As a medical student facing a six-figure amount of debt, I am forced to be quite economical. So, when my dad decided to visit me a few weeks ago, I was really excited, not just about spending quality time with him, but also because I had given him a long list of groceries he should bring for me. A girl has to eat, and when pomegranates are $2 per fruit, it’s best if someone who actually has a positive net worth is buying them for you.
I felt like a pirate claiming my booty when my dad arrived with an SUV full of exotic fruits, bakery bread, and my favorite food. We decided to explore Harvard Square, and when I pointed out my favorite dessert restaurant, which I reserved exclusively for special occasions because a dessert there cost as much as an entree at other classy restaurants, my dad decided to treat me.
Afterwards, we left Harvard Square and traversed the epicenter of the wealthy and incredibly well-dressed: Newbury Street, Boston’s version of 5th Avenue. Chanel, Burberry, and Valentino boutiques line the street. Not only are the women dressed in swanky designer labels, so are their tiny dogs. Despite having lived in Boston for five years, I had only been to Newbury Street twice, which I justified by claiming that I had little free time. Secretly, it was mostly because the thought of so many beautiful people gathered in one street made me feel slightly inadequate.
Somehow, with my father at my side, it felt different—I was with someone who had never thought I was inadequate, and so I walked with a newfound confidence, daring the women dressed in Gucci to look down at my Gap apparel. Our excursion was relegated strictly to window shopping, although a part of me reasoned that buying that gorgeous Chanel purse would only be adding another grand to my outstanding debt. It was an insignificant amount, I rationalized, but before my wild schemes could further unfold, we had reached the end of Newbury Street.
My dad wanted to meet a friend who lived in Boston.
“You probably will not want to come with me,” he said.
“Yeah…you can just drop me off at my dorm,” I responded diffidently. “Where does your friend work anyway?”
“In the hotel that used to be the Ritz Carlton.”
At the mention of the Ritz Carlton, the first thing I thought of was tea. The Ritz Carlton had a fantastic tradition of afternoon high tea, which included delicacies such as caviar and lobster profiterole. I love tea and was eager to taste some of the more exotic food the hotel offered, but in the past, I had always been deterred by the hefty price tag that could easily escalate into the three digits. However, if it was on daddy’s tab, there was no such compunction on my part.
“Please take me with you! Does the hotel still have tea?” I asked.
“Of course. We can have tea there,” my father declared, innocent of how my request would tax his magnanimity.
Although the name and ownership of the hotel had changed, its tradition of high tea remained exquisite. My napkin was unfolded for me and placed on my lap. My tea was poured for me, and I even had fresh honey to stir into it. The table was weighed down with six plates of caviar, lox and cream cheese sandwiches, cucumber sandwiches, lemon tarts, scones, cream puffs, and chocolate covered strawberries. A woman played a harp in the corner of the room. I felt like the Queen of England must feel every day. It did not matter that I probably would never get an Eid gift for the rest of my life after my father got the bill for this tea—right now, I had the same purchasing power as the retired stockbroker sitting a few tables away.
The glorious day left me feeling posh, probably for the first and last time in my life. The feeling of being worthy to experience high society quickly evaporated when I returned to my room and, in an overly enthusiastic attempt to repair a teapot, accidentally superglued my fingers together. As I spent half an hour trying to salvage my hand in case I ever wanted to be a neurosurgeon, I realized that life was not about trying to fit in with the designer-worshipping crowd. It was about being with my father, who made me feel that it was worth it to drive five hours to see me. It was not so much today’s privileges that I would remember but the feeling that he cared enough to indulge me. He left me not just with an armful of pomegranates, but with the knowledge that I was an essential part of his life.
No comments:
Post a Comment