Paris Letters (10 page)

With breakfast sloshing in my belly, I wobbled up a street pockmarked with tourist shops leading to the castle. Edinburgh is a beautiful Scottish city, and it’s even more beautiful in spring. I couldn’t believe my timing. Just as the last of the blossoms had tumbled down from the trees in Paris, I arrived in Edinburgh to relive them all.

I immediately fell back into my overachieving, fast-paced tourist ways. I toured the kilt factory. Check! (I’m sorry to say that my MacLeod tartan is a very loud bumblebee yellow. I settled on the “Thistle” pattern, a gray-and-black little number with pink stripes that went well with the rest of my wardrobe, which is Catholic schoolgirl in nature. Not really. But now, all I needed was a Ramones T-shirt and I would look like all the teens around here. What is with Ramones Tshirts?)

I researched my ancestors. Check! I stormed the castle. Ready, set, charge! I rented the audio tour and began climbing up the hill to find out more about this castle. Halfway up, listening to facts ramble in my ear, I was hit with Fact Fatigue. After listening to and reading facts about Paris for six weeks, I’d reached my limit just about the time I got to the castle. I did my best to be interested in the big showcase story of the castle: the crown jewels and how they got there. Basically, like every other set of crown jewels gets anywhere. Smuggling, stealing, presenting, and repeating until someone installs a security system, and even then it’s all a crapshoot.

Speaking of…

ATTN: Asshole Hotel in Edinburgh

To whom it may concern:

When I was looking for a hotel in your fair city of Edinburgh, I had certain requirements. I was looking for something centrally located. Your hotel is certainly in the city center. I was looking for Internet access, which you provide at a pirate’s rate of $20 per day. And I was looking for clean lodgings. I admit, though the place is somewhat run-down and in need of a facelift, it’s clean.

I didn’t think that toilets that work should have been added to the list of amenities I was looking for in a hotel. The first room I had was equipped with a faulty toilet. Fine. These things happen. How would you know it was broken if a guest didn’t report it? And you were kind to give me another room.

But when I flushed in my new room, it didn’t work either. I mean, c’mon.

I’d flush and get a trickle for my efforts. I’d flush again. Trickle again. Then I became like a Pavlovian dog, flushing the toilet again and again, hoping the incessant pushing of the handle would culminate in one successful flush.

At one point, I shut the lid, sat down, opened a magazine, and read two full articles while I flushed repeatedly with the other hand. Eventually, and this is probably on flush thirty, I had success.

Thirty flushes doth not a working toilet make.

And just so you know, I’m talking about “Number 1” here. When faced with a defective toilet? Forget the other option. Scared like a turtle.

AND I HAD THE TRADITIONAL SCOTTISH BREAKFAST.

The clincher came when I checked out of this hotel and mentioned the toilet issue yet again to the receptionist. “Yes,” she said. “We have many complaints about the toilets.” Then. Do. Something. About. It.

“Yes, yes. Sometimes we have to send a porter up to help people with the toilets.” I can just imagine that scene.

No, no. No. Your hotel sucks. Obviously.

Seriously,

Janice MacLeod (of the clan MacLeod)

After two days in Edinburgh, I hopped a train to Glasgow. I was relieved when I arrived at my beautiful hotel. I soon realized that there wasn’t much in the way of touristy things to do in Glasgow. I’m not knocking the city by saying this. I was actually delighted to be let off the hook and not feel required to do a lot of site-seeing. Or is it sight-seeing? Either way, I didn’t do any of it.

Instead, I took time out of my busy tourist schedule to chill and ponder what exactly happened in Paris with Christophe. He’d emailed and Skyped daily since I left. He called and sent texts. Without hand signals and facial clues, it was even more challenging to talk. And I couldn’t always hear him on Skype. I would just talk into cyberspace, not knowing if he could hear me. Some of these calls would end with a crackly je t’aime or the line would go dead mid-sentence and the connection wouldn’t come back.

