Saturday with the Prince

I’m excited to introduce you to the Prince, who only made a recent appearance in my story, but has poured so much joy and sunshine into my life I can’t imagine it without him!

Prince Andrew makes his fortune as a poet, writer and actor. He has a small castle in Midtown, Atlanta with old, nostalgic wood floors and antique glass doorknobs. From his bedroom window, you can see the stately houses and condos of Midtown, and past them, the skyline of Atlanta.

The Prince and I sit at his table by the window. Cold air leaks in around the window frame so we drink fresh-ground, French-pressed coffee from small clay mugs. His is always black. Mine is always heavily sugared and hopefully has some cream, too. As we talk and tell each other the worst jokes, my eye is drawn up above the table to the lovely art on the walls. There are so many prints, small ones, all different subjects, each richly framed and hung just so.

In the bedroom, my attention is always pulled to the overflowing bookcase. I stand in front of it, staring. “Do you want to read?” He always asks, watching me. “No,” I say. That’s not always true. I want to read, but I want to spend time with him just being in this sensory experience. Being in Prince Andrew’s castle feels like an art gallery started a coffee shop then invited a writer to live there.

Of course, his castle being right in Midtown, we can’t just stay there the whole time. Saturday we left to explore the neighborhood. We walked about five miles… A long walk, but so wonderful.

We saw parks where, though it was winter, the landscaping was still breathtaking and the colors were a seasonal palette I never knew existed. Streams flowed below sycamore trees hundreds of years old.

We walked street after long street of homes that had been loved for decades. They were often tiny, with miniature manicured lawns. There was no house without some detail to enjoy: a stone staircase here, ivy carefully cultivated there. Diamond lattice in the windows or perfect birch trees.

We ended the day walking to a hole-in-the-wall bar, a dark, quiet, cozy place in the early afternoon. We sat at the bar like real adults eating spinach and artichoke dip, watching the drinks poured and speculating about what the years might hold.

At the end of the day, our feet hurt, but neither of us complained. Who knew that the most perfect day of the year might be a misty, freezing January day in Midtown? Saturday I learned that every season has its own special loveliness. Thank you, Andrew you darling, for sharing your kingdom with me.