27 February - 20 March, 2011
A friend recently told me that every daughter needs a sister. She said that there is no greater bond than that which exists between two sisters. In response, I told her that I don't have a sister but a mother instead. I told her, and reminded myself, that my mother is a dancer of many roles. She is a woman of class, a lady of insight, and a mother of wisdom. For better, and sometimes for worse, she is the voice inside my head. But, while I am her daughter and the youngest of three, we have managed to create a bond that is a wonderful mixture of daughter and friend.
I arrived in Paris from the cobblestone streets of Brugge to find my mother just as I remembered. We chatted just like old friends do, picking up the stories where we last left off, and observing the quiet reality that befriends a reunion after being apart for some time. The truth is that I have been apart from either one of my parents for longer than the four and a half months I had been away till the day I met my mother, but my body and my mind seem to have been traveling for years rather than weeks. I could probably sleep for days but that wouldn't really help at all. I feel like a train that must keep going because if I stop, the thought of starting again would be too much to bear. The naps I used to crave and love at University are now synonymous to the third serving of gelato I know I shouldn't have. I will feel nauseous, slightly weak and disappointed that I tried to heal my sore body with a heavenly scoop of Italian dreams.
I attribute my love for life to my parents, two people who have walked miles around this world. I know at the beginning, their hectic walks fulfilled a need for exercise but I know now that those walks are as important for our physical being as they are for our mental health. My mom and I walked Paris. In the weeks just before spring and the blooming cherry blossoms, we walked miles. I fell in love with the cultural dimensions of Paris. It was not a complex love but one based on basic, simple observations - the large side walks sprinkled with freshly fallen leaves, the tiny tables outside every cafe that somehow managed to fit parties larger than two, and the old men who walked slowly enough to smoke their pipes without a hand to help. Yes, the women and men were dressed like the stunning visuals in my head, riding subways and buses just like the rest of us, which somehow made their fashions seem even less foreign and more beautiful. And yes, their language sounded so fluid and sexy that I told my mother on multiple occasions I would learn French this summer. I enjoyed speaking the few words of French I knew and loved the smiles I received in return. I suppose the act of wanting to learn another language illustrates an effort that is usually respected and appreciated. And the truth is that we see places completely differently when able to communicate in the same language. It opens our eyes to the cultural habits of other communities and slowly, the barrier between us and them falls down.
My mother and I wasted very little time while traveling through Paris and Rome. We climbed to the 42nd story of the Eiffel Tower, if only to make a few stops for pictures. Breathless moments of pure awe. I found myself wondering if most things are better up in the air. I have been on so many plane rides recently that I often wake up to look out the window at a cruising altitude (I love that phrase) of 35,000 ft and observe the serenity of the night sky. I know that the same sky I stare into, cluttered with stars, is the same sky that shines bright with blue and shades of yellow onto my friends and family that live a world apart. It's a mind-boggling thought that has kept me awake and bright eyed.
It didn't take long to find a cafe that was totally our speed. The first thing I noticed was the large U-shaped bar centered between two black and white tiled walkways with just enough space for two small tables to fit by the door. The first time we happened upon the cafe, there were three women sitting at the bar. Each read a different periodical, with their cappuccino and spreads, respectively. Ah, The life. We spoiled ourselves with two classic French breakfasts and went out to explore the madness of the Marais district. There was a surprise waiting for us at the Jewish Museum: an exhibition of Chagall's drawings, prints, and paintings. They were so full of life and color - an instant reminder of the drawings we do as children that look as equally innocent as they are mindful. The Jewish Museum was one of many that we walked through during the days we spent together. I remember just wanting to sit in the Musee D'Orsay and wonder at the people walking all around us. The magnificent architecture that holds the work was enough to keep my eyes busy. My most favorite was the L' Orangerie Museum – quiet, all encompassing solitude. Round shaped rooms, dressed in white, with diffused lighting that shined through the skylights in the ceiling. Against the walls lay Claude Monet's Water Lilies. They seemed to move as we moved and for the first time ever, I wanted to take a picture with a painting. I never really saw the need before, after all, most textbooks have better images that any we could take with our cameras but these water lillies were just so ridiculously wonderful. The colors popped in every direction and even the ones that were more muted had their own way of speaking to the viewer. The purples and yellows and reds bonded as if they were made to be with one another. The interaction was idyllic.
