I spent last weekend in Marseille, the glittering multicultural port city (and the oldest city in France!) along the Côte d’Azur, where we met up with friends in town and on vacation from NYC.
We shared outdoor meals of steak and frites (bien sûre), fresh seafood grilled and sprinkled with herbs, and wine uncorked in the buttery hues of magic hour at sunset.
At one prix fixe meal at the irreverent and delicious Livingston (very much recommend; reservation also very much recommended), my friend Sophia recalled a conversation and moment so profound, it felt like it simultaneously altered our brain chemistry.
At a restaurant in Queens five or so years ago, we’d ordered a side of fries to share, eating as we talked. It got down to the last few fries and we were both hesitant, wanting and pausing, doing the little courtesy and denial dance of: Do you want it? No, no; go ahead! And on.
In a moment of quotidian brilliance, Sophia looked me in the eyes (maybe she took my hand, too; we can add that for drama!) and said, excitedly: “We can just order more fries if we want them!”
It was such a silly, sweet, obvious thing that made such a difference in that moment: Reminding ourselves we didn’t need to be scrimping like it felt was required back in our college days when we met. We had budget to do enjoyable, “extravagant” things like order the food that we wanted to eat—twice, even.
I’ve realized since that it’s those little actions of generosity we extend ourselves, whether they show up as an indulgent gourmet moment on a Saturday night with a friend or as another signal of abundance to ourselves and our systems, are what give us permission to inhabit our lives a little more fully, a little more playfully, and a little more presently.
To Sophia, and all the frites we have yet to order together