Privacy is never given, it is only taken.
I’m currently taking refuge in the carriage house of a six acre estate in the Plaza neighborhood of Charlotte. The property is on the National Historic Registry. The main house is delightfully appointed with Victorian antiques. The carriage house has modern touches which is a pleasant juxtaposition to the main house.
This estate exudes privacy: if you weren’t aware of the driveway entrance, you’d surely miss it; the main house stands guard like a giant; the carriage house is tucked safely away in his back pocket.
I’m the only guest. Which is the main reason I have Ahmed (my driver). Late last evening while he and I sat on the veranda smoking, we heard a symphony of crickets led by a hooting owl soloist.
Tonight after my dinner with David, I’ve excused Ahmed with a filet mignon to share with his beautiful wife. I’m sitting, alone, except for the company of my cigar. Ahmed made me promise to text him when I’m nestled into the carriage house. I am, he reminded me as we shook hands tonight, the only person on 6 acres.
Blessed be me.