France
It was happening to me all over again…
A reawakening of my soul, my bones, my body.
I can remember feeling this same way many years ago, when I first came, and now here I was again.
Older, stronger, wiser, married.
The streets smelled the same-
The people with strong perfume mixed with cigarette smoke.
A vigor, with a slowness of life, no clocks required.
An oldness-
A history that wasn’t ours to live.
It is good to be a visitor, to not know everything about the place and its people.
It is good to be reminded of seeing something new for the very first time.
Again.
Italia
Ancient, colorful buildings along the sea.
Narrow streets, carnivals at every port.
Bookstores, library visits for the Wi-Fi.
Bon journo! Buon Natale!
The wind and the waves.
Ruins at every corner.
Thin pizza, stone statues, pieces of the rainbow.
Dark mornings, crescent moons, Aperol spritzes.
Perfumeries, drinking wine by the bottle.
Cobblestone streets, the Coliseum on Christmas.
Silence in St. Peter’s, the Eternal City.
Country roads take me home, or back to Rome.
Rain in Spain
We passed through the streets, with no conclusion.
We came upon a quaint wine bar, with green vines growing down from the ceiling.
It seemed like the perfect place to be,
on a rainy day in Spain.
We ordered two glasses of the local red, an omelet, with bread and olive oil on the side.
The wine tingled our bodies, the bread and oil soaking it up.
We lingered, enjoying every last sip and bite.
The moment hanging on by a thread, to every single drop of rain.
We left, pulling up our hoods, my scarf raised above my head.
As the rain came down, we began to run, from this street to that.
Retracing our steps, trying to remember the way from which we came.
We came to the bridge, over the gardens and ruins, and we could see the bus in the distance.
Our dry ride back to the boat.
On the bus, the windows steamed up, fogged over,
And with our cold fingers, we left on the glass, an
“I Love You…”
Casablanca
A view from the top, looking down on the city; beeps, honks, whistles, never following the street signs or traffic lights.
Learning from the women on the rooftops of when to put out your clothes to dry and when to bring them in.
Waiting for the pharmacy across the street to reopen after hours of prayer, watching for the green light to blink on again.
Remembering to weigh and package the bananas first before checkout.
Always start by saying, “Ca va?”
Taking in the sunset behind the mosque, watching the waves rush in from the Atlantic, the freighters waiting patiently like soldiers out in the tide.
Following the winding streets of the Medina, not knowing what’s behind the next corner.
Spices, cats, old women peddling away.
Incense burning, small cups of espresso. A game of soccer in the street.
A happy New Years, without the toast, but the dawning of the next adventure.
A train ticket heading South.
Marrakech Mornings
I loved waking up in Marrakech.
The glass door always slid open to let in the morning breeze, the sound of the birds chirping.
I loved lying there with you in bed, not rushing to wake up, not anticipating the leave.
Just lying with my hand over your chest, letting the world slowly wake us up.
I loved the snow spotted mountains, the mosques popping up like chess pieces across the city skyline. The tinkering of the construction workers, the circling of the cranes, the beeping of the never ending round abouts. The hassling of the vendors at the Souk, getting lost down the maze of alleys, the soft sound of rain in the mornings, to only dry up in the Moroccan sun.
I loved the feeling of knowing that this was exactly what my soul needed in order to
Be.
London
If it wasn’t for Andrew, the Asian man we met in the London Underground at 12:10 in the morning, we would have never made it to the hotel.
It’s sometimes better to have a third opinion when traveling, than compared to the two we were used to having; his and mine.
It’s more reaffirming to have a third. And a smart one at that.
Andrew was on his way back from a debate competition in Bulgaria and was just as lost as we were trying to find Terminal 4 in Heathrow Airport, where no trains were running to at that time in the night.
It was a near disaster.
We flew into Gatwick airport, having to then hop on a bus that would connect us to Heathrow Airport, an hour away, for our departing flight the next day. A 12-hour layover at two different airports. I had never heard of such a thing.
4 trains, 2 in the Underground, and 2 bus rides later, we arrived at the Holiday Inn Express, where we were able to sleep off our stress just long enough to then wake up and try to figure out how to get back to Terminal 3.
This time, without Andrew.
At least we had the light of day.
Wow Hunnie it’s like I relived the trip all over again. You did such a great job writing these pieces. Love you