Visitor Season has begun. It looks like it’s going to be a long one this year.
Close observers of my life — I know you’re out there somewhere! — know that I inherited two grandsons. They are doing fine, thank you. One will start at UC Santa Cruz in fall and the other will be in his junior year at UC Davis.
The other, henceforth known as Moses, is doing a term at Oxford. Of course he spent spring break, part of it, anyway, in Paris and another few days at the house. The interesting part is that he brought half a dozen friends with him.
He wrote to me as if he couldn’t quite figure out why they’d want to tag along. Maybe because he was the only one who had been to France? Who had any idea how to get around Paris? Who had access to a house near the beach? Could that have anything to do with it?
It was great fun. They got an apartment through AirBNB. Even in Paris, where they are illegal, I guess they are still out there. After a few days they rented a car and we all drove down to the house. I felt like I was walking through outtakes from Jacques Tati’s movie “Playtime,” with its American tourists, wide-eyed and happy about everything. They didn’t have Art Buchwald to write their dialogue, but it was the same vibe. Improbable things would miraculously happen, always for the better. Things would go wrong, but would always work out. And in the end, they made the train that took them home.
Each of those kids — I’m old, 21 looks pretty young to me — was kind and courteous, thoughtful and interesting. If they wanted to come back next year, I’d be delighted to welcome them.