A handsome Frenchman with blue topaz eyes scans the pages of my American passport at Charles de Gaulle Airport. The border patrol agent flips to the last page and winks at me, as he discovers I suffer from a severe case of wanderlust. The evidence is stamped in ink, a paper trail of my European travels. Ready to fully confess... Yes, I'm in Paris for pure pleasure. In fact, I've traveled to Europe to find Ananda, the sanskrit word for supreme bliss, a Hindu scripture from the Upanishads. Life twists some irony on the inside back cover of my American passport. A travel maxim-skipped over by many-instructs the traveler to seek new worlds.
A quote from Hawaiian-born astronaut, Ellison S. Onizuka: Every generation has the obligation to free men's minds for a look at new worlds, to look out from a higher plateau than the last generation. He certainly reached the highest, as the first Asian-American astronaut in space and a Buddhist seeking enlightenment. Onizuka was killed in the 1986 Space Shuttle Challenger disaster, along with six crew members, including a civilian volunteer, an elementary teacher from New Hampshire. This tragedy sent a ripple effect of mourning across the nation that froze a flashbulb moment in time and where and what we we were doing that fateful day. I certainly will never forget; I was a freshman in high school, outside on campus, watching the Challenger pull us into the future on a bright sunny day in South Florida, then explode into a dark tragedy, described by one of my nun teachers, "Devil horn clouds."
American mythologist, Joseph Campbell studied a vast multitude of ancient scribes, translating a common theme, rigning the bell to "the call to adventure". That aha moment, when destiny summons us on a soul searching journey. When you reach the portal and open the door, you are, in fact following the secret of life. Campbell coined the phrase in three words: Follow your Bliss. The universal instruction revealed in ancient myths from the East; he brought to the West. Unfortunately, the path of exploration and discovery are not paved like the yellow brick road in the wonderful World of Oz; however, Campbell did offer some guidance, "You must give up the life you planned in order to have the life that is waiting for you." And here is where I fall short, time and time again. How can I, a mother of two teenage children and a wife of 21 years, simply abandon the family nest? The sharp edges of midlife once turned love and marriage into a landmark (fictional) divorce case, after one such mother walked away from her family, in a major motion film, Kramer versus Kramer.
In spite of the risks, the call to adventure nudges me, to a place unknown, away from my comfort zone, far far away from home.
Following the literary works of Campbell, a universal wonder was slowly revealed to me like seeds of greatness. The oak tree germinating in my twenties, reading Campbell's works, again in college, sprouting into my thirties, and later, a large acorn fell square on my head in my early forties. So now what? A question, I asked myself on many Monday mornings, as I planned my next chapter. At day break when the house fell silent, I turned into Sisyphus, a mortal condemned by the gods to an eternal punishment, pushing a large boulder up a hill. The large rock rolls down on me, forcing me to repeat the tiring feat, again and again. A lifetime of torture.
Michelle, follow your bliss. The wanderlust whisper sends me to Paris, reaching for a handful of Zeus-like thunderbolts incubated inside a nirvana station, searching for the "Aha Moment", as Campbell aptly phrased, the great awakening. Follow your bliss, the words splashing like graffiti on the walls of the City of Light, where Campbell himself once lived as a graduate college student. Stuck inside the confines at border patrol, I silently beg Monsieur Handsome, Please kindly stamp my American passport and please send me on my blissful path. Instead, he stalls the process, starring deeply into my eyes and falling on my lips. The latter part of the inspection befuddles me. I'm aware of fingerprints, optical, iris scans, but lip prints? Please kindly stamp my American passport, I beg him once more.
Behind a thick glass, he scribbles on a small piece of paper and finally... he stamps my passport. Free at last, he releases my little blue book of freedom through the window chute. I reach for my passport, and then he touches the top of my hand, “Welcome to Paris... young lady.” Ooh la la!
I instantly pardon him for the long delay at the sound of "young lady". His welcome to Paris, shaves at least 10 years off the birthdate on my passport.
At the next window, my travel partner, Linda is stuck in a slow crawl at border patrol. We reunite minutes later in a public restroom, across the French border. "The agent stared at my cleavage the entire time," Linda says, giggling like a teenager in the hallway of a high school campus.
“And... my Frenchie slipped his phone number inside my passport," I say, rolling my eyes. “This was the longest border stamp ever! The Humpty Dumpty border agent last year in Dusseldorf stamped faster, and he had a firing squad of questions, regarding my overnight stay at the Sheraton, inside of that crappy airport."
After landing in Paris, I roam through a dense fog, after throttling past time zones and blinking hazard lights that jet lag will soon near. Finally. I'm free in Paris, although the border inspection feels like Rome, my next destination. Advances there are made just about everywhere. At first entry, at Fiumicino, Termini, on the cobbled streets where daily protests are monitored by those fine Italian policemen, the Carabinieri. It's a shame that law enforcement agency doesn't issue one of those sexy, Polizia Italiana calendar. I, along with herds of women, most certainly would buy it. Mamma Mia!