I sent him many photos of my swanky citizenM hotel room in Glasgow. This was a discount hotel but was so smartly designed that I would choose a room here before many other luxury hotels. citizenM was like The W hotel for people on a budget. The room was clean. The bed was big, and beside it was a port for your phone so you could listen to your own music while charging up. There were no dressers because they know people only stay for a night or two and rarely unpack their suitcase. And I am happy to report that the toilets worked just fine.

I think I watched ten episodes of Friends in English in my hotel room. They LOVE Friends here, and I say do as the locals do. I also went to the drug store (how I love Boots), took care of my postal needs at the post office, and bought new running shoes, as I had worn mine out traipsing around Paris.

As I drifted to sleep in between episodes of Friends, I thought back to Christophe. I was surprised to find that my memories of our time together in Paris didn’t fade. On the contrary, they became more vivid. All the details floated through my head. His lips on my neck, his arm around my waist, the smell of his skin—they were part of my body now. Only geography separated us.

After two days of acting like a local by running errands, I took another swipe at my suitcase before I boarded my next train. My winter clothes had to go. I was heading south from here, and spring was turning into summer. Then came the Corporate Barbie pants. I am sorry to report that they came along with me to Paris and Scotland. What was I thinking? There is more to life than slimming black slacks. I tossed them in the trash bin. I exhaled and smiled. I was sloughing off my old life with every day I was in my new life.

My cousin fetched me on the train platform in Yorkshire Dales. We drove along winding roads through the hilly countryside speckled with grazing sheep. We arrived at her cottage in Kirkby Lonsdale. The cottage was crammed with teacups and books, and the walls were lined with artwork. This artwork caught my eye. They were actually letters with paintings on them. Or paintings with writing on them. They were addressed to Joan, the owner of the house, and were created by the English artist Percy Kelly.

Joan and Percy Kelly were pen pals during the 1980s. She discovered his watercolor paintings in a gallery and sent him a letter, asking if he would show her more of his works. He responded with a painted letter. Joan, delighted by the stunning letter, wrote him back immediately. And he wrote back with another equally beautiful painted letter. So she wrote back and he wrote back. A deep friendship commenced, and ten years of letters from Percy Kelly arrived in her mailbox.

For much of that time, they wrote two or three letters a week, most of which depicted scenes from his memories of living in Cumbria and Pembrokeshire, plus scenes from where he lived in Norfolk. (Incidentally, the county where I am from in Canada is also called Norfolk.) He died penniless, largely because he couldn’t bear to sell most of his paintings. He only held five art shows in his life and not-for-sale works dominated them. He claimed the art was too important to him. The love ran too deep.

As I read the letters, I understood what he meant by love. I started falling in love with the letters too. I felt like I was snooping through someone else’s mail. His paintings were brilliant, but his writing was humdrum.

After his death, Joan compiled and displayed his letters in galleries. Whenever they weren’t on public display, they decorated the walls of her house. I also found anthologies of his work in the bookshelves. Since the collection of letters was so vast (about 1,600), I was able to study how Percy created these pieces. I even felt like Percy was showing me how.

I hadn’t done any painting while I had been on the road. Now, I was in England and yearning to paint again. Along came Percy Kelly to show me how I could do it on my nomadic journey. I didn’t have room in my luggage for canvases, but he showed me a medium that makes sense for a traveler (letters), and in his letters, he described what he used: a small basic watercolor kit and whatever paper he found. Simple. Beautiful. Doable.

Many days during my week in the English countryside, I sat in a chair with Percy’s book. At moments, I felt Percy whispering to me from the pages.

This is how I started this painting, right here at this line. See how it’s the strongest. This was the second line I drew, and the third. Then I fleshed it out from there. Notice how I simplified and faded the drawing here so I could add text. And look at where I let the pen ink mix with the paint here to capture the mood of the scene.

Little whispers from beyond to show me the way.

In an old stone store around the corner from the cottage, I found a small set of watercolors. I packed it in my suitcase, hugged my cousin good-bye, and headed to London. From the train platform, I called Grant, with whom I was staying, to let him know I was on my way.

“I’ll be here,” he said. “Ben will be here too. How amazing is that? All the way from Los Angeles.” Ben. Oh my stars.

