We came to Miami on vacation to visit a friend. My dear friend, an oncologist, Yuliya Linhares, whose
mother’s photostory I already shared when she turned 85, invited us to a dinner party. She told us about her wonderful French friends who live nearby, how extraordinary, cultured, and full of life they are. Clotilde, Thierry’s wife, cooks incredibly well. She also mentioned that their home feels like an art gallery, and they have an incredible, lush botanical garden on their property. And that we absolutely had to go. So we did.
We arrived, walked into the house, and I saw her. Clotilde.
She was wearing colorful flared pants, little flower earrings, a cascade of curly blond hair, and these wonderfully quirky round glasses, the kind that make you think of a slightly eccentric doctor. She smiled with this Cheshire-cat smile, and from the kitchen came the most delicious scent, instantly making you feel at home. I liked her immediately.
At that moment, I knew she was my kind of person. My heroine.
You could see she was a mature woman, but it was impossible to guess her age, beyond numbers. She had a beautiful, slender figure, and an incredible sense of style.