In the weeks since her loss, I have been thinking of Lindsay almost constantly. I went back and re-read her books, as many others have done. I guess what comes through, in memories and in her own words, is Lindsay's fierce and unwavering commitment to living in the moment. Her focus on making the life she had as joyous and fully-lived as possible is my fondest memory of her. Her wry eye did not suffer fools gladly, and yet her kindness was instinctive and unconditional.
We first became acquainted when she put out a call for "interesting ex-pats" because she was writing a profile for an international living magazine. She asked for people to tell her in 300 words or less why one thought one was interesting. I said, "Hell, I can tell you in 30." So I did, and she agreed, and she profiled me, and that was the beginning. She was unstinting in her assistance as I took my blogger baby steps, and helped me understand the analytics part, which is not my strength.
She was a magnificent hostess, and I always looked forward to my visits to the Wasp House, staying in "Ro's Room." I can see her now, perched on the edge of a chair, legs perfectly crossed, back ramrod straight, glass of rum at hand, wreathed in cigarette smoke, as we sat up to the wee hours as she regaled me with tales of her life. She packed more in to her 64 years than many of us do in a lifetime.
In "Romeo and Juliet," Shakespeare gives Juliet an exquisite speech describing her love. With gender substitutions, I submit:
When she shall die,
Take her and cut her out in little stars,
And she will make the face of heaven so fine
That all the world will be in love with night
And pay no worship to the garish sun.
How I shall miss her.