The Louvre, The Tower, and the Passage of Time

Dear Sofie,

It is almost 2am in the morning of the day we return home. You and Eric are asleep and I am hearing the noises of Paris closing down for the night after hours of revelry. The music in the nearby cafes have stopped and I hear the voices of the staff as they move furniture in to the building. I believe our neighbours, for the most part, are settling in for the night. I am alone in the living room of our flat and I feel tired, happy, melancholy and relieved. I am tired because I believe that Paris, with its stairs and cobblestones and cobblestones with stairs, is actually trying to kill me. I am happy because we are safe and we have spent some amazing time together as a trio. I am relieved because Eric and I have not accidentally killed you with peanuts.

That was our biggest stress to be sure. We have been researching on the web for months for advice and direction about how to handle a peanut allergy in Paris and the best we could really come up with was a general tone of “Good luck. But you’re screwed!”. In the end, it wasn’t so bad. Eric’s firm warning about the need for diligence supported by my hairy eyeball probably helped a bit, but it was your leadership about it that made it happen. It was easier to feed you than I thought it would be. And you’re not dead. A total win-win!

Yesterday we went to the Louvre. You were a little gobsmacked by the size of the building for sure. And you loved the inverted pyramid in the reception area. I can’t wait until you see the move The Da Vinci Code.

We hoofed our way to the Mona Lisa immediately upon entry, passing many annoyed visitors who wondered if we were insane. As we zoomed by the statue of Nike of Samothrace on the top of a stair case I frantically waved my arms towards yelling out something like “That’sWIngedVictoryandsheistheinspriationfortheNikeswooshonrunningshoesbutmoreonthatlaterohlookpaintingsbyTitian!” God love your blessed little butt as you kept up the pace.

We reached the room with the Mona Lisa and the crowds still hadn’t become too large so you were able to find a spot for your photo. I am not a fan of this painting. I think what really makes it famous today is that it is famous. I believe it is a masterpiece, but no more that countless other masterpieces that deserve more air time. But you were thrilled. So much so that I kind of liked old Mona a little more than  I used to. She is still over exposed in pop culture, but she makes you happy. So that makes her okay in my book.

We spent the next three hours or so exploring Italian masters, ancient Greek and Roman sculpture and ancient Egyptian artifacts. We talked of Caravaggio and his penchant for controversy and why picturing the Virgin Mary as a fat dead corpse was an issue for the Church at the time, we discussed the poignancy of Eros and Psyche as a symbol of the heart and brain being a union that produces harmony, and how viewing a mummy may be educational, but it is also important to remember that this was a human being who loved and was loved just like us. You recognised your old friend David and his foe Goliath and you made connections between paintings, common elements, all on your own. We agreed that you were already well versed in the fundamentals of art.

After the Louvre we walked over to Cathedral Notre Dame. We walked over because Eric insisted that it was in the neighbourhood. It was not. Unless a neighbourhood is defined by an hour walk at a brisk pace. After our Death March we found ourselves at the great cathedral and you were clearly awestruck. As we waited in line I was considering a lecture on flying buttresses and the development of the arch but decided against it. When I was beginning my favourite discussion about earth and sky and balance back at the Louvre your eyes glazed over and drifted away to another painting whereupon you pointed and said “Oh look! A pooch!”. Clearly my skills as an educator were only required in a limited capacity.

You were quiet in the church. So much so that we thought you were uncomfortable or bored. But you assured us that you were just soaking it all in. When Eric indicated he was going up to light a candle for his grandmother you asked why. He explained that doing this was important to her so it was important to him. You reached into your purse and took out some coins “I want to help pay the two Euros for the candle. I want to be a good person. Besides, l like grandmothers.”

After Notre Dame we took the metro to Angelina’s, a restaurant in the style of the 17^th century salons that specializes in chocolate. And it is completely nut free. We ate Madeleines and drank warm drinking chocolate and I thought my nose bleed all over the table cloth. It was awesome. You were thrilled at the possibilities but I believe you were a little overwhelmed at the rich taste of these items.

Watching you at the table, Eric and I knew you were enjoying your trip. But we also knew you were almost completely done. I sure a heck knew I was completely done. We postponed our visit to the Eiffel Tower and decided to go home and have an early night. When you enthusiastically agreed we knew we had made the right decision.