The sun came out to play every day and we made every effort to bask in its glory. After visiting a museum or roaming through another neighborhood, we grabbed sandwiches and sat in chairs that were designed for bathing in sunlight. They were metal, green, and heavier than you would think. The back was tipped back slightly which encouraged relaxation and rosy cheeks.
We were in Paris so, naturally, we had to have a crepe. It was a late night, one that had begun with flimsy directions but ended up being one of the best to remember. After wine and nuts and olives, I was eager for a crepe. We stopped outside a tiny window to have crepes with butter, sugar and lemon. ' The only way to have a crepe, ' my mother told me.
I had heard that the only thing better than being lovers in Paris was Paris at night. Obviously both are the aim but I try not to be too greedy these days. And while I have not seen all the great cities of this world shine their lights onto me, I do know that the city of Paris at night is magnificent. The architecture is phenomenal and the power of the bridges and buildings give me shivers down my spine. I love history. I have always been fascinated by it and it was such a high to be in a country that I have studied so much about. It's strange when something as intangible as history becomes so very tangible - walking on the same streets as Picasso or staring into some structure that was built hundreds of years ago. It is a thrill and it brings me back to earth if I have been otherwise occupied.
There is something so attractive about trains. Perhaps it's their role in history, their ability to show us the world while sitting still, or the calming sound of whistling engines running that ease me into sleep. We traveled through the night from Paris to Rome. While my mother caught up on an increasingly large pile of newspapers and crossword puzzles, I shuffled through my camera in search of pictures to remember moments whose details are slowly falling away. I traced back our culinary tour de force of Paris, from my first Croquet Madame to our lemon crepes and all the delicious croissants and cappuccinos in between. When we arrived in Rome, we wanted to eat and sleep but without realizing, we took a slow stroll and found ourselves at the Colosseum. I searched back through my high school memories and told my mother as much as I could about the Roman Empire, and how it collapsed in 476 BC due to a troubled government and weak borders. It's funny the things we know we will never forget and the things we can only hope we will remember.
I constantly find myself comparing cities. Perhaps it's some sort of strange defense mechanism to help me move on every time I travel to a new place, but I knew right away that I loved Rome for very different reasons than those I had for Paris. Rome was loud and almost obnoxious, defiant and a bit rough around the edges. She is a tough cookie, though given that some friends say the same about me, I interpret it as more of a compliment than anything else. Not sure what to say about that.
I loved being a part of it. There was a rush unlike Paris and more beautifully dressed men than I have ever seen anywhere else. We walked through Rome without a guide book, which always gives me an opportunity to use my imagination- something I love to do. We walked through the Jewish ghetto, ate bread and pasta as if we had never seen food before and drank wine that left the most perfect bittersweet taste on my lips. Like in Paris, I found a similar fascination with alleyways and front doors- always wondering where they led to, who was lucky enough to go inside, and how long they had been there for?
My mother did leave me eventually. She flew back to San Diego, and I hopped on a train to Florence, followed by Venice and then to Levanto in the Cinque Terra. I've tried to find the right words to describe my last week in Europe but really, it's a combination of the photographs I took, the incredible people I met and the baguettes, cheeses and tomatoes that accompanied me on lines to the Gallery D'Academia, the Ufizzi and the hikes in the Cinque Terra. I met more Americans during that last week than I had my entire trip and was pleasantly surprised with the results. Wink. I left Europe with a big smile on my face and I suppose it was not as wrenching to depart for I will be moving to London in the fall. Let’s pretend that I’m going to Grad school for the academics not the traveling. Oh, snap.
Lately, I've fallen asleep on the couch watching mindless television. It doesn't even matter if the channel is in English or Hebrew, I just want to stare into nothingness because my eyes are tired and it feels good to let them dissolve into blank space.