I decided to clear out my browser’s bookmarks this morning, after scrolling down approximately twenty-seven inches (that’s 68.58 centimeters for you fancy types) of bookmarked web pages I had only vague memories of having seen before.
What to do with all those annoying greens that grow on top of root vegetables you actually eat.
Learn Urdu in seven weeks!
Yoga for people who are likely to die trying to do yoga.
How Europe exported the Black Death.
I saved that one.
There were other treasures, too, including the website of a Venice handbag maker.
“Ahh, the places you’ll go,” I thought, as I was transported back to a sunny day years ago.
You have brains in your head, you have feet in your shoes, you can steer yourself any direction you choose…
The adult Things and I had crossed the Grand Canal via the Rialto bridge heading west, just to wander. There among the trinkets and porcelains, glass and souvenirs, a man sat alone in his shop stitching a leather bag by hand.
Moth, meet flame.
After a while the kids gave up and left me to chat with the gentleman, I believe the second or third generation craftsman in the same little shop. I left with a lovely black and brown woven leather bag and matching wallet. I pass by it every day on the shelves near the kitchen and think of Venice and the quiet man in his shop.
There was another time at a craft market in Johannesburg, South Africa, when my friend and I wandered in separate directions. Each of the stall vendors were calling out to come buy their wares in pleas ranging from bored to aggressive.
One tall, very dark-skinned man walked out from his stall holding the baskets he was selling.
“Don’t you want to look at these right now?”
“Not really,” I said, “I’m looking for my friend.
“I can help you find her! What does she look like?” He was smiling and jovial and just the right amount of pushy to be fun.
My friend was a Swedish-Kiwi mix, with extremely pale skin and blonde hair.
“Actually, she looks almost exactly like you!”
“Does she now?”
“Yes!”
“OK then, I’ll keep an eye out for her.”
I left to go search among the stalls. Eventually I found her.
“Come with me,” I said, “there’s someone I need you to meet.”
She looked at me suspiciously, but she always does. She followed me anyway.
When I got to the basket vendor I presented her with a flourish.
“I found her.”
“My God!” he exclaimed, “You’re right! She looks exactly like me!”
“It’s a wonder I can tell you apart, really,” I said.
My friend rolled her eyes and walked away.
“I’ll take the two yellow baskets,” I said, “to remind me of the time I found my friend’s doppelganger.
And they do, every time I pass them sitting in the window in my dining room.
It was in the mid-1980s that I was walking through Madrid with my then-husband, sister- and brother-in-law. Franco had been dead about ten years but his influence was just beginning to really fall away.
I needed cigarettes1 and stopped in at a cafe bar to buy some, telling the others I’d catch up with them. From a back room I saw the flickering of a screen, and heard sniffling along with a chorus of voices speaking along with the audio playing loudly.
“Francamente, mi amor, no me importa un bledo.”
Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.
I rushed back to find a room full of weeping men watching a dubbed version of Gone with the Wind.
The lights came up and I started chatting with the men, sitting in restaurant chairs lined up to watch the film projected against a sheet on the wall. They invited me to that evening’s drag flamenco show.
Oh hell yes.
We returned that night to a transformed bar with flashing party lights, booming speakers and microphones. Everyone but us was in drag. Many of the guys were enormous, and the huge, ruffled dresses and sturdy heels made them even more so. The dancing was fabulous, and one dancer who took me under his wing also served as a bathroom door—the bar’s bathroom didn’t have one, so he’d gallantly stand blocking the entry when I had to use the facilities, his black and white polka-dotted dress preventing anyone from seeing in. Then he’d pivot to let me out.
My sister-in-law and I were the last of our group to leave - the guys left earlier. It was remarkable that we found our way back to the hotel that night, drunk as a rats, bumping into walls and street signs and cracking up the entire way. We were told to shut up by at least three hotel guests along the endless hallway leading to our rooms.
But I didn’t lose the blue Spanish fan my bathroom bailaora handed me as a gift before I left for the night. It’s in my office on a shelf behind my desk.
Somehow you’ll escape all that waiting and staying. You’ll find the bright places where Boom Bands are playing.
I’ve read a lot of books, but Dr Seuss’s Oh, The Places You’ll Go remains one of the deepest and most useful when it comes to life lessons. It’s funny how it returns out of nowhere from time to time, that seemingly simple little book about resilience and life’s ups and downs.
At a certain point you realize there’s a lot more “did go” than “will go,” and it’s hard not to feel a little wistful about that at times.
But oh, the places I’ve went.
Morning Teaistisms
It’s one of those can’t get warm no matter what days and nights. I had pho for lunch, and coffee this morning, and Irish Breakfast tea during the day. I’m still cold.
Digging through the drawer this evening I found some tried and true Celestial Seasonings Cinnamon Apple Spice.
The stuff is bomb proof. This box is years old, and it doesn’t matter. I suppose that means it didn’t start at any great quality, but it suits me just fine tonight, and the slight spiciness of the cinnamon is warming, the slight sweetness of the apple gentle and dessert-like. Well, especially since I added some sugar.
I don’t know where I found this mug, but the lid keeps the tea from getting cold too fast, and it’s got a hole at the top for sipping from. Thanks to the rubber belt around its middle, that means you only burn the bujeezuz out of your lip, and not your hand when drinking.
Ahhhh, those were the days!
My then 95 year-old mother's last trip was to Amsterdam and tour the country-side on a bike. She rode up front in that box they use for deliveries.
Marvelous, Marjie!!!! (love the drag queen as your bathroom door!!). You MUST write more about your adventures....I know there are lots!!!!! Don't you ever stop writing....your stories are fabulous!