Thoughts Upon Leaving

I’ve crossed the border between Italy and France enough times in the last year and a half to notice a few things. It’s just a tunnel, but three distinct changes occur when you go from the Italian side to the French side. The wine gets better. The drivers get worse. And the toilet seats disappear. I don’t understand what the French have against toilet seats.

A woman asked me for money as I lugged my suitcase down the sidewalk in Nice. She spoke three languages, three that I know of at least, fluently. I didn’t ask her where she was from but I think she was French. I gave her a bit and we chatted for a while. She had lived near Seattle when she was young to study. She seemed neither mentally ill nor like she had a drug problem, just down on her luck. She told me Americans hardly ever stop to give someone money. I wish I had talked with her longer. I wish I had given her more.

I saw a man wearing actual wooden shoes as he got off an airplane. They were both loud and uncomfortable looking.

I love looking at foreign candy. I came across this great display and wanted to buy it all. FLEXi-FiZZ, Scoubidou, Bubblizz (original), Fili-dooo XL, Tongue P!k. I settled for black licorice Polka Mix but I kind of regret my choice. I could really go for a FLEXi-FiZZ right about now.

A piece of advice. Don’t put on perfume at the duty free shop at the airport no matter how French you are feeling at the moment. You’ll regret it.

I have ten pounds of really good Parmesan cheese in my carry on bag. That has its own, special kind of perfume and it makes me laugh whenever I catch a whiff of it.

I’ve been exploring an idea in the corners of my mind lately – that maybe my vulnerability is actually my strength. Maybe that is the reason I keep writing when there is no other practical reason for doing so. I’m a bit knotted up over the vulnerability of this particular story though so please be gentle with me. I spent last night in an airport hotel. A young man who works in the restaurant remembered me from last time I stayed. He asked me to have a drink with him and I should have said no but he was sweet and sincere and technically young enough to be my son so I said yes. I laughed at his cheesy compliments and told him that no, he could not kiss me or take me dancing. What I’m striving for in this forum is honesty, so I will say this: I went back to my room with my integrity fully intact, and still in love with my darling husband, of course, but with the lingering feeling that just maybe, sometimes, I sell myself a bit short. In our culture, in the place I live, and in most places really, youth and slenderness are powerful currency. But it could be that I have focused on that so hard and for so long that I’ve lost touch with what else I might have to offer. Sometimes gifts come from unexpected places.

This has been a solo trip. My first trip alone since I came to Italy and bought the house over three years ago. It allowed for different kinds of interactions and insights. Being alone made me both a little more nervous and a little more approachable I think. I’d been afraid it might feel awkward and lonely but I had eight nights in my little town and I only ate dinner alone once, the very first night. After that I was included and invited and fed and embraced. I know it would be different if I was there longer but being lonely was not one of the things I needed to deal with. Packing up and leaving alone, on the other hand, felt really poignant. My neighbor, who is also a server at two of the cafes in town, saw me from her window when I was walking to the car with my bags and called down to me. She ran out to hug me and say goodbye even though I only ever stumble through the simplest of conversations with her. She hugged me like she meant it and I cried. I continued to cry as I drove away, and off and on for the next hour. It makes me wonder, where is home?