Barneys, Wednesday around 1 p.m. “Any special plans for Thanksgiving?” the young man who had sold me a few Kiehl’s products asked.
“Yes,” I said. I was going to travel to Europe on Thanksgiving but I didn’t feel like saying that. “How about you?” I asked.
“All my family is in California,” he answered, “it’s going to be a very quiet Thanksgiving.”
Very quiet, perhaps he would eat a turkey sandwich alone, sitting on his bed? He didn’t look sad, just a bit helpless.
I felt like saying: “Come, fly with me to Amsterdam.”
But I didn’t want to cause problems, so I whispered: “The best Thanksgivings are the quiet Thanksgivings.”