I do not own Mona Lisa Smile.
I never thought of this before. And now I love it.
Not All Who Wander Are Aimless
She had never had her own space before.
She had grown up in her mother's house, her mother's touch on every single thing down to the lace doilies under the bedside lamps.
To Wellington dormitories, a girl around every corner, chirping in every room.
Her and Joan naively pretending to be grown, mature, worldly young women who were head and shoulders above every other collegiate they encountered.
To Spencer and her house.
Designed and decorated, down to the lace doilies under the bedside lamps, according to the perfect, sophisticated style of the time.
And her mother's touch.
And now, Elizabeth 'Betty' Margaret 'Flicka' Warren was here.
Greenwich Village. New York City.
1954.
In a studio apartment.
Fifth floor walk up.
Barely big enough to turn around in.
A living space under giant slanted windows.
A chair and a loveseat. Lamp. Tiny coffee table.
Where she could read a book.
Listen to music.
Or just watch the rain run down glass in the evenings and wonder what she was going to do with her life.
A slip of a kitchen. Basically a hot plate and an icebox.
Tiny table with two mismatched chairs.
Bathroom barely big enough to clean oneself in, hot water heater always on the fritz.
Small sleeping space.
Bed.
Closet.
Wardrobe.
Not enough room for much of anything.
Completely different from everything else she'd ever known.
And she guessed, since she shared it with Giselle, it wasn't really hers anyway.
But it felt like it.
Here there was mess.
Here there was disarray.
Here there was life.
Odd smells from the Romanian couple down the hall that that boiled more potatoes than anyone ever had a right to.
Laundry at the Wash and Go.
Where she had been terrified at first.
Takeout Chinese for her birthday.
Waiting tables at the corner diner, writing in the evening.
Deep freeze in the winter.
Sweltering heat in the summer.
Filthy, by her mother's standards, no doubt.
Decrepit, subpar, shameful, inhuman.
Not that she came to see it. Not that Betty invited her.
But she did love the place, she really did.
Not at first, no.
It took time.
Gone were her clean, starched lines.
Her hospital cornered sheets.
They have to share a big double bed, her and Giselle.
Not the first time she slept next to someone without hanky-panky.
But never this warm, loving, and accepting.
Although, sometimes, . . .
"Giselle, stop that, I'm in the bed with you!"
"Hey, unless you're willing to help out, I've got business to attend to over here."
. . . she did end up on the . . .
"There's barely any room over here."
"Well there's plenty over here, honey."
"I'll pass. How you can do that to yourself is beyond me."
"What, you've never done it?"
"It's not ladylike."
"Honey, it's the most ladylike thing."
"We'll just have to agree to disagree."
. . . loveseat.
Joan would love it, this life, this freedom, this adventure.
She would love it for Betty, would want to hear all the gossip.
She would be stunned, taken aback, bewildered by some of the stories Betty would have to tell her.
But she would love it.
Joan, who had gotten everything she ever wanted.
The real everything, not Betty's fake facade everything.
Joan would think . . .
". . . around for coffee some afternoon!"
"I simply can't wait!"
. . . it was perfect.
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Love this movie, love this idea.
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