Yesterday afternoon, while on my way to see Olivier Assayas's Non-Fiction at the Riviera Theatre, I had the realization—yet again—that almost everyone in Montecito is old. (I'm not prepared to blame all the poor driving on age, but it's likely a factor.) This time, however, it also hit me that Adam and I have many of the behaviors and routines of old people, so perhaps our living here isn't all that weird. We hardly need to be near nightclubs.
Then I got to the movie, and I was at least 15 years younger than every other person in the audience—not unexpected at a 5 p.m. screening of a French art-house film, but still. Non-Fiction, if you care, is not as satisfying as Clouds of Sils Maria, but I enjoyed it anyway. The characters talk about the future of publishing, eat, and have affairs, in that order. There may be no Frencher film.
Adam was experiencing the opposite sitch in San Francisco. "Having an Oban in the 'garden' of the hotel," he emailed. "Too cold for most everyone else. I love SF. But I know we aren’t moving here!" Damn straight. "But the energy. And relative youth. (Although they are all incessantly talking about rounds of financing....)" I used to dislike how Tribeca was dominated by people age 35 to 50, and how you'd have to go to Brooklyn to see people in their 20s. But I don't know that we're ever likely to find a place that's both comfortable and accommodating to young people.
This morning at the pool, age came up again. The president of the swim club board and the Masters coach were talking about the private changing stall within the locker room. "I had never seen one till I got here," said the coach. "I figured it was an East Coast thing." He looked at me, and I just shrugged. I guess the stall is for guys who don't even feel comfortable with a "deck change," which (I subsequently learned) is when you change in or out of your swimsuit with a towel around your waist.
I may have mentioned this before, but I find it bizarre how so many men—and young men, in particular—do a deck change while in the men's locker room. One of the great liberations of aging, in my experience, has been not giving a crap who sees my body. I don't swan around the locker room naked; I just change my clothes and move on. Ultimately, we all more or less look the same. It reminds me of that great Legally Blonde line, from a different context: "What's this Vivian got that you don't have? Three tits?"
It turns out the president and the coach were talking about how there have been some issues—or concerns?—about adults and minors sharing a locker room, so they're going to have to come up with a solution that better not involve me waiting out on the deck, cold and wet, while two tweens yap about Minecraft (which is what I had to listen to today). Not that anyone asked, but in my opinion, isolating people from potential problems is not the best way to ensure they'll be able to cope.
P.S. The quote of the day comes from cookbook author Diana Kennedy.