Is Happiness Based on Our Social Interactions?

How we define our state of mind for the foreseeable future may be a result of our 2020-2021 Covid experiences.

According ro Emile Durkheim, a pioneering sociologist of the early 20th century, "our greatest bliss is found in moments of collective effervescence." There is energy and harmony in a group, large or small, that is sharing a purpose.

Those moments were few during Covid quarantines and their aftermath. Emotions that spread from person to person in a collective (without our realizing it) were missing. Lockdowns and distancing prevented touching and sharing joy or purpose. The number of adults with symptoms of depression or anxiety spiked during our isolation in 2020 (NY Times Sunday Review, July 11, 2021, "The Joy We've Been Missing," Adam Grant, pg. 3).

Fear was the first negative emotion to spread. We hoarded toilet paper, masks, hand sanitizer, and scrubbed our groceries. Depression became contagious through social media. In order not to succumb to negative emotional contagion on the internet (Zoom meetings, etc.), eye contact was avoided. Introverts, as well as extroverts, missed collective effervescence and languished somewhere between stagnation and survival. I was one of those. This is the first blog I've written in several months. 

In May, '21, Charley and I finally joined in collective happiness again. We hugged our loved ones, went to dinner with friends and family (in their homes!), and planned summer trips. Others went to work in person instead of in their pajama bottoms. We had a new understanding of mental health and our individual happiness. We began to grasp that flourishing includes collective effervescence. We witnessed Italians singing together out their windows, residents of New York City honoring essential workers with fireworks, homemade signs, and a march. To be loved, we needed to profess love. We were back on track, social distancing and masks a memory, vaccinations in our arms.

But SURPRISE! Covid had mutated! The Delta variant has increased the probability that those who are unvaccinated and contract the virus will be hospitalized and stricken more severely than those who have been vaccinated. Even the Summer Olympics couldn't distract us from the news of spikes in the variant among certain states across the south and of hospitals that were overwhelmed there. Our collective effervescence turned to a lack of understanding of those who chose to remain unvaccinated. In early August, 2021, one in three Americans who were eligible for the vaccine hadn't received a single dose. Lives, jobs, experiences, money, mental and physical health, were again in jeopardy. Anger can become a contagious emotion. The difference between it and collective effervescence is that anger can hurt oneself or others. We began to don masks, change plans, and worry about our loved remaining safe once again (two of our grandsons were under twelve, too young to be eligible for the vaccines).

Exhausted, despairing rage was finding comfort in turning complex realities into simple "us" versus "them" categories. A study of survey results among those eligible in March '21 found that 22% in the study hadn't gotten the vaccine because of concerns about cost, safety, or systems that already "did them wrong" (NY Times Sunday Review, August 8, 2021, "What to Do With Our Covid Rage," Sarah Smarsh, pg. 4).

Sarah Smarsh in her article, "What to Do With Our Covid Rage," suggests ways to close the gap between those vaccinated and those unvaccinated in this country. A lack of money, power, and education has kept uninsured Americans among the group with the lowest vaccination rate among 22 subgroups examined by the Kaiser Family Foundation (NY Times Sunday Review, August 8, 2021, "What to Do With Our Covid Rage," Sarah Smarsh, pg. 4).  Smarsh suggests we "demand public health MANDATES; we communicate with the cost-anxious and wait-and-see people who remain open-minded despite skepticism wrought by a lifetime of disadvantage; we do good deeds to negate harmful ones, like donating money to a nonprofit health clinic..."

Americans were among the first in the world to receive the vaccines into our blood, thanks to a feat of modern science. W:ith a booster shot awaiting approval for the general public, those who receive the serum will almost certainly survive the pandemic in its present forms to feel the collective effervescence again in a sports stadium, community building, at an indoor wedding, or at a school play. 

Snapshots from France II

It was drizzly but warm in Paris this mid-June.  We had a 7:00 p.m. reservation at Le Reminet,  a tiny restaurant on the Ile de la Cite, behind Notre Dame. Ile de la Cite sits in the middle of the River Seine, between the Right and Left Banks. Under our umbrellas we followed what looked like an alley but was a narrow street. The restaurant sat half-way down.

We pushed down on the brass levered handle in the middle of a stone facade.  The building must have been a fortress in the middle of the island at one time, but cafes and restaurants now occupied the narrow stone caverns. The interior was wide enough for only one table on either side of the door.  A bar sat at the rear of eight tables, and bright paintings punctuated the stone walls.  Behind the bar was a hall leading to a private dining room.

