess that’s the idea with a good mugging. Don’t be seen.
- Yeah but you read about stuff like that happening in New York everyday. Back home we never saw it and we never read about it in the paper ‘cos there was nothing to write about.
- You know maybe the muggers are just that good in smaller towns. Maybe they’re good enough to not be seen and to pick the victims who won’t tell, make a fuss – just want to shut it out and leave it behind.
- You make it sound like an evil place. Small towns aren’t like that. Not Lawrence anyway.
- And neither’s The Apple.
I drained the last of the tea and pushed the seat back to stand. Collecting up the stuff on the table and chair I started across the courtyard to the café door to go in and pay.
There was a gentle late afternoon breeze blowing that was barely noticeable but I noticed it. I noticed everything. The smiles on the faces of the staff out the back that were near the end of a shift and were winding down in the kitchen. The sparkle in the eyes of anyone who’s eye I caught. The cadence of the accent of the waitress who said goodbye as I walked back out into the courtyard. The clicking rhythm of the tram that eased past as I started back down the boulevard. The resonance of the chiming clock as it struck out five times behind me. I thought about staying in town a little longer. This feeling was too good to waste on a trip through town in rush hour traffic.
I go to the café everyday now at four o’clock. I take a book and sit outside if the weather is reasonable. I order my green tea and scan the horizon, so to speak, for that euphoric calm.
I can’t be sure that the routine will reproduce the same feeling again but it was the last place I saw it and that’s not a bad place to start looking.
It might be like Pooh says when he, Piglet and Rabbit are lost and keep coming back to the same sandpit. “We keep looking for home and keep finding this sand-pit. Maybe if we look for this sand-pit we might find home.”
'Better Without You'is a compelling narrative that explores the complexities of an affair, hidden secrets, and abuse. It also highlights a daughter's heartfelt journey as she cares for her mother who is battling dementia.