That night you made us a dinner of butter shrimp and pasta with cherry tomatos which we ate with gusto. Then we called you folks and talked for a while.

The three of us lounging on that couch in that small flat was a moment I will never forget. When you are with the ones you love, it is easy to make any strange apartment a home.

Your last full day in Paris was a bit more easygoing. We spent some time in our neighbourhood of Montmartre to do some shopping and to have a casual lunch. Then we headed over to the Eiffel Tower while the weather held out for us.

To say that you were excited to finally see the Eiffel Tower, the one thing you spoke most of regarding Paris, is a gross understatement. I have never seen anyone hop up and down in a line like you did. And I accompanied Eric when he went to Dollywood!

We contacted your folks and we had a brief chat while waiting. It passed the time and it managed to focus you. I could tell that you were so happy to share this event with your parents. Then we showed you Duran Duran’s music video of A View To A Kill which features the Eiffel Tower. You were not impressed. Although you did like Grace Jones jumping off the tower and parachuting away.

By the time we got to the front of the line the summit of the tower was closed so we had to settle for the elevator ride up halfway. We enjoyed a beautiful view of the city and simply wandered in a giant circle enjoying ourselves on the tower. By the time we made our way down the stairs the skies had opened up and the rains poured forth. We took a cab to where we wanted to have dinner, but realised we had no cash. Thanks for the loan there, Sofie. We appreciate your help, but we cannot help but feel that this may have been a moment of parental failure.

We had fancy pizza in a fancy restaurant and you tried a whole bunch of different things because you are brave. You protested, constantly, the fact that you had to use a knife and fork for your pizza because you are twelve. Nevertheless you rallied and ate most of your food. Eric and I were really impressed. Then we spent the remainder of the night in the Latin Quarter walking through old, narrow streets and by revelers enjoying various foods, piano bars and jazz clubs. We checked around for last minute souvenirs and then we went home to pack.

There was so much more we wanted to show you, Sofie. There was Wall of Love, the Opera House and a true fromagerie. We wanted you to see remains of a Roman arena that dated back to the time when Paris was still called Lutetia. We would have liked to have shown you the Catacombs and Pere Lachaisse  and the biggest and oldest English bookstore in Paris. We wanted to show you the site of the Bastille and explain to you its relevance. We wanted you to spend more time on patios watching Parisiens live and love in their city of lights.

Ah time. Sofie, you seem to have so much of it now, but it is fleeting. One minute you are watching a new born child focus on a dining room light because its bright and shiny, the next moment you are watching this same child teeter on the edge of adulthood as she determines how we are going to travel through the metro today.

We have tried to teach you to read the universal signs found in all subway maps. We have also tried to help you learn how to use a money belt, stay aware and secure but not afraid, to read the language of paintings, to appreciate the value in old things, and to eat fancy pizza in a fancy restaurant. I hope we weren’t too much…too bothersome…too…teachy.

But, Sofie, you should know this. We learned from you too. You taught us to trust you when it came to your knowledge about your health and safety. You taught us that you are patient and will let us know when you are becoming too tired. You also taught us that just because you look away and point at things, it doesn’t always mean you aren’t listening. Finally, you taught us that the girl you have been is slowing stepping back to let the young woman emerge.

I find this last lesson a hard one. I am not ready to fully release the little girl in you. I know you aren’t ready yet either so all is okay, for now. But the time is coming. I know this. And, Sofie, I am not ready. I never will be. But I promise you this at least: I will welcome the young woman as fully and as wholly as I welcomed the new born. With all of my heart.

In the meantime, as we return home to Canada I will look forward to a few more years of counting pigeons and welcoming new things with the gentle soul of innocence.

Art, Arch and the Seine

Dear Sofie,

Your first breakfast in Paris consisted of two croissants and a variety of macaroons. I am pretty sure this is considered a parenting fail, but whatever. We managed to find a nearby bakery that promised a peanut free environment. I was dubious, but you seemed comfortable with the odds, and I was told to trust you, so off you went. I believe your biggest thrill was paying in coins with the machine in front of the cashier. You carefully inserted your payment and squealed a tiny bit when the change came pouring out.

“Cool!”

You were on your second macaroon before we were ten metres away. I asked, in as casual a voice as I could muster, how long it usually took you to react when dealing with peanuts.

