 by Carmen Wise  Mike twists the dirt claw, fiercely pulls up brown crumbling clots. A pretty garden demands ugly sweat, sore backs, strained muscles. Jolly daffodils have already popped up and taken their bows. Their bright yellow feathers ruffle in the breeze. Tulips have opened up in full beauty. Mike will soon fill the spaces between these early risers with daisies, marigolds, petunias, pansies. Colours flip flop from flower to flower. He likes a mix, yellows with purples, reds with fuschias, every colour of the rainbow, crazy mixed up. The side border, along the driveway, is on its way to becoming its usual welcoming reception line of brilliant red geraniums.
Before that all appears, the gardener must push and pull and move the earth and mix in fertilizer. Then, gingerly, he can ease each little plant into its burrow, push seeds into the freshly tilled earth. I am in wonder at his dedication, his ability, mostly by his ability to ignore his discomfort in pursuit of his vision of a grand canvas of colours and fragrances. Soon, there will surround our home such a colourful profusion, such prettiness and flourish that our plain Jane bungalow will transform itself into a sparkling English cottage in a quaint English garden. Stalwart sunflowers will stand tall and guard the side gate, smile at my students and their parents. Mike is willing to dig and strain and it is worth the effort, like peeling potatoes and cutting up onions that make you cry, and the result is a rich, hearty, stomach-filling stew. I ease myself into one of the cushioned patio chairs, put my painted toes up on a second chair, and lean an elbow on the table to bring a dewy glass to my lips. The sun is high and hot and warm. I tell myself that as a true Californian living in a strange land, I need to work too, on acquiring an even tan. Mike doesn't mind that I am lazy as long as I keep his icy glass of either tea or beer topped up. As long as I admire and appreciate his efforts. He likes me to be there, to oversee his man's work. It is my pleasure to be here, to feel the warmth on my skin. I start to read but before long my book slips to my lap and my eyes close. MONET'S GARDEN, GIVERNY, FRANCE
The Chestnuts are in blossom. Thick pink flowers cascade gracefully along their branches. A bridge, THE bridge, hand-hewed, hand-painted, spans across one end of the tiny lake. On the other side young people, from a visiting high school, herd there. They are quiet, awed into silence by the beauty around them. By the time I walk the perimeter, they have moved on and I also stand quietly, in awe. This is a calming place. A place that reflects, a place to reflect. Monet said that as beautiful a scene may be, that his paintings capture not what is in that garden, or around that pond, but in the time and space between the scene and his canvas. This could be said about all of life, the moments in between what one sees and what one experiences. LA BELLE CITEE, PARIS It is later in the evening and I am in my cozy living room, still lazy. I hide in the great chair, flipping pages madly to keep up with a Dean Koontz plot. His writing is taunting, full of surprises and at the same time, fluid and mellifluous. His metaphors entertain me as much as the story. But I can never read more than three pages of any book without dozing off and now I am walking along the laughing, restless Seine. Its surface too active to reflect the beautous Musee d'Orsay, with its stone gables, tall columns, and grand portico. Now I seem to be gliding. I am on the Bateaubus. I am strangely alone in my dream, just the two of us, la belle Paris et moi, lovers on the Seine. We glide past the Cathedral de Notre Dame, Le Louvre which seems to go for miles, past La Place de la Concorde and its semi-circular buildings. Everything centuries old yet magnificent and well cared for, as if new.
