I was licking toffee off my fingers outside Ava’s Caramel Corn when a bus passed and its entire side had a striking, bejeweled egg painted on it. It hypnotized my 7-year-old self right then and there. My gran—dropping her stinky cigarette—noticed and nostalgically added, “I loved those eggs when I was your age.”
The next weekend I was Alice in Wonderland at the Peabody Essex Museum, rudely yanking an elderly woman about and leaving a plethora of “sorry’s” in our wake. There it was: the Fabergé 1897 Imperial Coronation Egg.
The most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.
“Look!” Its innards were revealed: a yolk of a golden hen hatching a miniature crown.
Beauty, inside beauty, inside beauty.
That moment imprinted and for many years I found myself wondering at the beauty possibly hiding in so many things.
In high school, my boyfriend and I discovered an African cacao chocolatier, Boevetti’s, if I remember, with the most exquisite packaging. I unwrapped one and felt like Charlie Bucket awaiting the rustle of gold. Alas, just plain wax paper.
On a Vegas trip in college, I stayed at the Bellagio. The foyer had an unforgettable blown-glass floral sculpture and furniture covered in rich, textured upholstery from a bygone French era that transported you to the Belle Époque.
Our second night there, we noticed staff exiting a “Restricted” door. Sneaking closer, I peeked behind the curtain. Cement floors. Bland cream walls. Employee notices. Lifeless. Plain. Boring.
In my mid-20’s, I met a friend who worked for an elite London jeweler, Asprey, for lunch and we had to pop to her office upstairs. Cubicles. Grey furniture. Small windows.
Shrug.
At 30, I decided this was just how the world was. Mostly pomp. Very little circumstance. Shiny outsides. Beige insides.
I think most people are like that, too. They want to seem important or special but deep down they’re just: sweatpants and t-shirts.
I don’t mind, I suppose. Maybe that sameness is why we’re all so relatable.
But lying on my couch, in a flannel onesie, painting my toes, I look around my modest apartment and smile, thinking, “But life is a bit more fun with a little Fabergé.”