“Almost immediately,” you shrugged. Then you walked towards the entrance to the metro. I decided not to insist on bringing out the epi pen.

Your first art stop was L’Orangerie to visit the famous Monet installation. The building itself was designed to protect an orange grove, but the trees are long gone now and in its place is a gift to a World War I weary city in need of a place of quiet reflection. Monet was inspired by his garden and we worked diligently on this piece as his eyes continued to fail him. We can see the approaching darkness in the work. You would later recall how the work was unfinished in places, the canvass laid bare for all to see.

We journeyed next to the Museé D’Orsay and you were immediately enthralled by the massive space and beautiful architecture of the place. We explained at how it used to be a train station and you said you could recognise it as such. But you were totally taken aback at the amount of work and effort was put into “just a train station”. We explained about the first impressions a city wants to make on visitors; about point of pride and a demonstration of grandeur. But this was a foreign concept to you. You were baffled that so much art and love could be found in a public building.

We walked through the forest of sculptures and I introduced you to David and Goliath and Artemis and Acteon and wise old blind Oedipus and his daughter Elektra. We looked at paintings with rich, deep tones and imagery born of old stories. You compared the brush strokes of Van Gogh with those of Monet that you saw earlier in the day.

But throughout the visit you kept your eye on the large clock that dominated the building. You were clearly enamoured with it. You spoke of its beauty and its immensity and wondered how one would wind it.

After a lunch in which you were introduced to escargots still in the shell and the origin of the snotty French waiter concept, we went to the Arc du Triumph. After climbing the stairs to the top I knew I had done some damage almost immediately. I am too old and too fat for this kind of experience! We must have been up there for about an hour looking around at the city. As we looked down at the Champs Elysees we spoke about Hitler and du Gaul and the wealthy and visual connection between this site and the Louvre and the financial district .

And we watched the frenetic traffic below as the cars encircled us and miraculously nobody was killed.

On our way home you helped us find groceries for dinner and worked the machine that pressed fresh oranges for us for juice in the morning.  We arrived back in the flat and I cooked you a creamy salmon dish and we ate around that tiny counter perched upon those impossibly high chairs. The three of us, tired from our journey, ate and spoke quietly.

I suppose I should tell you this secret now, Sofie. Eric and I have been told we are quite generous to bring you to this wonderful city. But the truth of it all is this: it is actually quite selfish of us. The universe unfolded in such a way that we were not able to have our own children. This is a painful and sad story that can be told another day in the far future. But suffice to say we were disappointed. Luckily for us, your parent had you and your sister. And twelve years later  we cannot imagine our lives without you two. It’s like you been with us forever. This trip, was our opportunity to show you the world, not only as a traveler, but as we see it as travelers. The generous ones were not us, my dear. It was your parents for allowing us the honour and opportunity to take you.

Watching you today and seeing your eyes light up was pure gold for us.

We ended the day with an evening cruise on the Seine where you saw many of the highlights of the city. We met some friends of Eric and they joined us. I was impressed with how easy going you were. You engaged in conversation willingly and made a real effort to make them feel welcome in our little group. This is further proof that you are no longer a child.

We came home really late after a post-tour coffee with our friends and the longest flight of stairs in metro history. Also, we had to stop for another drink so you could use the bathroom. At 1pm we insisted you call home and you told your parents everything that had happened since.

I felt bad for your folks being so far away from you. But I also felt grateful to them for letting us spirit you away on this adventure. As you went to bed to sleep the sleep of the innocent I felt happy. But I also felt a little sad because the day we would return you to the arms of your parents was approaching fast.

The Return to Paris, The Safe Space, and The New Traveler

Dear Sofie,

A few years ago you were asked to express a situation that would reduce your anxiety; a scenario that would bring you a sense of safety. You answered: “Being in Paris with my uncles.” As we were not present with you at this moment, and had never discussed travelling, France or Paris with you in any real sense, we, along with your parents, thought that this was both lovely and interesting. But it was also the beginning of this journey.

Paris is a beautiful city, with its halls of art and its winding streets full of bustling cars and old boxes nailed to a wall following the shore of the Seine full of used books. It is gracious in its old age, even as it strained under the pressure of volatile politics and urban decay. It has unidentifiable smells that assault your senses that are mingled with cigarette smoke and wafts of baking brioche. Paris is harsh as well as genteel; aggressive while maintaining a suave regard for it inhabitants. Paris is a passionate city that presents itself to you with the understanding that you must feel gratitude for her gifts.