Mike's voice startles me. Do you want a cappuccino this morning? he asks. D'accord I reply, Bien sure. Fortunately he has high school French. I am still swooning from the sweeping view of the Eiffel Tower. Now I am at the top of Sacre Coeur, a pristine white Cathedral atop the hills of Montmartre, on the other side of La Belle Citee where the La Tour Effeil primps itself for its admirers. For about twenty minutes, I keep company with the watchdog gargoyles. We take in the sweeping view together, a photogenic city even at a distance. Un cafe, oui. I need to sober up. I must quit these intoxicating flights of fantasy. Un cafe, avec un croissant, un morceaux de fromage, de comfiture, tasty meal to keep up my strength. I can't help it. Paris dreamily draws me back again and again. Many trips for the price of one. SALZBURG This time CBC is the impulse for my mind flights. Mozart's courtly tune in Don Giovanni. The scene where the womanizer showed off his most seductive talents as he pursued the bride-to-be. Was it only two weeks ago that I witnessed Don Giovanni's traumatic fall into the pits of Hell? That moment when the Orchestra screamed out a stream of strident undulating notes racing up and down the scale in a frenzy while the Ghost/Devil/Father curses the cad, lambasting him in booming basso profundo. What terror, what excitement. I feel like licking my lips as I see the miscreant suffer his due. But then the gentle, sprightly tune brings me back. The other tune in Don Giovanni.
Now I can walk to the end of the bridge and into the passageway to Mozart's Strasse, where his birth home waits. The street is a posh line-up of charmingly painted buildings along a crooked cobblestone walk. They hark back to Wolfgang's era but they belie their age due to lavish renovation. The store signs are charming convoluted concoctions welded with green and black wrought iron. As in Milano, the fashions displayed in the windows are truly beyond my bourgeois comprehension. Gucci bags over $200 Euros, Hermes scarves $400 each, Italian leather shoes in every colour of the rainbow, handsome manikins suited up with Armani. Today's Salzburg little resembles Mozart's I think. The movie "Amadeus" implied he died in poverty which in turn implies he lived in same. Then I check out the little museum on the floor below Mozart's flat. The furniture in this display is much like the Mozart family would have used. Huh? The board further explains: all of the furnishings of the Mozart family were auctioned off and nothing remains. How sad. Then I read further, Wolfgang's performances all over Europe brought in the equivalent of $38,000 Euros a year. That's a lot of money for that period. The Mozarts were actually very well off. What happened to his money? As of this moment, this remains a mystery to me. The movie implied gambling, womanizing, a generally carefree attitude on Wolfgang's part but that may just be dramatic license. More likely young Mozart hobnobbing with the likes of royalty and gentry, felt the need to keep up appearances. Looking at the fashions of the day, the velvet and satin coats, embroidered and ruffled and decorated with gold buttons, the highly styled ornate wigs that needed to be powdered every time they are worn, all this did not come cheap, not now not then. I'm sure he loved to entertain, to amuse, to be on the stage even for his closest friends. Wolfgang was a man of hilarity and high living, to be sure. I love him. For his joie de vivre, his chutzpah, for his abandonment to his muse, for his sociability and inclusiveness. He was not pretentious. He was and knew he was just the Man of the Hour and he would enjoy it to the hilt, so there! Across the river, is his later family Residenz. In its day, each of the seven rooms were decorated with fine furnishings, filled with fortepianos and organs, music piled up in every corner, and violins and violas scattered everywhere. Large feather beds, handsome carved armoires, and the necessary ceramic commodes hidden in niches or under beds. This second house definitely did not come cheap. Now the Mozart flat is a museum showing off original manuscripts, letters in translation, photographs. For the first seven years of his life, Wolfgang, his big sister Nannerl, Mom and Dad shared a three-room walk-up with little windows overlooking what is now the Via Corso of Salzburg. I can imagine men, women and children, both fastidiously and fashionably dressed or dressed in the rough rags of a peasant, stopping to listen to the merry tunes streaming out of those windows. I could one be of the hausfraus, dressed in fine fashion, fanning myself as I step cautiously around the detritus on those still-rough cobblestones, pausing