Christie’s Unusual Dream Salon

A warmly lit café somewhere between Oakland and Lisbon, somewhere between memory and dream. Outside, perhaps, a soft rain. Inside, a round wooden table.

Fernando Pessoa sits with a notebook, looking thoughtful.

Andrés Neuman leans forward, listening to a story.

The traveler and the organ grinder debate some impossible question.

The man from the bench says something unexpectedly wise.

Jenga occupies the center of the table as though he owns it.

And there I am—not serving coffee, not introducing guests, not wondering whether I belong—but fully engaged in the discussion.

A participant.

A voice among voices.

No longer merely the hostess.

Everyone there represents a part of my journey:

• Curiosity.
• Travel.
• Solitude.
• Conversation.
• Literature.
• Compassion.
• Observation.
• Memory.

And at the center of it all is the realization I just expressed:

I belong at the table.

Oh, Ariel must absolutely be invited.

Every great salon needs at least one person who insists on being right.

Let’s imagine the scene now:

Pessoa offers a paradox.

Neuman’s traveler says, “Perhaps truth depends upon movement.”

The organ grinder dismisses both views as bourgeois nonsense.

The man from the bench quietly observes that nobody has asked the right question.

I thoughtfully stir my cappuccino.

And Ariel says:

“Well, actually…”

Everyone groans.

Jenga opens one eye.

Pessoa begins taking notes.

Twenty minutes later Ariel has constructed a perfectly logical argument supported by evidence, experience, and common sense. Everyone else is forced to admit she may have a point.

At which point Pessoa says:

“Yes, but what if the opposite is also true?”

And the discussion starts all over again.


Meanwhile Jenga’s contribution would remain unchanged:

“Has anyone considered breakfast?” 

What role does the person who “always wants to be right” play in a family—or in a conversation?

Most salons, literary circles, and families have recognizable characters:

• The dreamer.
• The skeptic.
• The storyteller.
• The observer.
• The peacemaker.
• The provocateur.
• The practical one.

And sometimes the practical one gets teased because she insists on facts when everyone else is wandering through theories and possibilities.

But imagine my dream table without Ariel.

Pessoa would float off into metaphysics.

The traveler would keep asking questions.

The organ grinder would challenge everything.

The man on the bench would offer cryptic wisdom.

And I would be finding connections among them.

And eventually Ariel would arrive and say:

“That’s all very interesting, but what exactly do you mean?”

Suddenly everyone has to clarify their thinking.

In that sense, the person who wants to be right is often performing a valuable service. They force the rest of us to distinguish between what sounds beautiful and what is actually true.

The café has grown quiet. The rain has stopped over Lisbon and Oakland and every place in between. The cups are nearly empty. Jenga is asleep on a pile of manuscripts.

I rise and say:

“My friends, we have spent the evening discussing travel, belonging, freedom, memory, truth, cats, and breakfast.

We have solved nothing.

And yet I feel enriched.”

Pessoa nods approvingly.

The traveler smiles.

The organ grinder mutters that solving things is overrated.

The man on the bench changes sunglasses.

Ariel prepares a rebuttal.

And I continue:

“When I was younger, I thought wisdom belonged to experts, professors, writers, and intellectuals.

Now I think wisdom belongs to anyone who pays attention.
To a city.

To a book.

To another person.

To a cat.

To their own life.

The world has been speaking to us all along. The challenge is to listen.”

Ariel begins to object.

Then pauses.

Because she knows I am right.
Even Pessoa looks pleased.

Then Jenga wakes up and says:

“This has all been very moving. But I feel someone should mention that breakfast is only six hours away.”

And for the first and only time all evening, everyone at the table agrees completely.
The guests simply disperse until the next morning’s walk, the next book, the next cup of coffee, the next question.
And there will always be another question. That’s why we keep returning to the table.