I long for unexpected angles and curves, passages that take me to vistas unimagined. I want us to be a couple on a rue in Paris, a calle in Barcelona, an alley in Istanbul. Walking where feet have trod for hundreds and hundreds of years – not just a couple of centuries. I want to curl up with you in a glass igloo in Norway and watch the northern lights. I want to hold your hand in a bure in Fiji, the thatch rustling0 in the ocean breeze.
I want architecture that begs for our attention and the camera’s lens. Adobe, stucco, marble. People who walk differently and speak in a tongue I can’t understand. I want to eat food I’ve never had in Afghanistan, drink liqueurs with the locals in Greece, and witness the traumatic running of the bulls. I want to struggle with the language when asking a stranger to take our photo. Though we are disheveled and jet-lagged, you will put your arm around me and we will smile for the camera capturing our joy in the moment.
Saundra had an 11-hour layover in Paris. Eleven hours wasn’t enough particularly as she’d never been to Paris, but she was going to wring the last morsel of Parisian delight from every second. She spent as much time planning her layover as she did the trip to Amsterdam that was the reason for the trip.
Her son had once dated a woman who was a flight attendant. She swore Amsterdam put Paris to shame and was her favorite city of all the places she flew. Saundra wasn’t so sure. Amsterdam was business and she had to be on best behavior and would be in meetings all day and with colleagues in the evening. There would never be a moment to let down her guard.
In Paris, she would be free or as free as a finely tuned itinerary would allow.
She was allowing herself two hours to get out of the airport to the city and three hours to get back to the airport and through security. That left her with 6 hours. She would have lunch at a sidewalk café three streets over from the Louvre and then spend the rest of her time in the museum.
Saundra knew 5 hours at the Louvre was laughably short. Not near enough time. She had already made up her mind not to see the most famous of the exhibits, the Mona Lisa and whatnot, but to find the Renaissance gallery and explore it. It might not be much of a plan, but it was hers.
Things went like clockwork. She was actually off the plane and sitting at the sidewalk café within 70 minutes of deboarding. Woo Hoo. Extra minutes in Paris.
She sat at the table and soaked up the sun. She had chosen this one because Hemmingway used to drink here. Saundra wasn’t that big of a Hemmingway fan, but the literary pedigree intrigued her. She fancied herself a writer.
The waiter, rude as she had been led to expect, did not dampen her enthusiasm, or improve her high school French as she ordered poulet something-or-another and a glass of the house vin.
She was in Paris. Her food arrived and the presentation was beautiful. She decided to hell with looking like a tourist, put aside her self-consciousness, and took a photo of her food, the table, and then a selfie. All she was missing was a fanny pack and a red beret to be the Ugly American Tourist.
Saundra laughed aloud. And then said aloud, “I will remember this day always.” She had time to spare, so she ordered a second glass of wine, but drank it quickly. Perhaps too quickly. She noticed she was light-headed as she walked to the Louvre.
She loved that word. Louvre. Loved how her tongue rolled around in her mouth when she said it.
She was appalled to see a line of tourists at the museum. She’d thought they would have arrived earlier. Saundra begrudged every minute she stood in line waiting for security to paw through her things. Finally, she was in.
With her map in hand, she found the Renaissance gallery and ducked in. It wasn’t empty, but there weren’t hordes of people either. So far so good.
She went to the first painting, a landscape. She carefully read the card affixed to the wall next to it. There was far too much information. She decided to just look at the images. If she wanted to know more then she would read.
In this manner, Saundra wandered through the landscapes before reaching the portraits. She was on the fourth portrait when her jet lag stalled for a second and realization hit. She went back to the first portrait. A blonde countess, yes. But those eyes. Familiar. The courtier’s mouth. The courtesan’s hair. The washer woman’s hands. Those were her eyes. Her mouth. Her hair. Her hands. She continued. All of her body parts were represented. Even her breasts with the mole on the left one. She turned around to see if anyone was staring at her. No. Not yet at least. She kept her head down and walked quickly out of the gallery.
Too much wine. “That’s all,” she whispered to herself.
Headed down a sculpture gallery, again she was met with familiarity. The curve of her back. The tilt of her head. All in white marble.
She’d taken melatonin to sleep on the plane. Perhaps melatonin and vin ordinaire didn’t mix well. This just couldn’t be.
She nearly ran from that gallery. She checked her phone. She had more than 3 hours left to wander. She decided coffee was in order. She’d find the museum cafeteria, they all had one, and sober up. She hated to waste the time, but thus far she was not enjoying being an exhibition at the Louvre.
She found a docent and asked for directions. In haughty English, the woman directed her to the courtyard. By the time she got there, she was a wreck. En route she had passed more and more representations of herself. Each a little more complete in their likeness.
She went through the line and took her coffee to a littered table. Saundra didn’t care. She needed to sit down.
She drank the coffee quickly and decided to leave early. She was not enjoying herself and felt ill. Best to do so at the airport at her departure gate.
She kept her head down and looked at the floor as she quickly exited the museum. A security guard stopped her.
“Is Madame well? What is your hurry?”
Saundra tried to explain but after a few false starts, she simply said, “I need to get back to the airport. My flight leaves soon.”
“This way, Madame. Please. I need to search your things.”
She found herself in a small room with a female attendant. She had been instructed to remove her clothing and the attendant was wearing gloves.
This was not the hoped for Parisian experience.
Saundra would never return to France. She never made it to Amsterdam. It should be noted that she told people that she far preferred Amsterdam to Paris.
Marjorie sat on her sofa in the room with blue walls and stared at them. She loved this room, and she loved her house, but on this particular day, she was at loose ends and restless. She picked up things from the coffee table one by one. The teal candle holder with the tea candle. The pottery bowl her stepdaughter had made. Her meditation beads.
She thought about meditating. Her brain was so noisy today that she knew it would be futile. All the more reason to try, but she set them down too. She spied the small antique globe and picked it up. Spinning it, she daydreamed about taking a trip.
“Why not? She asked the cat. “Why the hell not? I have vacation days and I have a hefty tax return on the way. I like traveling alone. I can do this.” The cat didn’t reply.
She gave the globe a mighty spin, closed her eyes, and touched her finger. . .
To Hungary.
“Hot damn, I’ll go to Budapest. I have always wanted to go. It’s a UNESCO World Heritage Site.” She danced around the living room and imagined the adventure she would have. Maybe she could fly into another city and take the train or river cruise into Budapest. That seemed in keeping with the ancient city.
You are sitting in the hotel downtown waiting for your lover to arrive. The snowfall is alarming, and you know he hates driving in adverse conditions. The weather this Valentine’s Day is nothing but adverse conditions, but you pleaded with him.
“Please! I want to see you!” And you do, but you want to wear your new outfit just as much as you want to see him. You peer out the window and sigh. With or without him, you are going to your prix fixe dinner reservation. You are stuck in town with the snow and there’s no safe way to get home. You ponder how to get across the street to the restaurant in stiletto heels.
W. Va. Fur and Root 