And you do.

This is not our first trip to Paris. We first came here for a short trip in 2006 for our honeymoon. I have returned once with students for a week-long stay and Eric has led groups here twice with three weeks to discover the city. While I am aware of the many things to see and experience here, Eric is the expert when it comes to directions and navigating the labyrinthine tunnels of the Metropolitaine.  Oh, we have both seen Paris and experienced her challenges and gifts, but we have never travelled with a young person before. This was a whole new game for your uncles, my dear Sofie. Our comfort with travelling was compromised. Our easy way of being travelling companions, long established and perfected, has been compromised. I admit, it is both exciting and daunting.

We are staying in Montmartre. Our immediate neighbourhood, nestled within the shadow of Cathedrale Sacre Coeur, is relatively quiet and hilly. Our flat is too flights up and very small. But we have two distinct rooms and a kitchen with a stove and a fridge. We are blessed even though our bathroom is right off the kitchen and seems to amplify any natural noises that occur when participating in typical bathroom activities.

“It’s a little embarrassing,” you state quietly, “But we’re all friends here, I guess.”

Our first day we force you to stay awake so that you can readjust to the new time zone. You don’t complain, but we watch you wilt as the day progresses. We are not far behind you. I am ready to fall over. We take you to Sacre Coeur and its surrounding streets lined with artists and souvenir shops. We hint at the artists and their paints ready to take our portrait together, but you are uninterested. Instead you count pigeons, poke around shops, and take delight in the funicular and the ancient carousel. We offer you a ride and you shyly refuse. Eric and I look at each other. We will need to adapt our expectations as you negotiate childhood delight and a growing sense of self. It makes me sad to see you refuse abandon, but I understand the drive to move toward what you think adulthood should look and feel like.

We find a store with macaroons and we ask if it is safe for you to have them with your peanut allergy. No. We ask another place to the same question with the same answer. And then another. And another. As you remain philosophical, I get annoyed and speak against an uncaring world while Eric determines it to be his mission to find you a macaroon that won’t kill you. We are your defenders! And I believe that you are amused by us even as you skip along the cobblestone streets and count pigeons.

The Performance The Cistern and The Patriarchy

I love bringing students to Epidauros.

Sacred to Asclepius, this site was an ancient spa that people went to in order to receive physical and spiritual healing.  It is also home to the most preserved ancient Greek theatre in existence today. Theatre was not entertainment to the Greeks. It was a chance to learn from the lessons of great men who fell great heights after demonstrating hubris. Oedipus teaches us the folly of attempting to avoid one’s fate, Orestes helps us understand the benefits of moving away from kinship wars and towards the courts of law, and Agamemnon reminds us that it is never to lie to your wife saying that you are marrying your older daughter to the hero Achilles only to sacrifice her to the gods by dashing her skull against the cliffs in order to achieve favourable winds to Troy and then staying away for ten years to fight another man’s war only to bring back a trollop half your wife’s age and ask her to clean up a room for the new guest.

You know. The simple things.

I had some of my students perform a scene from Oedipus Rex. Afterwards I told them to look around and realise that almost three thousand years ago other actors said those same lines with the theatre full of people listening with great interest. I wanted them to hear the applause they received as echoes of what once occurred in this place. Epidauros is a theatre that still produces, still embraces the audience, still performs.

Afterwards we went to Agamemnon’s city of Mycenae. Runs clinging to a high hill overlooking a lush valley, it is a harsh approach and a brutal walkabout in the afternoon heat. The refreshing lunch enjoyed only a half hour ago is long gone. The ancient cistern, a cave with ancient steps hewn into the rock from which water was plentiful, used to be a scary proposition to my students. They were tentative and unsure entering into the thick darkness. But not this group of girls. By the time I arrived to patiently escort them down the steps, they were already returning from the earth into the light.

“Cool,” a couple of them said. Then they moved on as I stood there sweating and panting. George, our guide, shrugs his shoulders and mutters something about changing times.

