The Red Pashmina

I have a red pashmina I bought in Rome. It travels with me where ever I go. It's been to Sweden, Ireland, Canada, Ohio, Pennsylvania, Maryland, New York, Connecticut, Massachusetts, Vermont, Colorado, Washington, California, Oregon, and all over the southeast; Florida, South and North Carolina, Georgia, West Virginia, and Virginia. It's well travelled, and it keeps me warm as a cover on chilly flights. I wear it often as a fashionable neck scarf when not traveling. It's soft and light, and I easily conforms to whatever role is needed.

I searched Rome for it; literally. Pashminas, in Rome, are available everywhere in wide arrays of colors, textures, and lengths. I wanted a particular shade of red, and I found it my very last day there. It was meant for my mother. She loved red. She had a red leather jacket, red leather fringed boots (that I bought for her). She wanted her kitchen to be red; red cabinets, etc. The Pashmina I found was an earthy red, almost brick red. Not too much orange, brightness or dark tones to it. Perfect.

I got home from Italy on a Saturday morning, and I talked to my mother on the phone for two hours on Sunday, sharing so many details of my trip; the food I was going to prepare for her, the sights, the sounds, the smells, the tastes. The feel of the air in Tuscany on a clear, cool, spring night, with a million stars shining down on me, the only sound to be heard, the wind in my ears. I told her of the 1100 year old church I discovered, still in use, on the road from Radda-in-Chianti to Adine-in-Chianti, and how I sat in those beautiful thick stone walls, cool even though the sun made my hike quite hot. I sat, relishing the peace, listening to the wind, with the scent of luscious food cooking and the faint, lovely sounds of Italian radio coming from a nearby kitchen while the woman inside prepared a noon time meal for her family. I told my mother how the Adriatic looked as it lapped the shores of The Lido in Venice; the quiet, calm, serene slippage of Venice; the joy and glory of Venetian children playing gondola tag, or soccer In their local square. How I adored Florence with David, Raphael, Dante....how Artemisia Gentileschi's paintings moved me to tears...the bars on the windows below the street and how I imagined bony fingers reaching for scraps of food. Rome and the ancient glories; how the old merges so very well with the new, about sidling up to the bar in a cafe and ordering une cafe, per favore - non, no - not Americano! Being stopped by men on the street, kissing their fingers my calling me Bella signorine. Stumbling on Bernini's Ecstasy of St. Theresa by accident, and only because another tourist added a euro to her light box. About the tragedy of the beggars on every corner; on every church step, the woman who dressed her child In rags and sent her begging with a crushed McDonalds cup. The Roman forum and how eloquent it still is; the majestic, crumbling colosseum. I was a chatterbox and she was so proud of me and my wonderful adventure alone for 22 days in a very foreign country, not knowing the language, but having absolutely the best time of my life. She  told me her mouth was watering and she could not wait for me to try the new recipes I obtained from my Tuscan cooking class. I told her that I bought her the perfect present; probably the most perfect present I'd ever found for her (besides the red leather fringed boots!). I told her I could not tell her what it was, but I would come visit soon and cook for her and bring it. Three days later I was on my way to her house, unplanned, dreading the drive, dreading being there. My mother died two days after our wonderful, unknown at the time, last conversation. It was sudden, they say painless, but it was such a staggering loss it's indescribable.

