of eggs and islands

I had a "Suzan Sandwich" for lunch today: one scrambled egg and one sliced tomato between two pieces of toast. When nothing else sounds good, it always fits the bill. With one bite I'm transported to another time and another place where Suzan, Libby, Stuart and I are off on summer adventures in the VW van.

You know that question: If you were stranded on a desert island and could only bring one person, who would it be? I've never quite been able to answer it. Partially because I like to think that my life is full of endlessly fantastic people and I couldn't bare to choose, and partially because part of me wants my answer to be The man of my dreams. However, he hasn't exactly shown up on the scene yet. Today, as I munched on my sandwich, I decided I'd take Suzan. Some of you may be wondering why I'd want to take my AP English teacher to a deserted island. Why I'd want to spend my desert days discussing Homer or "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock." But, as I weighed the pros and cons, I couldn't think of anyone better.

First of all, those who know her can attest she always knows what to do. The world as you know it can be ending, and, come hell or high water, she's got a solution. That solution may be for you to just hesh up and stop complaining, but when it comes down to it, when all the complaining has ceased: problem solved. In our desert island scenario, she and I would spend days and days (and months and months, depending on how long this plays out) discussing art and fine literature. Maybe there was a one book rule, too, and since I've never been able to come up with the answer to that query either, she's the perfect person to have along since she's read and taught it all. Perhaps I'd come out of it understanding "The Heart of Darkness" better, although a plot of sinking ships and vengeful natives on tiny islands might not be the best substance for such a situation.

The two of us would send fascinating and entertaining (not to mention grammatically correct) messages in bottles to delight any and all finders. She'd have me write an observation a day, so I'd come to love our little deserted desert home. She could tell me what it's like to live in Russia amongst artists and vagrants and could explain (by showing, not telling) in such detail the best of France's cheeses, leaving us feeling full, even just for a moment.

When we were rescued, she'd help write up the harrowing tale of who we met and how we managed to live on exotic fruit, make paper from indigenous trees and sandals from bark, the kind she likes to wear year-round. We'd sell thousands of copies and make millions of dollars. But, in the end, she'd pull me back into reality like she always does and remind me that it's not about making millions of dollars, or being famous. It's about the distance you've come and the connections you've made. And the memories all along the way, the egg and tomato sandwich kind of memories. The kind that take you back to summer days spent long ago in a VW van, or on a far away desert island.