Today we went to Versailles. Versailles is for “France and all Her glories.” It was stunning. Beautiful. There were gardens and we walked in them and they were overwhelming. And then came the part of the day I hope I never forget. If eighty years from now I am alive, and healthy and lucky, I will remember sitting on the hill with Katie and McKay and looking out on Paris and watching a movie. A movie about a man who was not satisfied. He was not satisfied with his own life, with his own time. He yearned for the Lost Generation and found that the Lost Generation yearned for the Belle Epoque, and that the Belle Epoque yearned for the Renaissance, and so it goes. And we all look back, like our own time isn’t important enough, isn’t special enough, isn’t worthy of our presence in it. This is a mistake.
Tonight I danced in a bar, in a basement, cobbled in stone, in Paris. We are lucky to live in our own time. I am lucky.
Tonight, after the movie, we ran to the steps where Gil Pender went back in time to his heroes, to the men and women who defined his life, to the men and women he thought were more important than those who defined his own time. And we said we wanted to go back in time. We said we were disappointed when we didn’t get picked up by a 1920s Peugeot. But I wasn’t. I was not sad. Hemingway was a drunk. I can find genius drunks in my own time. I was glad to stay. Not one of us has perspective. This will be forgotten. I will forget it. But somewhere, someone in my generation is writing something that will survive us all, or they better be.