Veni, Vidi, Vici (I came, I saw, I conquered)

There’s something about visiting a city again that brings on a moment of anxiety. I hadn’t been to Rome in a decade, would it be easy to travel to and would the city be as I remembered it?

My memories of it were like looking at an old Scrapbook. The enormous city had never revealed itself to me as a real place. Grand and ornate, I never got a sense of people’s lives, where they shopped, how they lived, the rhythm of a city remained to me, a beat untold. Maybe it’s because the city was developed by the Roman Empire, it had to be rich, had to be spectacular, but the sprawling city with its impressive architecture with huge majestic squares leaves me feeling cold- another number, an outsider. I prefer Venice, it’s manageable, and refined, its influences of art, architecture and literature I relate to.

The traffic in Rome is like that of a juggler- constant movement. Inside a cab, the driver makes loops, it’s making me car sick and dizzy. I yell out to the driver, “Are you going in circles, to make money off me?"

Going to museums and churches with many people never appealed to me but when in Rome, it’s the only way to admire the neoclassical architecture and opulent ancient villas. Entering the Vatican, I am in a reverie, how can religious art uphold love while there is so much hypocrisy, a guise for having transgressed, or was it only man that transgressed by committing acts of violence in the name of the church - it raises more questions in my mind than I can answer.

David, our guide calls me, he’s flipping his pamphlet and crooking his finger motioning for me to follow him to another room. After we step inside, he says, “Take my advice and get out your camera. These are paintings you won’t want to forget”.
I wrinkle up my nose. “I don’t think we can take photographs here.”
“Right. You’ll have to visit the bookshop for a book or image to remember the trip”.
“Actually last time I was here, I bought the creation of Adam on cloth, where God gives Adam the spark of life as cherubs look on. The original is in the first room, we missed it earlier”. Now I’m being the guide, “Shall we go see it”?
He smiles and puts a hand on my shoulder, as if his inner cupid is released - a blaze of adoration coming over him.
“Okay”.
David takes off his glasses and wipes them clean. “You have taught me more than any tour guest I’ve ever known.”
I perk up. “Really! I’m flattered and at the same time shy to acknowledge this facet of myself. I change the subject, “where to now?"
“We have ten minutes before we go back to the bus and head out for lunch”.
It was hard to tear myself away from the perfection of the Sistine Chapel- but the lure of places yet to be visited drove me forward. I didn’t want to miss anything since I had no idea when I’d be back.

In the gift shop, when it came to buying Art, I knew I couldn’t carry much on the plane. I tried to commit to memory every painting. Later that day at the Borghese Gallery and Museum, I make my purchase- a white marble of a woman seated, partially nude, the favorite and scandalous sister of Napoleon, titled Venus Victrix by Antonio Canova.

Days later, when I arrive in Florence, I decide to focus this trip on photographing locals and architecture, medieval and gothic. I walk the cobblestone streets pass the Renaissance piazzas with rustling pigeons to see Michelangelo’s David and il Duomo. My eyes scan the area looking for a way to take photos of the masterpiece without people in the background. It wasn’t possible. To my amazement, a man approaches me, “Would you like me to clear some area for you?” he asks in a jokingly manner.
“Sure, why not,” I say. “I’m ready”.
Actually, his comment brought me back down to earth. My sense of wanting everything so, is often hard to live with, even for me. Sometimes laughter is the best medicine for my exactness. More often, what develops is if someone tries to help me achieve my perfectionism, to no avail.
Within the crowd, there are children and suddenly a couple kisses so I snap immediately.
“There was such a joy and fearlessness in your face when you took that,” he remarks.
I add, “I hope it turns out to be something like a Robert Doisneau, open, a couple in love, while children play”. As I walk the city streets, I think of why color prints could never approach the beauty of black and white.

After lunch of Tuscan crostini, a chicken liver paste on unseasoned bread I peer into shop windows and see some amazing antique jewelry, each time I look at it as if to question, shall I go in? I come across a high-end boutique that catches my eye where I try on a slim fitting black gabardine wool trumpet skirt. When I come out of the dressing room, all the merchant can say is, “Don’t you look lovely”.

The next day after visiting the Uffizi Gallery while carrying my Botticelli print of the Birth of Venus in hand I come across a vintage store where I purchase a white silk poet’s blouse to compliment the skirt. I accessorize the ensemble with black high heel boots, a turquoise belt and black cashmere shawl-- this is about to become one of all-time favorite outfits.

After a few days with no tangible destination and no goal to my wandering, I want to go home. At the Santa Maria Novella railway station, I step outside as rain begins to fall.

In the distance a mist is gathering. Slowly the white vapor moves like a ghostly presence and I watch the vaporetto penetrate the misty curtain and disappear. Soaking wet, why this moment should make me as happy as it did is a mystery to me. Was I to accept this as an unexpected windfall, with complete pleasure and without questioning its origins?