"Non, non, monsieur, not open!" was the greeting from the maitre d', who approached us in a striped button-down with rolled-up sleeves.

Our watches read 7:00, and since we were used to dinner reservations at home at 6:30, we were usually the first ones in a restaurant overseas. Technically it was 6:55 p.m., since Charley and I always kept out watches five minutes fast.  Two other couples came through the door behind us, happy to escape the drizzle.

"Not OK?" Charley said.

"Non, monsieur. Cinq (five) minutes!"

"It's raining," Charley protested.  "We have to stand outside in the rain?"

"There's awning, monsieur."

The six of us marched back outside and shivered under a three-foot awning.  Five minutes later we were readmitted.


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We had a second 7:00 p.m. reservation at the Brasserie Closerie des Lilas in Paris. Brasseries are open all day and we really didn't need a reservation, but our hotel called to ensure a good table.

We arrived at 6:50 p.m., not having learned our lesson, and were shown to the bar because (one guess!) our table wasn't ready.  The restaurant was empty, with the exception of four tables of Parisians eating inside the glass enclosure facing the street.

Hemingway photo 1930

This was the same bar in the same brasserie that Hemingway called "one of the best cafes in Paris," a favorite of Gertrude Stein, Picasso, Lenin, and Trotsy.  We ordered Proseccos with a raspberry liqueur.  The bartender pointed to Hemingway's photo over his head.  Liquor bottles on glass shelves gleamed from celestial lights overhead.  Hemingway's face shone amber.

With his four words in English and my four words in French, the bartender
explained the name of the Brasserie.  The restaurant was a "closerie," or
greenhouse, with its glass walls and interior/exterior trees and flowering plants.
What I couldn't grasp was the "Lilas" part, since he kept pointing to a poster with the name of the restaurant and beautiful women in clothes from the Roaring 20's.
"Aura," he kept saying.  I guess the full name of the place meant "Greenhouse of Lilacs with Beautiful Atmosphere (Perfume?)."

At 7:20 we were shown to our table facing a wall of mirrors.  The concierge at our hotel must not have had much pull, if this was the best table in the place!  "May we sit facing the garden?" I asked.

Another famous Brasserie in Paris, Les Deux Magots

We were relocated to a row of windows inside the greenhouse facing the garden.  I ordered peppercorn steak "a la Hemingway."  Within fifteen minutes a group of ten American women on a tour sat at a table next to us.  They all ordered peppercorn steak "a la Hemingway" (the gravy was scrumptious and steak melted in my mouth!). Within thirty minutes a group of four Americans sat behind us.  The lineup of Americans reminded me of an experience at the famous restaurant Gundel in Budapest.  There, waiters in tuxes and gloves served traditional Hungarian meals from silver-covered platters while an orchestra played in the background.   The maitre d' seated all of us American diners together on a banquette with our backs along a wall, lined up like pigeons waiting to peck at their food.

Sacre Coeur, Paris

View from Sacre Coeur

ONE OF THE BENEFITS OF TRAVEL

With the exception of common courtesy and a respect for human dignity, one must leave all assumptions behind when travelling. This is especially true for Americans in Italy.

Charley and I do not assume the following there:

-that the paper will be delivered regularly or that buses, trains, and ferries will be running (24-hour strikes occur with a day's notice);

-that the road to our hotel, with rock walls tumbling down the hillside at hairpin turns, will be fixed in our lifetimes;

-that garbage will ever disappear from roadsides, or even be collected;

-that drivers will move over for pedestrians (who have no sidewalks), instead of playing "chicken";

-that American prudishness about exposing the body is universal.

It is one of the things we love about southern Italy. Life is exuberant and loud. Neapolitans are brash, grabbing life as it comes and squeezing it tight (as evidenced by the antics of twosomes on scooters or in passionate embraces whenever the mood strikes).

Neapolitans are not afraid to flaunt their assets. The men and women are bronze, the women with thick chestnut tresses and filmy gauze dresses cut to their navels. They have little and live under the shadow of the ever-threatening Vesuvius. They disregard the mafioso clans that rule every aspect of their city: garbage collection, construction, gambling, drugs, pinball machines, and all other illicit activities.