Soon after, Ben had sent me a message. We had arranged to meet at Kensal Green platform and walk to Grant’s house together. I had arrived a few minutes before him. He stepped off the platform. We hugged, did a happy dance, and walked slowly to the house. We talked about our time together in Los Angeles and how we championed each other during our escape plans. He was in London to finesse the details about becoming the opening act for a few big tours around Europe. I had left my job and made it to Europe. Life was happening.

Once Grant went to bed and I was alone again with Ben, I asked him what to do about Christophe. He looked at me like I was insane. “Go to him! See where it leads. This is why you did this. You may not have realized it at the time. You thought you were just looking to quit your job, but really, you were looking for happiness. You could find it with Christophe. What could happen? Happiness? Great. Ruin? You can handle that. Do you think you’ll lose everything and become homeless? You already got rid of everything. You’re already homeless.”

I exhaled and sang a few lines from “Me and Bobby McGee”: “Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose.”

He continued. “And nothin’ ain’t worth nothin’ but it’s free.” He looked me. “You think we’ll ever sing up every song we ever knew?”

“With them windshield wipers slappin’ time?” I sang. “It’s possible.”

He sighed heavily, looked up, and sang: “Somewhere near Salinas, Lord, I let her slip away.”

We were silent, allowing this reality to sink in.

He said, “You think it was a past life thing?”

“Who knows? Maybe all our coffee shop visits happened just so we could have this moment right here and now so you could tell me what to do.”

“Nothing more?” he asked.

“Early Show.”

He nodded. “Late Night. Maybe you and I were never meant to fully run our course. Never meant to falter or fade.” He paused. “Or feel like it’s too late.”

“It’s late. I’m going to bed.”

He sang Aerosmith: “I don’t want to close my eyes. I don’t want to fall asleep, I’d still miss you, baby, and I don’t want to miss a thing.” He stopped singing. “Maybe all the girls in my life end up as sad love songs.”

We sat with this thought for a minute. He turned to me, held my hand, and said, “You broke my heart when you left California.”

“Ben.”

“No, no. No. You don’t have to explain.” He shrugged. “C’est la vie.”

Ben’s arrival turned out to be more than just good timing. I had questions that only a friend who knows the long version of my life’s story could answer. I also needed to know where to go in Italy. He was a seasoned traveler and great with advice. He was clear and spoke like a loving, bossy, older brother. I got out my map.

He pointed here and there. “This is what you’re going to do and this is what you’re not going to do.” He laid out the next leg of my travel plan for me: Rome, Florence, Venice, and if I knew what was good for me, Paris.

Dear Áine,

The royal wedding made every girl feel like a princess. The street vendors made sure of that by selling thousands of tiaras to the throngs that arrived in London for the big day. There is nothing like seeing a grandma and a little girl both wear tiaras together, walking down the Mall, hoping to catch a glimpse of the carriage with the new royal couple. The parks were outfitted with massive screens so we could all watch the ceremony along with those watching in living rooms around the world. Sitting there waving Union Jacks as the wedding was about to begin, people started shushing really loudly. A mild murmur ensued. But in that moment when William and Harry stepped out of the car, the crowd erupted in cheers. Followed soon after by more shushing, followed again by loud cheers when Kate stepped out of her car.

The ceremony was, of course, glorious, romantic, and proper, from what I could tell from a crowd one hundred people deep. Once they were officially hitched, in the carriage heading back to Buckingham, the crowds shuffled in that direction too, to catch the kiss.

The real fun came afterward. Pubs were decked out with flags and streamers. Some even served wedding cake. And by the end of the night, even the guys were wearing tiaras.

Ah, the romance of it all.

Next stop, Rome. Oh my dear, how will I manage Rome without you?

Janice

14

There Is No Place Like Rome

As I waited for my baggage at Fiumicino Airport in Rome, the lovely Christophe emailed me a cryptic Google Translated message, introducing the idea of coming back to Paris to stay with him for the summer “to see.” Though this was appealing, it would be the first time I’d lived with a boy. And call me old-fashioned, but I was sort of saving myself for someone, in that way. I figured I should save something. I chewed on this thought for a long time as I stood by the carousel. I stood too long, in fact. Where the hell was my bag?