As if to answer, the church bells in the Square begin to sound their chimes, telling me: Yes, yes, yes.

Fortresses and Castles that time forgot

The minute I step off the train, I hear a saxophone coming from a street musician. Lisbon breezes reminds me of San Francisco, but it is prettier, all the narrow streets where worn flights of steps carry one from one level to another beside the clear blue ocean.

Checking-in at the 18th century hostel with old lamps hanging on each side of the portico, I walk in onto slick marble floors the large reception area looks sterile, the smell of pine cleaner pricks my nose. A crowd gathers at the reception desk discussing the sites. A German woman looks at my embroidered blouse and assumes I am Portuguese asking me where one can get traditional craftwork. “It’s store bought, and I have no idea where you can buy anything embroidered in Lisbon, but I can share a fact or two about the city, if you’d like.

“Naturally”.

“The city is built on seven hills overlooking the River Tagus so it has many faces. It has leafy avenues, and narrow streets.

The Portuguese claim to have as many fish off their coast as there are days on the calendar. And there is Fado music- which lies at the heart of the Portuguese soul”.

It is as if my last statement wins over the entire group, the young woman extends her hand, and says, “I’m Renate”. After handshakes someone says, “Let’s go eat” and I am invited, the sextuplet of this merry group.

We have a seafood lunch in a turquoise painted inexpensive restaurant situated at the top steep streets in the Barrio Alto, people stand both at the bar and at the door waiting for a table. The interior contains rustic artifacts and lots of original art and photographs. The menu offers several preparations of codfish, including one that becomes a favorite, bacalhau, a fried codfish with port wine and cognac.

After lunch we discover the city’s rich architecture; Romanesque, Gothic, Baroque, Modern and Post Modern. By evening, we head back to the Bairro Alto.

The Barrio Alto is a place where children play, and many shop the boutiques by day, but at night, it becomes a trendy place to people watch and meet friends. As we sit down in what appears to be a club, actually is a Fado house, a 17th vaulted cellar of a house that survived the earthquake, I take a load off my feet. I order soup for dinner and ask the waiter, “What time does the floor show come on”. “Midnight” he responds. “Our curfew is 12:30 says Renate. “So we’ll listen a bit then go”. I begin a conversation with the Swedish man sitting next to me.

A female vocalist comes on with two accompanists, one plays Portuguese guitar the other classical guitar. She sings a song about nostalgia;

“Tem este meu coração” … my heart has this …

Dressed all in black with a shawl draped over her shoulders, her voice is melodic but earthy. By 12:10, emotionally tangled into the music, when everyone gets up to leave the Swede and I stay behind.

Ten minutes later, we make our exit grab a cab arriving at the hostel at 12:35 to closed doors.

My fists hammer at the huge double wooden doors but no answer. The Swede tries a couple of rounds. After 30 minutes it’s useless, they have enforced the curfew and are trying to teach us a lesson. I’m fuming beyond mania, in spite I’m going to break a window and cause the biggest raucous ever! I take off my shoe throw it at the second floor window and it is stuck in a tree! Shaking the massive Oak tree nothing moves, “I’ve lost my shoe”! I yell in a panic.

The Swede frustrated “Fine mess you got us into”!

“What are you Laurel talking to Hardy?”

His face is blank.

“Forget it, a cultural remark,” I add. “This is no time to point fingers,” Help” I yell out wanting someone to come unlock the door.

I take off my other shoe use the heel to bang on the door, and the buckle busts.

An hour goes by. “Hey, lets’ both scream Fire”. I suggest.

We try it- not a peep from the other side.

Hearing footsteps from around the corner, I hobble on my broken shoe to the end of the block recognizing a man I saw earlier inside the hostel. “Hey, you over there, stop!”

He walks in my direction.

“We got locked out; can you get us back in”?

He removes his cigarette from between his lips. “I work in the kitchen. I don’t have a key, but if you need a place to sleep, I know a lady with a house on the next street- but she’ll charge you” he says.

My eyelids are so heavy that I will agree to almost anything. “Let’s go” I call and the Swede comes running.

While ascending the flight of stairs, through the skylight I see stains on the steps that feed my imagination—could this be spilled blood of a body that tumbled to its death. A painted lady answers the door, with a red light glowing behind her, “I’m out of here” and speed away.

The Swede follows me, “We could have slept there”.

“Easy for you to say, you’re a man, besides I’m the one who has to think for the both of us”!

His ego now shot, he leaves.

I recall earlier having visually mapped out the area. The Avenida de Libertad is flanked by major hotels. Inside I tell the clerk my story. “You can’t stay here”, he informs me in a bored voice.

