There may be no greater pleasure in life than getting to watch your husband find joy and delight in an unexpected surprise. Even eighteen years into our relationship, it still tickles me. This one came in the midst of an otherwise uneventful walk back to Midtown. We were escaping the increasing heat by ducking into the shops along Fifth Avenue (ok, maybe I was multi-tasking by shopping as well) after passing through an Indian Festival on the edge of Union Square. Suddenly, a colorful sea of saris swarmed in front of us, and the entire avenue was filled with a parade that seemed to materialize out of nowhere. Brilliance and sparkle and exuberance surrounded us, and three enormous chariots raised their fabric towers and set into motion.
This was the Chariot Festival, making its way down Fifth Avenue, a thousand times more gorgeous and exciting than all the goods in Zara and Club Monaco. I watched as Andy got out his phone and smiled as he took a video of the spectacle (check it out on his Instagram feed). I imagined him as a kid, thrilling at their dog’s antics, or the hatching of a chick he helped to raise, or some car of which he knew the make and model and entire history. His happiness made me happy.
Soon, the parade passed us by, and we walked until we collapsed in our hotel. A well-earned siesta would pass the time until dinner and the show. Part of me couldn’t wait until our brush with Betty Buckley later that evening, part of me didn’t want the day to end…
