Arrival

Our first night in Atlanta, the skies were filled with constant, flickering lightning. A thunderstorm seen and heard from ground level, in a house, is one thing; a thunderstorm seen and heard from the eighth floor of a residential tower is quite another. From the balcony of our new home, the lightning seems to makes the sky sizzle and the evening air explode.

Our condo is at one end of our building; the loading dock is at the extreme opposite end. As a result, the movers — who arrive late — take most of Friday to unload the truck. That evening, we abandon the boxes and join Pnil, John, and Jeri for dinner at Nan, our neighborhood’s upscale Thai restaurant.

Nan is a white, minimalist expanse reminiscent of the Thai royalty’s summer palaces: soaring ceilings, towering columns, crisp fabrics. Reviewers (rightly) go on and on about two features of the restaurant: the bathrooms (which double as candle-lit Zen retreats) and the obsessive-compulsive service (drop sauce on the tablecloth, and waiters will immediately cover it with an unsoiled linen napkin).

Lit by flickering lightning, the place takes on a magical quality. The chilly drinks and fresh chau moung (rare, delicate appetizers fashioned like purple flowers) refresh us, the atmosphere relaxes us … and the check makes me grateful that Phil has offered to take us out for the evening.