In Rome, the fountain of youth washes over me after an invitation for a gelato or a limoncello, near Trevi Fountain. Last summer at Piazza Navona, a man in a bright orange jumpsuit, behind the wheel of a truck handed me a long stem, red rose. Ah, you never know where you might get a kiss or a rose, in Roma. Marco, the flirtatious garbage man made me feel like a flower growing toward the sun. This would never happen to me in the blanch suburbs where I live. If flowers are delivered at my doorstep, the occasion is a obligatory happy anniversary or marked as an apology. This time, I'm not home to receive the last, "I'm sorry" batch. I'm in a moveable Paris, on my first leg of my very own discovery tour. Rome awaits me next.
A Roman friend once told me, "If you feel your bloom wilting, go to Rome!" Sage advice. Roman men worship women like goddess sculptures on a marble mantle. I thank their Italian mothers for starting them off on the right knee. One day, I will look back at my Eternal City memories with my golden girls, when my bloom has faded. A former friend, scarred by years of acid rain misery, suggested I should not revel in such "sportive Ruth Orkin moments". Then again, she lost her bloom years ago and the lid on her sanity bell jar; she lost her marbles. For now, I'm holding on to the fontana of youth, just as long as I can.
Walking inside the halls of the exit terminal, I scramble language synapses in my brain, important French phrases swirl in my head: I'm a vegetarian. I'm married. Buzz off! And if all else fails: Fuck Off, a line added to any International phrase book. After turning 40, those two letter words launch without warning.
Linda and I retrieve our luggage, rolling our over-packed suitcases, following the signs to ground transportation. Outside the airport, a tall women in a red beret stands in the middle of the street, directing traffic. She points to a grey taxi three cars down, parked at an angle in the cab line. A man with cocoa skin and fogged Mr. Magoo thick glasses, exits the cab and lazily leans against the side of his taxi. Suddenly, I feel woozy, gazing at the bright purple and yellow zig zag lines etched on his shirt. The jazzy print, a fashion statement the Prince of Bel Air flaunted back in the early 90's. This relic preserved in a dusty closet, along with the cab driver's faded grey pants; the polyester on his trousers showed the miles. And the driver smelled like he had just cut onions.
I gulp water from a plastic bottle, squeezing the neck, furious for not booking the transportation service, the hotel had recommended. It's Paris; hiring a cab should be easier than finding a table at a busy sidewalk cafe. Wait, there might be an out to this situation, I think to myself, as I peek inside his cab. In Europe, travelers are advised not to hire a taxi without a meter. There are far too many predators who trap tourists at places, like the airport, then ransom their freedom with an expensive cab ride. Without a meter, a driver can inflate the price three to five times higher than a metered fare, which locks in the price at your final destination. I would soon learn, if a driver tries to raise a fare, you can tell him (or her) to take it or leave it. A fare is better than no fare, right?
Upon inspection, I observe a working meter inside the taxi. Crap!
A reluctant crawl into the backseat, I join Linda inside the car. I slid down the seat, curving my spine, bracing myself for a long ride from the airport to our hotel, in the third arrondissement of Paris. It is the end of July, and a heat wave has gripped Europe. Onions (he aptly earned the nickname) opened the windows, as we approach an underground tunnel. Stuck in bumper to bumper traffic and a fog of exhaust fumes, politely, I ask him to turn on the air conditioning, so we could roll up the windows. He scrambles, pushing a few buttons on the dashboard, but no air blows out of the vents. Asking him again to turn on the AC, he repeats the charade. The air is not working or is he trying to conserve gas, faking some sort of glitch on the dashboard. Exhausted, I choose not to battle with him. Instead, I close my eyes, and drift away to a Parisian daydream, sipping a bubbly at La Closure des Lilas, one of Hemingway's favorite restaurants that has a spectacular view of Luxembourg Gardens.
Upon entering Le Marias, Onions pretends he is lost, encircling a concrete median under construction, draped with yellow caution tape.
I open my eyes and again feel woozy, this time on a tourist roller coaster ride: Hey, let's get lost and run up the meter! The chic Parisian scene of people dining at sidewalk cafes play outside the cab window, as we encircle the median. The raw onions stench of our driver's body odor swirls inside the taxi, at every turn. Abruptly, my tongue rolls in broken French, and then, I thrash a universal command: STOP! He hits the brakes, and we roll right in front of our hotel, Villa Marazin. Linda and I exit the car like a Chinese fire drill, only we do not jump back inside the cab. Waiting for him to open the trunk, he writes the cab fare on a piece of paper (he didn't speak a lick of English), which he includes a six additional Euros for our luggage.
Digging in my purse, I pull out a wad of banknotes, and slap the cost of the ride-66 Euros-in the left palm of his hand. Lifting my own heavy suitcase out of the taxi, I dart as fast as I can toward the hotel door. A faint trace of his putrid scent follows me like an angry skunk. As I open the lobby door, I see the craters on his face reflecting in the glass panel. Ugh, he followed me to protest his tip, three Euros. I plant two feet inside the lobby and reach home plate. Safe! He can no longer chase me, nor harass me, the American tourist. Fortunately, cab drivers (and beggars) are not allowed to stalk tourists inside the hotel. As the door closes, I stretch a sinister, victory smile shielded behind the glass door and mouth, “Mal tour! Bad ride! Au Revoir Onions!"
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