She will always be young forever to my sisters and I. She had just turned 63, and the heart attack was so unexpected. I brought those soft red, fringed leather boots home, and they are in my closet, waiting for me to wear them. The pashmina is with me right now as I write, sitting in a plane, an hour or so east of Seattle. My mother is gone, but she lives on through me and my sisters. She was not a brave adventurer. She lived a small life the best way she knew how. She did not travel much. She was happy enough in the world she made. She was not the strongest or the bravest person in the world. She depended on a man to help create her happiness, and on a man to take care of her, and often the men in her life changed her outward appearance - she was a chameleon with the ability to be whoever her man wanted her to be. Still, she was my mother; my beautiful, adoring, caring, kind, quirky, sensitive soul of a mother. She taught my sisters and I to be brave, to take chances, to want more, do more in our lives, but to above all be happy. She loved poetry and reading. She instilled in my sisters and I a sense of wonder and curiosity, and I love her. She did not dole advice, but I can hear her words in my head when I have decisions to make. I  miss her daily, and I still hear her breathy chuckle-laugh in my ear all the time. I carry the pashmina I bought for her in Rome every place I travel to; every adventure I take. It's like having a piece of my mom with me, and it's kind of like giving her adventures she never had. My great-grandmother, grandmother, mother, us; now my nieces. We are all a part of those who came before us, who lived their lives so we could come into being. My great-grandmother was an adult before women could vote. She gave birth to my grandmother and great-aunts right around the time the law passed giving women the right to vote. My grandmother raised my mother in a post -WWII world; a time of subdivisions, women joining the work force, etc. My grandmother stayed home; never drove a car, raised her two daughters in much the same fashion as she was raised. She was a round, warm, affectionate, apron-wearing, cookie-baking grandmother. My mom raised her daughters in the tumultuous 60s and 70s and we are all a part of them. Fate, destiny, chance. I am who I am because of those who came before me, and I am so very grateful. My pashmina keeps me warm now, as the plane begins the descent to Seattle, and my next adventure begins.

Open your mind, Travel

June 18, 2015

I traveled today to New York City. I am staying at Comfort Inn & Suites on Redding St. in Ozone Park, (Queens). It was a decision finding a hotel – close enough to where we need to be tomorrow, close enough to the airport, etc. I am so relieved to be out of Florida and the heat we are experiencing, and already so far I’m so much cooler. Tonight is a little drizzly – 60% chance of rain and temperatures in the 60s.

I do not have an agenda today or tomorrow morning. I did not really feel like travelling to Manhattan to see the touristy sights; another trip, maybe, but not just now. My brother and sister-in-law are joining me tomorrow and we are going to see Van Morrison in concert at Forest Hills Stadium just a few miles from here. Such a great opportunity; chance of a lifetime, since this is the only North American concert venue this year! I could have flown in tomorrow, but I am really glad I flew in today. The flight was wonderful, and the hotel sent a free airport shuttle. That was the beginning of the true adventure. First, let me back up just a second and say New York City, to one not in the know of public transportation, or even familiar with a more urban lifestyle, can be a bit intimidating. I was determined not to be subdued; a decision I made consciously about 10 years ago, and I faced today’s adventure willingly. I found my luggage and then was uncertain how to proceed – a very kind woman directed me toward AirTrain – a free train service that circles JFK Airport and adjoins some of the surrounding city train lines for the same kind of fees locals pay to use the Metro system. Super convenient if you are a local traveler, or an employee of the airport. I think none of us ever give much thought to those who do all those jobs at the airport we just sort of take for granted or don't ever see. On the train everyone was on their phone. I remember my friend Helena saying that about subways/trains in Stockholm; there is so little personal contact or eye contact anymore. All that ran through my mind as the train rolled on; the workers and their lives; where they lived, how they lived - how they spent time on these trains daily. Random odd thoughts. Anyway, I ended up where I was supposed to be – at the Shuttle Service which stops for most of the local hotels at the very edge of the airport grounds. ….and I waited….and waited. Eventually the shuttle arrived and the driver loaded up our bags – another couple had joined me in the wait. When Van-man pulled up I noticed a dent in the driver’s front fender – the couple and I exchanged glances, and buckled seat belts. Van-man hopped in and started to take off, only to be flagged down by another driver waving his arms windmill style. It seems Van-man forgot to close the cargo door in the back. Unh oh. Again, the couple and I exchanged glances and we all raised our eyebrows and tightened our seatbelts. And off we went. Van-man thought it would be nice to share that he had done that once about five years ago and the guests bags had fallen out; before he could circle back and get them someone had stolen them. All was fine, though; insurance paid for the woman’s lost articles – a payout of $700, because she claimed she had a very expensive watch in her bags. Alas, we were saved from a similar fate – our doors were closed safely. NYC driving is not for the faint of heart – I was really glad I was not the one driving! Eventually we did make it safely to the hotel – down a one way street, seeming not at all like the picture on the Internet, but ah well. Van-man adventures were not quite complete, however – a cab driver was blocking the entrance to the driveway. Van-man honked his horn. That is a little tame – he repeatedly jammed his hand down on the horn and hollered out the window at the drivers, hollering at us in the back that this was the fourth time today that had happened. The cab driver was in no hurry and proceeded to finish loading the bags of whoever was in the cab. They glared at each other a minute more and Van-man barely missed hitting the back bumper of the cab. He jumped out, hefted our bags out and took off. That was that.

