monsieur shopping in Paris

I dream about France a lot — usually Paris. Sometimes I get confused about what I’ve dreamed and what I’ve lived it’s present so much in my subconscious. We thought we may move there once a few years ago. It’s a long story that ended with my mom relieved and Brian and me bitterly disappointed. I still think a lot about moving there, we both do. I have terribly unbecoming pangs of envy when I hear about Americans who are living there, especially those writing for a living, and *especially* those writing about food for a living.

So what’s to keep us from doing it? (Aside from all the things that actually are keeping us from doing it, that is?) We don’t have kids, not that that need stop anyone, but it’s certainly less to uproot should we decide to move across an ocean. Neither of our families live in the same city, so we see them only a few times a year as it is. I have a little bit of French — a pitiful amount really when you think of the years I spent studying and conjugating, but I could get us by until we learned more.

Dinner in Provence

So why not seriously just do it? We may yet, but I wonder about the difference in dreaming it and living it. I know the difference in dreaming of travel to a place and the reality of being there.  Alain de Botton explains it beautifully in The Art of Travel — part of it is that we are still who we are, no matter our locale. Our petty worries and little unhappinesses travel right there within us.

My real fear is that the living will destroy the dream of living there. My dreams mix up the best of rural, Provencal France with the best of Parisian life. And obviously in both dreams money is not a concern. In real life, we’d have to pick one or the other and would be worried always about having enough euros. In daydreams I’d eat baguettes and oozy cheese every day, shop at the markets with a little basket and cook fabulous meals with amazing ingredients. In real life we’d likely be in an apartment half the size of our current house where we already get on each other’s nerves trying to work together in the kitchen. We could be pressed for time and have to go the a supermarche instead of the street markets. My French would not be sufficient for more than ‘one of this’ or ‘one of that’ making meal shopping a trying and frustrating experience. I’d get huffy about the subway being crowded, and be dismayed when the weather was grey.

It makes me sad to think of losing the daydream of living in France to the bureaucracy and boring details found in the reality of day to day life in a foreign culture. But not so much so that I’ll stop daydreaming that someday, we will just do it.

Brian in Slovensko (Slovakia)

(I do know it’s no longer one country, I just like saying Czechoslovakia!)

When we discussed whether I should go to Morocco over my work furlough recently Brian encouraged me to do it. He had one condition though — he’d pick the next trip destination. I have to admit,  as chief travel planner I tend to bulldoze the way with my choices about where to go.  What could I say? It’s only fair that Brian make the choice for once. What’s more though, he wanted to make it a surprise until we got to the airport, and do all the planning himself. He actually held out for about a month like that, but couldn’t contain it any more. No surprise, come Thanksgiving we’re going to Czech and Slovakia.

We’ve somehow never made it to Prague — or Czech at all — though we’ve been to the surrounding countries. And Slovakia, well, after all that’s in Brian’s family tree.

Brian at his great-grandmother's grave in Slovakia

To make a long story short, Brian’s grandfather Edmund came over from Czechoslovakia as a child, returning only once to visit his family in 1972. Brian’s grandma still tells stories about that voyage. In 2005 we managed to get in contact with Brian’s grandfather’s childhood best friend’s daughter. Edmund and Ivan had stayed in touch for decades, so his daughter knew exactly who Brian was. We made arrangements to visit Elena in the village of Bytca, Edmund’s original home. Once there we also found Edmund’s mother’s grave and took a picture with Brian just like the one of Edmund in 72. And surprise! When Elena read a letter from Brian’s grandmother that mentioned long-lost cousins, she announced that she knew them, that they lived a mile away, and let’s go!

Edmund Horvath's documents

The next thing we knew we were standing in someone’s front yard while various cousins clutched Brian’s face, repeating “Slovensko!” They sincerely wanted us to spend the night, but when our translator had to leave after only an hour, there was little we could say to one another. And you can only smile and nod for so long.

So we left with much waving and signaling that we would return. I knew a trip back to ‘the old country’ had been on Brian’s list for a while, so his surprise trip destination came as no surprise to me. We have sent a letter to his family, so hopefully our arrival won’t come as a surprise to them this time!