to wonder at the beautiful music. Then going on to the Strasse's ancestral shops to have yet another gorgeous gown made for the King's Ball, or the Queen's Fete, or celebrating the Hunt. One must always be prepared.... Voila! Mike calls out as he carries the two large cafe latte cups. I reach up for mine. I must be careful not to stain my long white gloves with their pearl buttons. Mike too, bows as he passes the drink to me. How handsome he looks, tall and elegant in his richly festooned waistcoat, opened at the front to reveal the most delicate flourish of ruffles. I am surprised he could find buckle high heeled shoes in his size then remember, of course, craftsmen made all the clothes, the shoes, all to size. I plump up my voluminous velvet rose gown, with an embroidered slit meant to reveal the silkiest pale vanilla satin underskirt. It is not easy to sit comfortably wearing all this fluff. It's like wearing pillows. CBC has changed its tune. Mozart's soothing Romanza accompanies my sips. In Mozart's day it would have been a sip of Schnapps not a Capuccino. What a life of gentility. CALGARY "There is nothing to see here!" I wail at Mike as we drive home from the Airport. Mile after mile featureless low-slung buildings pass by at 100K per hour. How can my eyes put up with this, I moan. Or my mind. And so he turns off to drive to our favorite dog-walking park. Spring in Calgary has been plush with rain and all around me is a rich verdant display of grass, trees and shrubs many bearing fragrant white and lavender lilac blossoms. Not chestnuts but just as heavenly. The green soothed my disappointment to be home instead of wandering the Strasses, Vias and Rues of Europe. Calgary's downtown appears suspended on the horizon, so reminiscent of the City in the Clouds in Star Trek. It is a welcome sight, a pretty sight. The windows of its spanking new skyscrapers reflect like El Dorado. Below little Elbow River cuts a path through its tiny canyon and seems to be in a hurry to find its way to the great Bow River, many miles downstream. The sky is panoply of restful blue, with fuzzy clouds flocking about. The air is crystal clear, cool, bright. The dogs scurry away to play with their pals. Soon they are sniffing and wrestling like my little clay statue of dancing dogs that we brought back from Mexico. Mike catches up with them. He can throw Sprite's ball far and forever. I drop down on a bench, to enjoy the view below, to breathe in Calgary's fresh air. My mind remains in Europe. I am back in my living room. The capuccino is rich and hot and my book splayed out on the ottoman and my dogs sit too close expectant of a bit of toast or cheese. It is discordant to be home after days and weeks of exploring strange wonderful streets. I realize though that at any given moment I can be back again, anywhere, anytime on my vivid journey through Italy, Paris, Salzburg, rattling on a train, speeding in a Taxi, gliding on a boat, and walking mile after mile nibbling on my little crust of bread. All I need to do is close my eyes. I don't mind being home but still traveling. It is not so tiring. Carmen Wise, June 2006 |
Another garden, redolent with bouquets of flowers of every shape and size. A garden to be admired, sniffed, and unique among gardens, to be painted on huge canvases by its Master. I stroll between the tidy, perfectly tended beds. The path leads into a tunnel, opens up into a woodsy walk, then, suddenly, I am there, looking at Claude Monet's famous Water Lily Pond. No flowers yet, just wide flat rounded leaves floating on the calm surface, silent, motionless, awaiting its delicate passengers. Other lush blooms decorate the banks of this historical pond, admiring their complexions on the glassy surface.
La Seine bubbles life into Paris. And into her visitors. And the architectural wonders that lines her banks. Elegant, serious buildings. La Tour Eiffel Tower comes into view. In the blink of an eye I walk beside it, underneath it, peer up at its lattice work of heavy girders and struts. The sun streams through the lace. Magnifique. superbe. What craftsmanship. La Tour Eiffel is Paris herself, clever, stately, shapely as the ankle of a coquine, symmetrical, and so tall, reaching right into a Cezanne sky.
Mike fizzles milk on the expresso machine. I lean back and close my traveling eyes and now I am on the bridge over a river, much smaller yet more violent than the Seine. In Salzburg. It is overfull with runoff from the Alps. A tour barge struggles against the current to turn itself around to reach dock. Round and round it goes, seems to be out of control. I am glad to be on the bridge and not on this boat. Eventually it reaches safe dock and I am relieved.