This postcard was never sent, never written on. I don’t blame them. If I had a postcard with that scene on it I’d want to keep it forever, sometimes to find it in my old piles of papers tucked away with the haphazard delight of the ‘unfiled’ – those wanton free-living cluttery bits of old bills and manuscript which at surprising times yield up the most delicious tidbits of times and travels past from the drawer or box opened to be ‘sorted out’.
I’d take this postcard up between my fingertips and I’d look at it for a good long time. I’d think how much the man in the back looks like Cary Grant, and muse on how wonderful it would be to stand in front of the treasure-trove of the pink-orange crabs just laying there waiting to be eaten at that stand, on that pier, with a gentleman by my side! both of us quite elegantly dressed for the occasion.
I do love crabmeat. So much so that I feel about crabmeat the way Colette felt about truffles: ‘If I can’t have too many truffles, I’ll do without truffles.’
Where can I find that pier? And how much is the plane fare to get there?