Family in Slovakia

Gents at the market

I spent a half day in Paris while I was there a little over a week ago behind the lens of my camera (even more than usual). The difference this time? I had a professional photographer peering over my shoulder at every shot, critiquing, offering suggestions and asking questions (did you mean to have the half of a flower pot in the picture?). This half-day workshop was a fabulous way to see Paris, one of my long-time favorites, in a new way. It also opened my eyes to some of the tools I’m not using on my camera (I’m an ‘auto’ setting shooter most of the time). I see now how much more I have to learn and how much practice I need, but I did like a few of my shots from the day. Here are some  favorites:

Bicycles leaning on stairs

Marais sidewalk cafe

Lampost in Place du Vosges

Cafe patron, Place D'Aligre

Violinist, Place du Vosges

Fresh produce at Marche Place D'Aligre

A Marrakech street

Alain de Botton says in The Art of Travel, “Few things are as exciting as the idea of travelling somewhere else. But the reality of travel seldom matches our daydreams.”

In the three weeks between deciding to go to Morocco with my friend Tracy and actually boarding the plane my daydreams certainly soared. AFRICA! ran on repeat in my mind. I imagined and read about and looked up photos of the exotic allure of Morocco. I checked out CDs of Moroccan music from the library and read Paul Bowles. After all that buildup it wouldn’t have surprised me to be disappointed upon arrival, a bit like the letdown when you finally see Stonehenge – it is what it is. But from the moment I stepped off the plane under the pounding sun the thrill never left.

Men in Djemaa el Fna

Paul Bowles says “If people and their manner of living were alike everywhere, there would not be much point in moving from one place to another.” I had thought Europe was different from home. Morocco was an entirely new world. It’s an assault on all my senses and a test of my reflexes. The scent of mint and cumin compete with diesel fumes. Scooters bearing families of four buzz by within millimeters of my elbow – I leap out of the way, careful not to trip on the uneven cobblestone or step in front of that horse or donkey whose clip-clopping hooves can’t be heard in the hubbub. The call to prayer tries to rise above the melee of the souk proprietors calling me to their store, the trill of the snake charmers and the little boys asking where I’m going so they can lead me there for a few dirhams. Behind it all is often a throbbing drum. And constantly my eyes try to take everything in. How many places can I look at once? I’m drawn to the intricately ornate doors, the pattern of the archways, the gleaming treasure heaped at every step. Most of all I look up – up to the sun filtering through the reeds that provide blessed shade, and to the thousand and one lanterns that I so want to take home.

Mint tea

I wonder aloud to Tracy how long before the sights and sounds and smells are just part of your life, and not something to stop and take in. I can’t stop exclaiming (to myself and out loud) about every single thing I see, smell, hear and taste. And just when I’m lulled into complacency as I sip a refreshing and sweet mint tea I remember – I’m in AFRICA.

Morocco is not just as advertised – it’s over the top more. The men in striped djellabas walk hand in hand, the veiled women speed by on scooters, the sea of human and animal traffic never stops. We return again and again to the pulsing heart of Marrakech, Djemaa el Fna. By day the square opens up to the sun-washed blue sky stretched tightly over us. As the sun sinks to the echo of the muezzin from a dozen mosques the already vibrant square leaps to frenzied life. Henna tattoo artists and brightly-clad clinking water sellers give way to night. The cacophony that would overwhelm me elsewhere energizes me here. Smoke pours into the gold and rose tinted sky from the sizzling food stalls. Orange juice vendors call to us, groups of musicians scattered here and there compete with one another for paying onlookers, and we push our way through the throngs.

I returned home Friday night and yesterday Brian smiled happily as we sat together in the living room so far from my adventures, and said “It’s like you never left.” But even though my henna tattoo is fading, my blisters are healing and my sunburned skin is back to normal, it’s not like I never left. I had only daydreams of Morocco before I left. Now I need only bury my face in a bouquet of mint or taste a cumin-infused dish and my daydreams meet my memories.

Djemaa el Fna at night