Sitting On Chris Martin's Lap and No Photo To Prove It, Damn it.
I always feel out of place when roaming the streets of a foreign city. My girls were running up ahead of J and I, as we strolled down a cobblestone sidewalk. Of course the foreign city had cobblestone walks, crooked iron fences at the entryway to homes right off the path, and wet grey architecture stole the view. Maybe there was an occasional tree swaying in the breeze. It was cloudy, but not raining. I can't quite remember what I was wearing that day I was strolling in London with my family. Oddly enough I wasn't caught up one bit in the nuances of my new bangs or how my ass looked in my jeans. All those silly things I would have normally stressed over considering the company I was about to join.
My daughters ran up the staircase first. There was an iron gate that we slipped through that opened into a gorgeous courtyard. The foliage was so lush I felt like we stepped out of London and into Tuscany. There were mosaics built into the grounds, stepping stones covered in moss, a fountain creating just the right background noise, and little sculptures appearing in the most perfect of places. I laughed to myself when I saw a tiny replica of the Birth of Venus sculpture under a blooming Hibiscus Bush. I've always had a thing for Botticelli's Birth of Venus and my heart felt at home seeing her here.
All of a sudden, the mood changed. My girls and husband began to venture off into the maze like courtyard while I was distracted by a view through a window. My nose pressed upon the cloudy vintage glass, as my breath was taken away by a sparkling turquoise indoor pool with the comfiest of lounge chairs around it. My eyes instantly honed in on a lone piano. There was a box with overflowing trash in between the pool and the piano, it looked like crumpled up paper from my view. It seemed out of place in this picturesque view.
Then our friend, or was he my friend, came walking into the room and sat on the piano stool. He had on black pants a simple white t-shirt and bare feet. On a whim he glanced up and noticed me, waved hello and ushered my down with his hand. For a moment I had one of those Molly Ringwald feelings from 16 Candles, I turned around and looked behind me. Then my hand rose to my chest and I mouthed, me? My friend nodded and I entered the antique chipping door that was just to the right of the window. The door was heavy, almost too heavy to move. Three stairs went up and just stopped into the wall. The staircase down briefly spiraled and then turned in a way making the width of the staircase feel smaller and smaller. I felt nervous, like I really wouldn't end up where I wanted to be.
Just like that I was sitting on a white couch, at the edge of the pool that looked out into a very long hallway, gorgeous white fabric curtains were cascading in the breeze. The light in the room felt like the most intense sunset I had ever laid my eyes upon. My friend was playing the piano. My friend was Chris Martin.
Before I knew it, I was sitting on his lap, his arms were to my sides and he was hitting some keys. We were conversing and joking around, catching up like old times. At one moment I tried to casually slip a photo of the two of us. I wanted to be nonchalant about it, but I was clearly a bit miffed when I flipped my phone around to see I had gotten a shot of the ceiling tiles instead. Great, I thought this moment is going to slip away and I won't have a picture to remember it.
I'm not quite sure where my husband and daughters were, maybe they were being entertained by Gwyneth, Apple, and Moses. But with nothing short of drool in the corner of my mouth, I awoke to a view of a humongous Cottonwood Tree out my window. I clearly wasn't in London, I was dreaming. What a spectacular dream indeed.
Now I'm left thinking, do you think 7pm is too early to hit the hay tonight....