People are forever talking about their “best” this, or their “favorite” that. Or they’re asking you about yours. And a lot of those are easy enough to answer (though often there’s a tie and you just can’t decide). For example, my favorite . . .

Broadway show: “Les Miz” — no contest.
Movie: “The Russia House” — know most of the dialogue by heart.
Meal: Either the stuffed baked lobster at Mattakeese Wharf in Barnstable, Cape Cod, Massachusetts; or the Dover sole at a little restaurant downhill from the Royal Palace in Stockholm, Sweden.

Book: “The Charm School,” by Nelson DeMille.
Color: Blue. Or green. So, I guess . . . teal.
Vacation: Baltic Cruise on Holland America Lines, 2009.
Concert: Paul Simon in Prague, 1991.
Summer: Prague, May-August, 1991.
Dessert: Tiramisu. And coffee ice cream (not together).

Compliment: “Wow!” (It was the strapless gown; I was 18.)
Popular song: “The Sound of Silence,” by Simon & Garfunkel.
More recent popular song: “Hallelujah,” by Leonard Cohen.
More recent than that: None. Not a single, solitary one.
Classical composer: Tchaikovsky, Mozart, Beethoven . . . so many.
Popular composer: Paul McCartney, Simon & Garfunkel. It’s a tie.

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You get the idea. But these are pretty straightforward, to the point of being downright boring. The memories I prefer are the more, shall we say, unusual ones. Some are funny, some not so much . . . and some were red-faced-get-me-the-hell-out-of-here embarrassing. But they were memorable. Such as . . .

Best trip to Emergency Room. Briefly: Around 20 years old, cramps, pitcher of whisky sours, sundeck on a hot day, cool shower, passed out, hit wood floor face-first, split chin open, no car, called EMTs, went to ER, sewn up, had to return home in taxi . . . in cotton robe, nothing underneath, bare feet, big white dressing across chin, through crowded lobby of apartment building. My only comment: “You should see the other guy.” Talk of the building for weeks.

Best fender-bender. There’s really no such thing as a “good” accident, but this one was worse for the other guy than for me. In the usual bumper-to-bumper evening rush-hour traffic around the Jefferson Memorial in D.C., everyone had stopped except the driver behind me, whose front bumper French-kissed my rear bumper, audibly shattering something made of glass (turned out to be his headlight). We were exchanging insurance information when another car pulled over, a man and a woman exited the car and began walking toward us. The other driver — typically for people in larger cities — looked concerned, but I told him not to worry, as I knew the couple. In fact, they were a partner and a paralegal at the law firm in which I worked and were just making sure I was all right.

You could see the poor guy (the offending driver) deflate on the spot; he heard “lawyer,” and figured his life had just gone down the drain. I’m sure he had a couple of sleepless nights until I informed my insurance adjuster, who informed his insurance adjuster, who then informed him that I wasn’t injured . . . and in fact, my Datsun’s rock-solid bumper was barely even scratched. No damage, no law suit. He got lucky; but judging from the expression on his face when a lawyer showed up at the scene, he had already had his punishment.

Best breach of protocol. I can’t go into detail, but my firm at one time (in the ‘80s) had been retained to represent the widow of the last Shah of Iran in some commercial business matters. I never did meet her, and our representation of her was kept strictly confidential, but I was super impressed to be even indirectly connected to a royal family. Answering the phone one morning — just one of the dozens of calls I fielded during a typical day — I was stunned to hear a lovely, friendly female voice say, “Hello. This is Farah Pahlavi.”

Now, I was accustomed to dealing with people at high levels of industry and government, but was taken aback by the fact that an Empress would, first of all, place her own calls, and second, be so down-to-earth. At that moment, all of my years of training went out the window, and I heard myself replying, “Oh, hi. How are you?”

What the hell was wrong with me??!!! Did I think I was talking to my best friend? But before I could grab the scissors and kill myself, she stepped right in and said, “I’m fine, thank you. You must be Brenda. I’ve heard so much about you.” Wow! That lady is the very definition of graciousness, and though I never did have the privilege of meeting her face-to-face, I have never forgotten her. And when I think of that conversation, I still do this:

Best funeral. My mother’s, actually. Okay, I know that’s beyond weird. But there were a few little incidents that broke through the misery: my daughter packing seven pairs of socks and no toothbrush (it was out of state); the rainy day that turned bright and sunny, as if on cue, just as we reached the cemetery; the man my sister and daughter didn’t know who gave me the biggest bear hug ever and had them wondering about my secret life; and swapping growing-up stories late at night with our aunt, my mother’s younger sister.

But the best moment occurred on the day before the actual funeral, when the Rabbi came to my aunt’s home to pay his respects. When he walked into the living room, where my sister and I were seated next to each other, we took one look at him, turned to each other, and in unison blurted out, “Mottel.” That Rabbi was the absolute image of Mottel the Tailor, from “Fiddler On the Roof.” And we both burst out laughing, leaving the poor man thinking he’d walked into an insane asylum. This was, after all, supposed to be a household in mourning. But sometimes you just need a good belly laugh.

Best time almost getting shot in Russian museum. Well, the only time, really. Back in the day (1993) before smart phones and digital cameras, while living and working for a few months in Moscow, a good friend from Washington was staying with me for a couple of days on her way to meet up with her husband, who was in one of the former Soviet republics on business. With her was her teenage son, whose only request while there was to visit the Military Museum. As it happened, my next-door neighbors were a military family, and the husband offered to take us there. So the five of us piled into their little car; stopped for lunch at McDonald’s on the way (a real treat for the Russian couple); and headed for the museum, where the admission was free but I was required to pay one ruble for the privilege of taking pictures with my own camera.

Well, as I said, it was a film camera, and after snapping away for a while, the camera told me it was out of film by beeping at me — quite loudly, and repeatedly. Beep! Beep! Beep! And I’ve got to tell you, two of those armed guards — the ones who are absolutely everywhere in Moscow — came running into the room, hands on holsters, ready for action. But I was way ahead of them. Holding the camera up in the air where they could see it, I shouted, “Nyet! Nyet! Fotoaparat! Fotoaparat!” (“No! No! Camera! Camera!”) Mercifully, their hands still on their holsters, they heard me, saw the camera up in the air, and came walking slowly and cautiously toward me, where they examined the offending camera as I turned off the beeper, and everyone finally relaxed. In fact, we all had a rather hearty laugh in the end. Fun times in an authoritarian society.

Best time passed out in 5-star restaurant. Nope, I’m not going through this whole story again. But it was hilarious enough to warrant its own blog post (6/13/24: “The Trauma of Turning Thirty” — check it out.)

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My point, after all of this, is that it’s not the routine and mundane that we value or remember throughout the decades. And it’s not necessarily just the good things. For me, at least, it’s the unusual, the bizarre, the quirky, even the embarrassing. Maybe I have a strange sense of humor, but it works for me. When I need to lighten up on a not-so-great day, I just call out to the universe, “Fotoaparat! Fotoaparat!” . . . and I recall once again that much of this life has, after all, been great fun.

You might want to give it a try. “Fotoaparat! Fotoaparat!”

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
7/6/24