Planted in the lobby, my eyes fly from one side of the room to another, as if I’m watching a tennis match, sweat running down my back. A housekeeper pushes a vacuum at my feet; the manager comes over asking me to leave.

A drizzle begins and I haven’t a coat or sweater, and I’m barefoot. I stumble along in a frenzy. A pay phone is close by, I call the American Embassy, and an answering machine goes on with no way to communicate an emergency! I slam the phone down pick it up and slam it again, as hard as I can, vibrating the glass partition. Through the glass, I see my reflection and laugh at my appearance in disbelief.

A police officer walks by, maybe he has a suggestion.

“I get off at 4; want to go for a drink”?

My face flushes from his indignation, “what’s your name”?

“Viera”.

Rummaging through my tote, I locate a pen and scribble it on the back of a receipt. “Give me your badge number”!

He casually flicks his ID with name and number hidden from sight beneath his right lapel.

“You’ll hear from me again” I warn. Storming off, my ferocity melts into a weep, smelling like a wet cat from dripping hair mousse, running mascara, clutching onto one broken shoe like a pathetic lost creature.

I dare not leave this main boulevard because there are too many dwindling streets that become alleyways. No one can ever claim that getting around Lisbon is easy but it is now 4 a.m., hearing a disco beat- I follow the sound.

The bald bouncer in a cream-colored suit says, “Miss, there’s a dress code here”.

Thinking that nothing is more troublesome than a woman with the temper of a wild cat, “My husband is in there. If you let me in, I’ll find him and we’ll leave. If not, I’m making a scene”.

He unties the cord for my passage.

Seated in a booth in a room of thick smoke, two nights with little sleep, a ten-hour train ride from Madrid to Lisbon and a full day of walking up and down hills, nothing can be more enticing than sleep! I close my eyes and feel I am being watched. Three men surround me, with offers, “Cigarette”, “Drink”, and “Dance”?

I don’t know who to hit first.

The bouncer comes by and asks me to leave.

An idea strikes me- I’ll find a policeman and ask him for directions to the police station.

Ironically, I see the same policeman as before, he rattles an apology, but I am in no mood for decorum, “Take me to the station,” I order.

At the small reception area of the police station, my companions are the city drunk who sleeps on the only seat in the room, a wooden bench and a lady of the night clad in a bright purple mini skirt with red platform high heels, chewing bubble gum she talks to the Captain behind the desk while his wickedly cackles in intervals.

I make myself cozy on the floor.

Twenty minutes later, the Swede sheepishly comes in also to use the station as his haven. He gives me a half smile.

“Come on, sit behind me” back to back we get some shut-eye.

A couple of hours later, the police officer offers to take both of us to breakfast.

“No thank you, but can point me in the direction of a shoe store”?

Dogs speaking French while Strangers meet on a Train

Long ago, as a student, I found an intimate connection between myself and the sensibilities of Europe. I also discovered that Paris is astrologically ruled by the sign of Libra governed by the planet Venus paying homage to love and beauty. I fell in love with the city, losing myself in the art captivated by the attractive and astonishing city.

Strolling along the Seine turning into the heart of the Left Bank, into the picturesque narrow lined streets filled with bookstores, galleries and cafes, I am drawn into shop after shop in the early morning where shopkeepers wash down the sidewalkswhile cats sleep in windows. From patisseries, I smelled bread being baked. The perfumeries and flower shops called me in, but because of my budget, I stand in the shadows.

The best part of being in Paris is getting lost; as I walk, I saw huge wooden gates hiding courtyards and further back mansions and find secret hidden places. Parisian beauty tucked in recessed surroundings, like a mysterious woman, the best part of her is hidden from sight.

A boutique window catches my eye with tarot cards decorating the portal. Inside I splurge by buying myself the Marseille Tarot deck and a pair of pumps reminiscent of the 1940’s. They are round toed stack heels in suede taupe with very thin leather brown piping. It sets me back financially for a few days but I rationalize my purchase by concluding that for the next three days I will only consume apples, bread, and water purchased from the grocery store.

On my last morning in the youth hostel over continental breakfast, I sat at a communal table next to Joao, while he runs a graceful finger through his dark curly hair. He is rugged handsome, a square jaw, green eyes and what appears to be a slim body.

When I find out he too is travelling alone- he’s thinking what I’m thinking- we say in unison, “would you like to see the city together?”

We spend a lively day sight seeing, taking photos and visit the Rodin Museum. He offers to buy me lunch; we eat savory crepes from street vendors, our dessert are figs that are in season from the fruit stands.

I excuse myself, “I’ve got to make a call, to my friend’s cousin. Are you available tonight”? Joao nods.

