FERN DELL

             It’s lunch time. We decide to drive up to the Fern Dell area of Griffith Park for a bit of a hike and a bite to eat at the Trails Café. Parking, surprisingly, is a challenge—the street near the entrance an unbroken line of parked cars. And this is a Thursday!

            We find a place, though, and walk up the path that leads into the park past the café. It’s later than we thought, the café closes at 2, so we decide to eat first and walk later. Surprisingly, again, a rather long line to the order window—everyone spaced out to the regulation six feet apart. When our turn arrives, Ellie goes to the window to order; she has the mask. Forgetful as ever, I left mine in the car. I find a place to sit in the shade (it’s hot! High 80s in Los Angeles in February is a heat wave) and wait while she orders a sandwich to share, an “egg in a basket”, a strange kind of scrambled egg muffin, a glass—no, a clear plastic cup—of lemonade.

            The outdoor tables up behind the café are crowded with lunch guests. Finding one with only two people, we ask if they’ll kindly move down to one end so that we can share it. “Of course,” says the young woman, kindly. They move down, we unpack our paper bag and tuck in to what turns out to be a good lunch. The avocado sandwich is delicious. We hear fragments of conversation from our young neighbors and detect an English accent. The attractive young woman with flaxen blond hair is wearing a Loch Ness t-shirt with a cartoon image of Nessie.

            It’s Jake, as usual, who breaks the ice. He’s interested in sniffing out the fluffy pup that belongs to our neighbor. We smile at our dogs, at each other. “Did you see the monster?” I ask. The young woman tells us she’s from Scotland. Brought up in Devon. Is over here as an aspiring actress and film director. She reminds me a little of the British actress Keira Knightly, some of the same unapologetic, bright energy, the same eager interest in the world around her. I refrain from saying this, though; I have always thought it rude to tell someone they remind you of somebody else. As though they are not enough in themselves. Her lunch companion, a dark-haired, bearded young man, is a cinematographer. He studied at the nearby American Film Institute (AFI) where our daughter Sarah manages the catalogue—a 100-year history of American film. We mention the connection. Small world.

            Soon we are all four deep in conversation, probing for common ground, for what brings us all together on this sunny, hot day in Griffith Park. She is a writer, I am a writer. She’s from Scotland, delighted to hear that I’m from Newcastle. To place myself a bit—and because we are both British in origin—I mention my book on David Hockney. She is impressed, makes note of my name. Who knows how, we arrive at my time at Cambridge; our young woman friend applied for studies there and was sad to have been turned down. She is amazed to hear that our granddaughter got in. Their professional involvement in film-making provides more connection, Ellie telling them of her screenwriter father. As we talk, we find more and more little points of connection between us, young and, well, frankly, old. It’s amazing, really, how much we have to talk about, how much we find to share. A nice bond develops, even though we all know it to be an ephemeral one, one that will last no longer than our lunch at the same table in Griffith Park on a sunny, hot Thursday.

            The time comes for us all to move on. We have all stayed longer than we’d intended. Rather comically, we exchange names even as we say goodbye, never expecting to meet again. The young man is Adam. The young woman is… Georgia! I tell her Georgia is the name of our granddaughter, the one who did, in fact, get into Cambridge. Another strange coincidence, a strange common bond. A bond that, no sooner discovered, is fated to be broken.

            There’s a certain sadness in saying goodbye. It feels almost as though we could have been friends with these so much younger people, who now go their own way. Georgia and Adam. Peter and Ellie. A connection that no matter how brief had value, a moment of mutual recognition, of mutual appreciation… almost of love.