A few days later we went to the sacred space of Delphi. Home of the oracle of Apollo, this place was an opportunity to commune with the gods themselves as you attempted to ascertain your future. Sprawled along the steep side of Mount Parnassus, this holy place is becoming more and more closed off as the years progress. My first time here we had access to the tholos temple across the highway, the purifying baths and the stadium perched at the top. Now all of these are closed off. They are in need of repair and protection, but there is no money to do it. The ancient Greek legacy suffers along with the modern Greeks as the financial situation continues to be dire.

We have lunch that day in the lovely Arachova, one of my favourite places to visit. Then we head off to the little village of Delphi where we will spend a few nights before our stay in Mykonos.

Jackie Onassis made Mykonos famous and the LGBT community made it fabulous during the 70s and 80s. This trend has receded somewhat, but it is still a party place that is expensive, glossy and showing no signs of austerity.

My room was a tiny house in the resort in which we stayed. I had no view but I had privacy. I also had noise. If the shuttle bus didn’t distract me, the many cats fighting over my doorstep did the trick.

Lydia, my fellow teacher, and I get along really well. We laugh a lot and we seem to have the same general outlook on travel and kids. We immediately fell into a comfortable ease that I think created a sense of security and balance for our kids.  We have an easy repartee that allows us to give each other the space we need while making sure we spend quality time together. We talk of many things, including our lives and our family.

I found myself on this island still famous for its gay connections having lunch with Lydia and two of our students. It was pleasant company and the view was beautiful.  We all laughed as I made the realization that never had I been in a place so famous for being gay while feeling so very straight. It was like I was in an alternate universe.

The days we spent in Mykonos were filled with classes, work and marking, but it was also a nice respite from the bustle of the first two weeks of travel. We returned to Athens for one night and said good bye to Greece by seeing a cultural show where all the dancing happened with the men while the women seem to just shuffle in the background holding hankies. 

At one point the restaurant owner wanted to know what I wanted to drink. I said Fanta Orange and watched the usual reaction of confusion and disdain that I wasn’t ordering alcohol. He then gestured to the girls. “Soda?”  I nodded and gave a similar gesture so that he may go ask them what soda they wanted.  After a short while the man returned with a Pepsi and placed it in front of Lydia.

At first she looked bewildered and then she looked at me. “Did you just order pop for all of us?” I looked down the table as soda was being placed in front of each of the girls.

“Um..I think I did.”

The Patriarchy is still alive and well in 2016.

The Black Sail The Austerity Measures and The Hope for Inspiration

Cape Sounion is the home of the beautiful ruins of the temple of Poseidon. Two rows of columns rise over the sea from atop a cliff overlooking a beach.

When Theseus sets sail for the palace of Minos to battle the Minotaur, it is on a ship with a black sail. His father, Aegeus, tells his son to change the sail to white if he returns. This way, as Aegeus waits for the ship to crest the horizon he will immediately know his son’s fate. Black means he was vanquished, white promises a joyous reunion. Theseus is successful in his quest but forgets to change the sail. Aegeus, seeing the black fluttering in the wind is despondent and immediately jumps into the sea. From this moment on, it is called the Aegean Sea. Named for a bereaved father deceived by carelessness.

Legend has it is from this temple that Aegeus spends his last moments.

The wind is unrelenting in its salt and  vehemence as it buffets against us while we walk around the temple. The voice of our guide is often taken away by the gusts as she relates the key architectural features of the building. The girls follow her obediently as she speaks, but I can tell that their attention is more on the beach than the ruins.

While not surprised, I cannot help but be a little disappointed. I always assume that the kids that come on these trips are as enthusiastic as I am about these things. You would think I would learn by now.

My girls are sweet and kind. They are generous of spirit and love to shop. They giggle and they cluster in groups. They are reluctant to try new things, but are resolved to it when I won’t let them off the hook. As a result some of them like tzatziki, others yogourt with  honey.  All of them like Fanta Orange and not many seem to groove on dolmades.

I walked around the ruins on my own as the girls trundled on their way back to the bus. We would be seeing the Parthenon in a few days, with its bustle and frenetic energy and press of bodies in the heat. But Poseidon’s temple at Sounion is off the beaten path. Our group is essentially alone and I am left to reflect and wander by myself.