Mildred’s cousin Sophie lives in Paris, with her parents, she’s fluent in English studying at the Sorbonne. She answers the phone telling me she just got back from holiday. We agree to meet at Gare d’Austerlitz the famous train station, I tell her I have a male acquaintance with me, she replies, “I too will bring my boyfriend”.

“But he’s not my boyfriend”, I insist.

“Don’t pay atencion,” she said in her trilling accent.I sense there are hundreds of commuters at the station, so I ask, “How will I know you”, she goes into a self-description that includes “I am tall and elegante. My hair is dark, my eyes are large,” (she rolls her R’s).

I think to myself - oh my God, I am meeting a goddess! I had better change into my best blouse.

Joao and I arrive, slightly early and pace the famous train station. "Are you sure you’ll know her,” he asks after a 15 minute wait.

“Yes” I say with certainty. I can’t believe I’ve been stood up by one of my closest friend’s cousin. The clock strikes seven. I ask Joao since his French is fluent to go to the ticket counter to see if we can have, Sophie paged.

Standing in line behind a nerdy chubby girl with 4” platform tennis shoes, a throwback from 10 years prior, she looks around constantly, has a strong bent nose and thick-rimmed glasses. I’m daydreaming thinking what lay ahead when I hear her speak to the man she is with and the voice is vaguely familiar.

I tap her shoulder, “Sophie, is that you”?

“Ahh, Linda” she expresses with gaiety.

After introductions, we head to Montparnasse and go to a café. Sophie chain-smokes while the boys drink café noir and I ask for a mineral water. Since we’re all students, we chat about what we will do with our lives. Joao says, “I plan on going into Finance, I like handling large sums of money. And you, Linda, what are your plans”? “I’m going to write”. The crowd goes, “Ahh”, they are impressed and Sophie begins her habit of starting a conversation switching subjects then switching to it a half-hour later, as if it were natural. I love this mental game, because I do it too, but I’m the only one that can keep up with these interrupted lines of thought.

When I double kiss Sophie and bid her “bon nuit”, I feel I am saying good night to a family member.

The next day is my last in Paris; I visit the Louvre and spend the entire day there. In the evening, I head to the train station and sit on a bench reaching into my suitcase changing from open sandals into my pumps, then decide they really don’t work with my outfit so I go to the ladies room and change into a skirt.

Inside the compartment, I make myself comfortable for the thirteen-hour train ride from Paris to Madrid, since my pocketbook mandates that I not spend additional money for a couchette-, I’ll sleep sitting up.

Two loud American men wearing tennis shoes come in sit next to me talking to one another.

A woman walks by murmuring, “Mon cheri” to the poodle she holds in her arms.

“Geez that dog is smart” one man says to the other.

“How do you know that”? Says his partner.

“Well, he understood French didn’t he”?

I bury my head in my book, Les Miserables, but can’t help but notice when in walks an elegant older man. I put my book down when I hear the voice come over a loud speaker announcing a delay. The two Americans grab their bags and leave, sparing me from their mindless yakking all night.

The older man sits across from me. I begin to journal and stare out the window, twenty minutes into the journey the conductor opens the door asking for passports.

“I see you’re an American,” says the man.

“Yes, and you most likely are French” I say with formality.

“Yes. What may I ask takes you to Madrid”.

“I’m a student, travelling to understand my roots”.

“You are not French?”

“No, what makes you say that”?

“Because Mademoiselle, you have the style of a French woman,” he says as he views my crossed legs proudly displaying my new shoes.

“No, I’m Hispanic. Also a student. But now that I have told you about me, may I ask your vocation”?

He reaches over to shake my hand “Allow me to introduce myself, I am Claude David Dubois. I am a journaliste (he emphasizes the e), for LaMonde.

Enthusiastic that I am chatting with a writer we talk about non-fiction and politics- and the recent Republican national convention.

He asks my views after I express them he smiles like a professor proud of a student, “good point”.

Our conversation turns to genealogy, culture and language. I decide to take a chance and tell Monsieur Dubois a joke.

“There are three cats- their names are un, deux, and trois. They are standing over ice, are hungry and decide they have to get to the fish below for consumption. They find a saw and saw a block around themselves”. Then in my best French possible I deliver my punch line, “and that is how un, deux, trois quatre cinq”.

He manages a polite smile, but I’m rolling in my seat.

In the morning, I awake to hear the train wheels getting louder as we slow down. Monsieur Dubois in a polite gesture hands me his business card and wishes me a bon voyage. When I stand, as a gentleman he reaches over to where my luggage has been stowed. I carefully file the card in an outside zipper of my suitcase knowing I will never do anything with it but thank him.

Unknown to me at the time this begins a new phase in my life- chance encounters with strangers- genuine conversations that by all accounts in which a mental bond forms like that in friendship, temporarily.

I soar like a kite onto the street, happy and adventurous, going wherever the wind takes me.