Imaginary Socialite

one. “Verboten,” I tell my mother as she steps into the elevator.

“What do you mean?” she asks.

“You’re not allowed to use the elevator. It says so in our hotel room.”

“Really? Why?”

“I don’t know mom; this is Europe. Maybe it’s to conserve energy or something. Come on, keep up.”

And so we take the stairs.

two: All I want is everything but I’ll settle for some chocolate. Fist-size eggs, Cadbury style but filled with hazelnut. “Those are for kids!” says the cashier and I feel like the Trix bunny. “Yes,” I answer, “I am only six. I am extremely tall for my age. It’s all the sugar they feed me in America.”

three: A small cafe with twinkly lights and a waitress with beautifully frayed Converse.

Imaginary Socialite: What’s this on the menu?

Waitress: I’m sorry, my English is very bad.

Imaginary Socialite: Okay, francais?

Waitress: No, I will show you. Gobble! Gobble!

The Waitress begins to flap her arms like wings.

Imaginary Socialite: Oh! Turkey!

Waitress: Yes! Would you like it to order?

Imaginary Socialite: Um, no. Just six cups of kaffe, please.

four: Lying on the bed with my chocolate, which unravels in foil until… there is no chocolate, just a yellow plastic sphere and inside, where I thought would be hazelnut, is a little Lego robot. Oh.

I stare at the ceiling and re-translate the poster that says “no elevator.” Except it says, “if the building is on fire, please do not use the elevator.” Ooh.

On TV is a documentary on Lohan, and one on Calder, both English with German subtitles.

“Misunderstood, all of us,” I mutter, and flick off the light.

[REBECCA VOIGHT - AM I THE IMAGINAR SOCIALITE?]

This entry was posted on Friday, December 29th, 2006 at 5:56 pm and is filed under My World. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.