[Diane von Furstenberg scarf + Alexander Wang t-shirt + vintage pendant + Linea Pelle belt + old, old tattered stained Rebecca Taylor skirt from eBay.]
This head scarf is about to be my summer staple. And, pardon the generalization, but there’s not a long gypsy skirt on this earth I won’t like. This particular one reminds me of something that happened last weekend. Long-winded digression is 3…2…1…
Rob and I sat in the bistro, the last ones in the restaurant, save a couple sitting at a table one over to my right. I pushed my fork around in the food listening to their conversation. “Ramblin’ Man” was playing softly on the speakers and I heard her say something, looking up through her lashes. “No, I don’t think so, not at all,” he countered, and then, “I think it’s CCR.”
I set my fork down and stared in his direction. When our eyes met, I slowly shook my head from left to right.
Creedence? Was he serious?
“No? I’m wrong?”
“Allman Brothers,” Rob and I said simultaneously. But before I could wait to gauge the man’s reaction to his mistake, I spun and stared at Rob in shock. This was my turf, usually—and a surge of pride welled up inside my chest. My baby, knowing his Allmans. Now, surely, to be fair, if there’s a Brother’s tune anyone would know, that would be the one. But I was still beaming.
“You’re sure about that?” the guy half-joked.
“Positive. They’re my favorite band,” I quipped, wondering how many bands I manage to call my favorite, then, “I’m from Jacksonville.” Like some proud gypsy. He laughed. “Really. Your favorite band?” I took another bite then cleared my throat in his direction. “Actually, I lied. My second-favorite band.”
I have no idea why properly recognizing artists and/or song titles is such a point of contention for me. My dad did this: “Ok, who’s singing this,” then turning the dial up until my mother or I could guess correctly. Honestly, I’d rather you know your music than know how to put your drawers on right-side-out. Just sayin’.
The couple wrapped up their dessert and the man leaned across the table and asked that we pardon his interruption. “Excuse me, how long have you two been married for?” “Almost a year and a half, now, I guess it is,” Rob mused.
He broke into a huge smile, stood up, and helped his wife up out of her chair, helped her into her coat, then tied a scarf around his neck. He turned back then, and said, “A hundred, very happy years to you both,” then left the restaurant.
I’ll be carrying that kindness with me for a long time. And this Brothers song is for Rob, who cured me of my gypsy ways.
[The Allman Brothers, “Melissa”]
Again the mornings come / again he’s on the run
Sunbeams shining through his hair / appearing not to have a care
Pick up your gear and, Gypsy, roll on… roll on.