I have written before about how I feel that the ancients speak through the stones they leave behind. These sacred spaces, for me, is like a message in a bottle. Often unclear in its total meaning, but the narrative is textured and intimate. The vocabulary is in the columns and the base, the intent is in the geography, the syntax lost along with the pediments. Partial sentences consisting of marble and time, from a people lost long ago.

As the girls frolicked in the waters my colleague, Lydia, and I speak to our guide for the day. Roula is stepping in for George today. She was lovely. Our conversations take a turn towards the modern financial crisis Greece is experiencing. Roula has lost her home and her pension as she reaches an age when she needs both the most.  Her career is grudgingly extended as her retirement plans disappear in with the winds of austerity measures.

“They have stolen our lives away!” she says with glistening eyes.” Our young people cannot work and I cannot stop.”

My partner in this journey is Lydia. She is teaching photography and she has a strong enough personality to put up with me. Two strong willed creative types will either mean a life-long friendship or a battle of wills. Early indications seem to indicate the former. She makes me laugh.

We see the Acropolis a few days later. As I suspected it was crammed full of tourists who have absolutely no sense of personal space. I have already been poked and bruised by selfie sticks. I admit to jostling one held by an obnoxious man who was trying to take a picture of himself with the caryatid statues (the columns that look like women) on the Erechthion.  He kept waving it around like a sword to give him space and managed to smack three people, including me. Hearing him swear as I jostled it with  my arm gave me great satisfaction. I know it was petty. And beneath me. And unnecessary.  But it made the heat more bearable for the next six minutes.

In the last few visits of this place I have keenly watched the progress of the restoration of the buildings of the acropolis. The blocks that have been placed along the outside rim continue to dwindle in number, and the miniature railroad used to move the marble pieces has been reduced in length. The slow progress continues as the results begin to show.

I am only now beginning to decompress from a frantic and challenging June. The heat is intense and Athens is challenging in its air pollution, but as I gaze down at the Odeon I find myself becoming rejuvenated again. The ancient world has always inspired me. I need inspiration this summer.  I need to find a way to look forward toward next year as I continue my own professional and personal journey. Cape Sounion,  the Parthenon, the great museums of the world, these have always provoked me to reflect and inquire, think and dream.

I am a teacher in Europe this summer. Clearly I am also a student.

The Return, The Mask and the Whispers of Welcome

Delphi, Greece

So I find myself once again in Greece. This time I am teaching.

The ancient city of Athens welcomed me with the dry heat that defines the Mediterranean lands and the bustle found in every major airport.  The drive in reacquaints me with the stark architecture of the city; white cubes of balcony-embossed high rises with speckles of overgrown plants and miniature trees. The inner city is teeming with darting traffic and gesticulating pedestrians. The urban decay is evident in the abandoned buildings that present themselves too regularly and the all-encompassing graffiti.

This trip I am accompanied by fellow teacher Lydia (photography) and ten girls. They are sweet girls who are generous of spirit and quite sheltered. They do not see the buildings fly by the windows of our bus. The cell phones are already out.

The President Hotel is too far from the acropolis for my liking, but it is modern and clean and provides the comfort of familiarity to my students.  Wifi is 13€ for 24 hours. Apparently this nickel and diming is more common as the tourist trade becomes more desperate in the current Greek economy. I am outraged. They don’t care.

Our tour guide is George. We have met before. Back in 2002 I went on my first student travel experience as a teacher and this man was our guide. I didn’t remember him a great deal, but he remembered me. He has been doing this work for 40 years now and never plans to retire. He loves the work. And retirement is not really an option these days. He presents himself as a bit of a philosopher and sports a gigantic moustache and an Australian wide brimmed hat. The girls instantly loved him.

We visited the National Archaeological Museum and gazed into the eyes of  the death mask of Agamemnon. We would be visiting his city, Mycenae in a few days and we spoke of his role in the Trojan War. The collection of gold in this museum is breathtaking.

Afterwards we explored the Plaka. This shopping district is a feast of the senses.  George and I showed the girls how to haggle. This was somewhat ironic as I am a terrible haggler. That’s why I have Eric. He will haggle down a vendor until the cash register starts bleeding. Me…not so much. It did not take the girls long to figure out the advantages of flirtation when it came to business transactions. I chose not to notice too much.

From the Plaka I looked up to the Parthenon and felt that sense of wonder ancient ruins always give me.  She looked beautiful up there on her strategic perch. The Goddess Athene surveying the city still protects after all these years. The people, the worshippers, the spirituality behind it all now long gone. 

