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March 28, 2000 | Yesterday we went to the London Zoo, a wonderful place with stately
architecture and well-tended animals and beautiful plantings, and you stroll
around on a spring day, flocks of white and yellow daffodils blooming here
and there, and observe the giraffe couple nuzzling each other and lightly
necking, and the elephants politely noshing their hay, and the fish, the
beautiful fish, in the aquarium. Baby Blue sat on the railing, in front of
tank after tank, like watching fish TV, looking at the tomato clownfish and
the Picasso triggerfish and the foxface rabbitfish and the yellow sailfin
tang and the porkfish, bright yellows and blues sailing through the water,
and a horsefaced fish, bright blue with yellow trim, who seemed to be the
boss, pecking at the others. Afterward, you walk across the broad green sward
of Regents Park to the outdoor cafe by the Queen Mary Garden and sit and
enjoy lovely sandwiches and a plate of green curry in the sunshine. Nearby is
a close-clipped lawn where Mr. Blue, one spring day years ago, rented a
canvas reclining chair and reclined in it and napped for a couple hours. Felt
like a Wodehouse character, an old boy from the Drones Club, but woke up
feeling as cheerful as P.G. himself and went off for a lovely walk and a good
dinner. When an American starts talking about "lovely sandwiches" and "a lovely
walk," it's time to leave England and come home and go to stock car races or
read David Mamet, but it's a great city, London. The older traveler sits in
the park, eating his sandwich, and thinks that perhaps he has seen enough of
the world and that perhaps his traveling from now on will be limited to
return trips to places he's already seen. One can survive not having seen
Japan, or South Africa, or Rio, or Moscow, or anyplace else -- the aim of
travel is to get away from home, for the pleasure of the departure and the
pleasure of the return, and to spend the intervening time in an interesting
place, and it doesn't really matter where. A person could do worse than
simply keep coming back to London -- be a sort of monogamous traveler --
and the city would keep rewarding you with new sights. At Mr. Blue's age, one
could be happy as a tomato clownfish, if your tank were London. Hope to
return soon. And now on to the week's mail.
Mr. Blue Garrison Keillor's column appears every Tuesday in Salon Books.
Feeling blue about your prose? In the doldrums over your last date? Ask Mr. Blue. Dear Mr. Blue, After five-and-a-half years of no sex, I worked up the nerve to call this man I have known casually for a year and ask him over for dinner. I figured, be brave and go for it. We had a lovely time and ended up in bed together. I am 47. He is 53. We are both unattached, but both have children still at home. In fact, he is my daughter's basketball coach. I shudder at the thought. I now find myself sneaking around trying to figure out how to see him without my daughter finding out. Neither one of us is ready for this to go too far too fast. But I am so completely inexperienced at this, I find myself wondering if I just shouldn't say thanks for a wonderful evening and bail out now. I seriously doubt we would ever end up together as partners -- I just want to have some fun with another consenting adult. He definitely wants to get together again, and I find myself planning to get rid of my kid for a few hours to hop in the sack with this guy. Any suggestions? Salome Dear Salome, Good for you. You saw what you wanted and you went out and got it, and I'm sure it was a lovely time, you and the basketball coach, and now you must deal with the slight complications. Go ahead and see him again, I say. (He's Italian, right?) What's the problem? Suggestions about what? What to wear? What music to put on? What snacks to serve afterward? I say togas, Verdi and a thin-crust pizza.
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