Hospitality

When I was younger I loved entertaining. I loved cooking a large meal-- baking, spreading out copious plates on a table where my musician and artist-friends would gather on unmatched chairs-- two on a piano bench, a few on Fender or Ampeg amplifiers which provided extra seating and wheeled conveniently.  For the most part I loved my guests, although occasionally I had a few undesirable intruders who drank too much, sloshed red wine on the rugs, stayed too long. Generally everyone seemed to enjoy these evenings-- like a kind of salon, with some guitars inevitably pulled out as inhibitions waned. In later years people commented on the company-- they wanted to know who was coming and who wasn't. And one night some unidentified person walked off with a painting-- took it right off the wall and I assume stuck it under their coat. It was brazen and hurtful and I still have not forgiven whomever it was who violated my hospitality. 

Once I had a baby I limited these evenings to holidays or celebrations and they were considerably less wild, less generous, less hospitable. As my resources shrank and living costs blew up, priorities had to change. I often remember my mother-- her dinner parties for my father's business associates-- how she fussed over hors d'oeuvres and menus-- place settings, silver service and wine choices. By today's standards her dining room was very modest-- the table extensions made it cramped but she persisted-- with her crystal chandelier and the fancy china. There was something positively homey about it all. Today, corporate dinners are most often catered or moved to restaurants. 

I can remember sitting at the top of my family's staircase, eavesdropping... sometimes I'd sneak down and open the hall closet where I could bury my face in the ladies' furs, and try on the men's hats while the grownups chattered on.  The dogs were locked in the alcove, we were sequestered, and the house smelled of perfume for days. There were place-cards, invitations, gifts to amuse us.  There were formal thank-you notes and after-gifts my mother would display on the mantelpiece, all mentioning her stellar and warm hospitality.

The word confused me-- I'd broken my leg and been x-rayed and treated in a local hospital.  Why were people mentioning this sterile awful-smelling place in relation to my mother?  It was also ironic that grandparents ended up in the very place they felt least welcome, and most uncomfortable, with the deceptive name. No one has really ever explained this semantic discrepancy with any finality.  

Most Saturdays I work at an art gallery.  I'm generally there alone and it's a vaguely intimidating place, as many galleries have become in recent years. It's as though they establish an aura of exclusivity and discourage average people from entering.  It's a boundary which walls off the often baffling and exorbitant pricing of art-- intentionally intimidating, implying only the gallerists have the key to the mystery of collection and value. I am there alone; I'm careful to welcome people, to dress casually and encourage a positive experience looking at exhibitions. 

By contrast, at home I've become a little reclusive. Maybe since the pandemic I lost the habit of hosting groups of people. I'm more private and less sociable; I'm covetous of my time. Gigs used to give me an opportunity to welcome friends and socialize behind the curtain of music.  Everyone had a good time and then I could go home and be alone while staff cleaned up. Personally I don't use instagram and refrain from posting family and private events on my limited social media. I don't share health status or much besides my work and maybe my son's when he solicits this.  Raising kids, the very idea of solitude became impossible-- a lost luxury some of us rediscovered in older age.  And good fences good neighbors do make.  City dwellers in apartment buildings tend to keep healthy distances from our neighbors. We hear too much, we observe more than we should and we try to ignore over-intimacy and establish boundaries. It's an art-- to be warm and friendly but not invasive.

Last Saturday a woman came into the gallery, pulled up a chair and began a conversation.. She'd somehow been personally stalking me... after a convoluted soliloquy about her lifelong pursuit of the arts, she tried to convince me to let her stay in my home.  But it went on --- it became unsafe and alarming.  There was no 'no'.  There was just more manipulation and pleading.  She would not leave when guests and clients were asking questions... she sat herself in an office and just stayed. In the end I asserted the meanness I reserve for extreme situations. It had gone on for hours and I was literally shaking.

To distance myself from the episode I walked a good five miles uptown.. ended up passing my son's favorite Mexican restaurant where the doors were open, welcoming customers in the early summer weather.  I took out the phone he makes me carry to take a photo to send him and there in the corner of the frame was a young rat-- as nice looking as they come-- sniffing around outside... and then it entered. Slipped in. I wondered whether I should interfere and alert staff but I watched as it casually crawled underneath a table where two well-dressed women were sitting.  It explored their feet.. unobserved... did that hesitation dance rats do... walked itself around the place, and carefully left.  Totally unnoticed... that little rat taking advantage of city hospitality and beyond... or finding the place not suitable-- who knows why it left? 

I couldn't help drawing parallels to some of the characters of my recent weeks-- the stalker in the gallery, those few who have invited themselves into my home... and the places I've been where I felt strange or judged or misplaced. Being on an extreme budget, I do not have air conditioning.  It makes my home less hospitable for sure in the summer. It's a kind of protection. I'll do my socializing off-site. And God-willing I will not have to experience any seasonal hospital hospitality.