And yet the ancient marble still whispers across the centuries.  A quiet, gentle welcome among the cacophony of sounds amid the modern market place.

The White Sands, The Seduction, and The Spectre

Carlisle, Pennsylvania

We left our little resort in Fort Lauderdale and began the trek home. This part of the trip is always the most difficult for us as it more about reaching deadlines and planned stops more than it is about the journey. We determined two touristy things to do along the way, bought an audio book version of Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil (there is only so much satellite radio to which one can listen. If I hear Fight Song one more time I will actually vomit), and settled in with determination for the most direct route home.

Then we decided upon our first deviation from this plan.

Seaside, Florida is an unincorporated town nestled along the southern coast of the Florida panhandle. It is very unique because the layout and organisation of the town and its functions were completely planned out before being built. All other additions to the community were decided upon with consensus and were developed within the original plans. It was an attempt to preserve the small town atmosphere of America wherein you could walk to all of your required destinations and that there were plenty of opportunities to meet with your neighbours. This last part is reflected in the central post office with is next to a very large outdoor amphitheatre which is surrounded by all of the shops. Immediately behind this is the school and the streets which spoke out or run parallel to the amphitheatre.  Across the street from the post office are some restaurants and the pristine white sand beach cuddling up to the warm waters of the Gulf of Mexico.

It is a perfect place. So perfect that it was used to film the town scenes in The Truman Show. I was immediately smitten with the community and, after eating fresh shrimp on an outdoor pavilion that overlooked the water and then walking barefoot along the beach with Eric, boldly declared that this would be the place I would spend my retirement years as a snowbird!

Eric then noted that the place felt more like a resort than a town. At this point we looked around us again. The restaurants were great, but pricey for what they served. But that is for the tourists. The shops that surround the amphitheatre were not inhabited by the butcher, the fishmonger or the tailor. Instead we had a book store, a vinyl record store, high end fashions and a furniture store that had a very specialised stock.

I do not remember these kinds of things in the small town America I have seen in documentaries or any Frank Capra movie. Apparently there about few hundred people actually living in the town and then a resort than a home.

We also noticed that the only visible minority we could find were overweight people. If you know what I mean.

It was like the Stepford Wives version of a town. Perfect in almost every detail. Almost. I began to feel less smitten and more seduced. I am not totally convinced I would enjoy actually staying in this place for a long time. Certainly I doubt I could afford it!

Nevertheless, it was a wonderful place to visit and we both felt a few hours later that it all felt a bit like a dream or a Twilight Zone episode.

Our next stop ended up being another deviation from the ‘Get Home’ plan.

One of our most cherished movies is Tim Burton’s Big Fish. I have spoken about this in previous posts when Eric and I took a road trip to New Orleans and back. In this trip we visited some of the filming locations, but we did not get to see Spectre. If you know the movie, Spectre is a place the main character visits more than once. Spectre is a small town that serves as an evolving metaphor that examines the concept of narrative and how we perceive our lives and dreams. Spectre holds a great deal of influence over the narrative of this film. If you have seen this film, you know to what I am referring. If you have not seen this film, I recommend it with great enthusiasm.

The set of Spectre, one road leading to a church with buildings on each side along the way, is simple. It is every main street in any small town in North America. The set is located on a private island that you spend three dollars to cross the bridge. The area is used primarily for fishing (of course!), but there also seems to be camping. Being a set, the place is completely dilapidated and some of the buildings are now gone. The shops are gone and a couple of the houses. The church is still there. The mayor’s house, in which the main character ate pie, is in relatively good shape as it was the only ‘dressed’ set for interior use. But the porch stairs and door are long gone on this house as well.

Walking up and down the road of this place brought the name Spectre into a whole new focus. It truly is a ghost town now. When you consider the themes and ideas that were explored using these building consisting only of plywood and artistic license, it seems both sad and fitting that this place, this unreal place, should be left abandoned to fade away from existence and be swallowed up by the natural order of things.

Eric and I have been on sets before, and we hold no romantic notions of preservation. Indeed, we agree that part of the beauty of theatre is its fleeting nature. We left feeling grateful that we were able to visit this place, and knowing that we would never return.

Fleeting. Such is the nature of any spectre.