Where have I been? Looking at the time between essays, it’s obvious I’ve been somewhere, perhaps even somewheres, and that I’ve neglected to properly
track our adventures. And there have, indeed, been adventures.
To not write abut
adventures because of the essential act of having them is a terrible waste. They
should be captured in the middle of their unrolling and their unfolding, their actual happening. If you wait too long then everything is at risk of becoming a jumble
of 'where did this happen' and 'which city was that dinner in?'
I now face an imperfect assignment of reconnecting with, and
recapturing, a set of adventures at a delayed moment – when the passions of
travel have long cooled and the flavors of the meals have sifted away – doing
none of them any justice but at least rescuing the group from the pile of the fully forgotten.
Shall we start?
There was Bangkok.
And Singapore.
And Paris.
And Milan.
Four different places that when compared to our well-worn
departure point have something very in common: they are all not “here.” And not
being “here” means we did not go a single day in any city without commending our
ability to see, to view distant buildings crisply and actually catch a glimpse
of the giant ball of flames known commonly as the sun.
And the blue, oh the blue. Over our heads everyday there was
blue.
Per our usual, food was the destination as much as any city
and we ate feverishly and fantastically everywhere we went. Thai food was fresh green
herbs wrapped in rice paper with savory spicy meat dragged through sweet
vinegary baths. Singaporean dishes were hawker stalls selling rich and heady
aromas best enjoyed on simple chairs in simple halls. Paris was wispy croissants
and intense macaroons and snails smocked in a soup of garlic, parsley, and
butter that boiled while you dragged the snails free. The Italians gave us
their tomatoes and their cheeses and their baked Sardinian olives with skins that
fell off as the meat slid free of the pits.
Aside from the edible, there was the visual. Temples begging to be climbed, each with a worthy view at the top but none with a way
down that matched the enchantment of the way up. Rides on riverboats through
grey waters that churned with vegetation and trash, with city running along
both shores. Cathedrals glimpsed on foot during dawn runs. Contemporary statues
with saucy airs and renaissance portraits with splayed out frogs playing the
role of the devil.
But what stood out in a way I couldn’t have predicted was
the fruit. One doesn’t know the wonder of fruit until fruit’s pleasures are
forbidden. I feel for Eve in that garden because my life is in a place where I would eat the apple too.
And I did. I ate them. With big gusty bites and small moans
in between. And berries… if apples are good then berries are unimaginably better.
They are small moist kisses sent by nature to the markets of Europe and laid
out for the taking. So red and sweet and unfathomably perfect.
I finally understand the paintings by the great masters
where fruit tells the story of yearning and decay and all the things man
wrestles with in his heart. My photos are love letters to the morning markets
of Paris where I bought raspberries and grapes in brown paper bags.
I loved what came from those bushel baskets and the cardboard
boxes and to make myself feel better I tell myself I’ll eat that fruit again. And sure,
I’ll see the cities too, but for some reason it’s the fruit that haunts me.
I may be alone in leaving my heart in a Paris fruit market,
or devoting my dreams to Milanese berries, but I didn’t get to choose which memories
should dig most deeply into my heart. And in trying to recapture the sensation
of running through four cities in a month I’ve discovered it’s those memories
that sing the loudest.