So I check in. And the elevator is broken. Hm. I lug my bags up the stairs; second floor, thankfully. The clerk asked Van-Man, who appeared from nowhere, to help me – he hollered that he had an airport pick-up. I told them it was fine; I got it. I got this NYC attitude down – just sayin’! The room is not The Ritz. It actually smells a little funky – like someone used to smoke in here, more than once, and maybe there were dirty feet involved – still, it’s clean, and the air conditioning works. So I decided I would be a sport, doctored the air with jasmine essential oil, changed my shoes and decided I was going for a walk, but first – food! I ended up at Aldo’s II Pizzeria and Restaurant on Cross Bay Blvd. I started to order NY pizza, but then I saw calzone…and then pepperoni rolls. It was heavenly. I ate it right there at the pizzeria (the restaurant section was closed off; too early, perhaps?) And I ate the whole Pepperoni Roll, and washed it down with a Budweiser; not my typical beer of choice. As I was finishing up, Aldo himself walked by and said “How you doin’” and it was so quintessentially NEW YORK it made me smile! I only knew he was Aldo because one of the guys making dough called him by name. Aldo is a small man, very elderly, apron intact, full head of white hair; one of those people that just is so really real and so stereo-typically everything you imagine of a pizzeria owner it was almost unreal.

Fortified I started walking. The streets around here are hugely busy; the streets are not in a typical grid; they angle off in weird directions. Back in the neighborhoods, though, it’s a little different. Narrow two-story houses, some with a tiny bit of garden, some not, some with minuscule driveways, some not – all with street parking out front. They are not row houses; not linked together as one building, but they are really close together. Some plots of grass are so lushly green and full; I recognized it immediately as grass from my childhood- cool, green thick carpet that would feel so good to bare feet (not like itchy, spiky Florida grass that houses those nasty little uber-viscous red ant creatures, but the real-deal grass!). Hostas are blooming, petunias, impatiens, other beautiful flowers. Rose trees, healthy thick junipers; a few branching larger hardwood trees, but not too many. I fell in love with this spectacular tree – a weeping spruce. The gentleman who lived there happened to be on his porch, and at first he was a little leery, but when I expressed how fabulous I thought his tree was he softened up and told me there are several in the neighborhood, but his is called the “monster”. There were yards that were untended; bare patches of earth, dusty cinder blocks strewn around, broken or rusted iron railings leading up the stoops of some. There were very few people out and about, but it was the middle of the day. I am so intrigued by city life. I am pretty confident I would not like it, but I kept thinking of all the people who live here and all the living going on behind those doors. House after house, and on some streets neighborhood bars or deli’s, then more houses. Some streets have really neat brick patches on the sidewalks, others are broken and dirty. Variety is certainly the spice here!

A light drizzly rain drove me back inside and now I am in for the night. I’m in a strange city and walking around now is probably not in my best interest. Tomorrow I am back out with my camera to record some of the images that catch my eye. It’s amazing to me that birds still go on singing and living in all the trees – I could hear them twittering and chirping to each other, and several fluttered down in front of me, perhaps seeking tidbits, or just wanting me to look at them. Birds are birds; city or country, north or south. Life is a fascinating, beautiful thing. Each day is a grand adventure; we just need to open our eyes, open our minds to possibilities and live.