"Humans are flawed," the Ischians tell us. Their island faces Napoli and Vesuvio. "We cannot be expected to perform perfectly all the time."

At our hotel pool on Ischia, I am surrounded by six-foot models in thong bikinis, topless women sunbathing, and men in Speedos. Some of the sights over age sixty are not pretty! Only the English and Russian women in that age group, like me, wear one-piece bathing suits.

Perhaps it's time to dig that bikini out of my suitcase!

France Revisited

We will soon re-enter French airspace en route to Normandy. It will be Charley's first tour of the D-Day beaches, but not his first trip to France.

During previous visits, we made mistakes. We didn't understand the French mentality. We didn't follow the rules. We didn't wait patiently as French men and women ignored us. We didn't ask the right questions.

On our first trip, we flew in from the States at 7 a.m. and had to connect to Corsica. Charley put our luggage cart, piled high, directly in front of the "Corsica" sign at the ticket counter. We needed boarding passes and had four hours to kill. Groggy, we took turns getting coffee and reading. Around 10 a.m. the "Corsica" sign moved. Charley grabbed our cart but wasn't fast enough. A French woman came out of nowhere, ramming the front bumper of his cart and cutting him off. He rammed her back. "Despicable Americans!" we heard, as she stepped up to the "Corsica" counter ahead of us.

On another trip, we met an American friend and her travelling companions at an outdoor cafe. We got there first and eyeballed the tiny cafe tables. "I'll grab a few more chairs and move this other table over," Charley declared, rearranging the furniture. A waiter ran over. "Monsieur! Monsieur! Non, non!" We had violated two waiters' serving assignments. Ten of us sat at two separate tables and waited thirty minutes for acknowledgement that we existed.

We drove along the Riviera from Nice. About two and a half hours beyond St. Tropez, we cut inland looking for our "Hidden Inn," right out of a guidebook. It was hidden, all right! No road signs anywhere. We stopped a farmer, who led us down a dirt road on his tractor.

We checked in and learned the pool was in back, with reciprocal privileges at a hotel right on the beach. We unpacked, put on bathing suits, and headed for the pool. All we wanted was to chill out with a cool drink! There were plenty of chaise lounges at the pool, but no towels. "Excusez-moi, les towels?" I asked a sunbather.

"At the main desk in the lobby!" he answered in English.

I went back for towels but diverted up to the room for sunblock I'd forgotten. The upstairs hall was in total darkness. I fumbled with our key at the door, shoved it around near the hole, but couldn't get the knob to turn. Back to the front desk.

"Madame, you must insert your key in the slot at the end of the hall. That will turn on the lights. Then the locks will respond."

We decided to try the beach at the other hotel, instead. We made our way to the attendant there, who explained, "Je m'excuse, no chairs at beach. OK on hill. I move you when beach chairs open."

That was fine with us, since there was shade on the hill. We spread out our stuff and walked toward the Mediterranean.

"Monsieur! Monsieur! Non, non! Non beach!"

"What? We can't go in the water?"

"Non, monsieur! The prix on hill - non beach."

Back to the lobby for towels.

Before flying out of Nice, our last stop was the Chevre d'Or Hotel in Eze. Eze is on a cliff along the Grande Corniche, hanging high up over the Blue Mediterranean. We had to leave our car about two hundred yards below; a golf cart took us the rest of the way.

We had booked a reservation for dinner in their famous restaurant, filmed in "The Bucket List" with Jack Nicholson. It was one of the two most expensive dinners we've ever paid for. Problem: we couldn't see two feet out the windows. We were completely fogged in!

The next morning the fog burned off and Charley decided to use the exercise room. The receptionist had proudly told us it opened at 10 a.m. Right at 10, he climbed the fifty stone steps from our room, hanging over the cliff, up to the exercise room. Closed! He continued up fifty more stone steps to the lobby.

"Non possible, monsieur! It's after 10 o'clock. It must be open!"

There was no point arguing. Charley figured by the time he got back down fifty steps, he might find the door unlocked.

Not so! But where there's a will, there's a way. He spotted a louvred window on the bottom row that was cracked open. Yup! He climbed in.

The exercise attendant thought he was hallucinating when he unlocked the door and saw Charley pedalling calmly on one of the bikes. "Monsieur, what are you doing here?"

Charley pointed to his watch. "It's 10:30. The exercise room is open!"

Anyone else have travel stories??