Fighter

I found part of a body one day, walking along the shore of the Mediterranean Sea in Nice, France. Not the whole body, mind you. Not a hand, or a foot, ulna or femur; I don't even know if it is human. But I found it, and I became ecstatic when I realized that it was very old. It was so old, that it was becoming fossilized. If not becoming, then was. I put it in my pocket, and carried it around with me throughout Europe.

Ok, I did not have it in my pocket the whole time, but I brought it out for my uncle to see. My Uncle Paul is my hero. He was the Big Tall Stranger Who Was My Uncle, whatever those words meant to me when I was five. I know the whole trip in his MG, I did not speak. I was in awe of him. He was tall and handsome, and looked like Abraham Lincoln. For all I knew at that age, he WAS Abraham Lincoln. Except he was in the Navy at the time, and wore his pea coat.

Uncle Paul became excited about it, didn't know what it was from, but agreed with me it was something. It is not a whole bone. It is a joint bone piece.

For some reason I can't explain, talking about this bone now, makes me feel naked. If it is a human piece, then it looks like my pieces. My bones. It is my shadow form, a puzzle I could have been. Any one of us could have been this. It makes me wonder at all the things that brought this piece to me.

The trip to France was the trip of a lifetime. But it was not the nicest time I could have had. So, in my mind, I will turn it into just that. I will frame this trip into the greatest thing that it could have been, and if my husband, my traveling companion wants to make it into what he called the worst time of his life, then it is his worst time. I was in Europe, and I had a blast.

It started in Paris. Oh, Paris, the world of difference, the cantilevered city of love and light; poverty and wealth, struggle, and ease. I loved Paris.

I arrived there on a Wednesday, from an over night flight the previous Tuesday. I took a car to the airport, had my passport, my overstuffed back pack, and all the wrong clothes. But I was on the plane, in the seat, on the tarmac, and in Charles De Gualle airport, going through customs. What a thing!

I was not overwhelmed, as I always thought I would be. I was so excited, and happy. I was alone. I made it through the airport following a map Chuck had emailed me from Afghanistan, but really, it was unnecessary. All the signs were French, English, and other languages, and all the people, at all the help kiosks spoke English, and pointed me to the Customs agent passport people. That was the first person I gauged Europe by, and so he was the "first" person I spoke to.

He must have had a very long and boring day. "Passport, please," he said in perfect English. "How are you?" I asked perhaps a little too excitedly. "I'm tired," he said flatly. Then, as if he remembered something, he said, "How are you?" "I'm great! I'm in France, and I am happy to be here! I hope your day gets better!" I said, with a very broad smile on my face. I must have looked a bit goofy, because it elicited a smile from him. "Merci," he handed my passport back, and smiled, almost laughing. "Enjoy your stay in Paris." "Thank-Merci! Bonsoir!" My French was what I had learned on line, and that did not take very well, now that I was here.

I made my way to the subway, I forget what they call the trains there, but they are so spectacular for transportation! They are clean, they are fast, they are quiet, and they are nice. Maybe I think this because I've not been on one in the US, or that the ones in the US are portrayed in movies as dark, dangerous, crime labs, growing in this moving petri dish a strain of merciless, knife wielding punks, ready to kill for anything. Maybe. At any rate, they were great in Paris.

I got off near to Notre Dame, and made my way up to the street level. I was wearing jeans. I was over weight at this point. Depression does that. But I didn't care, I was going to meet my husband IN PARIS, FRANCE, EUROPE... my weight could not possibly matter at this juncture in our lives. Oh, contraire, mon frer.

I saw the steeples of Notre Dame, and I almost cried. Here, I was here. I walked along the Seine for several blocks, along the Seine with Parisiennes, beside the traffic in foreign cars, small, lightweight cars, past restaurants just setting up for the morning crowds. Bonjour slipped out of my mouth at every person I passed. I kid you not, EVERY PERSON WALKING IN THE OPPOSITE DIRECTION I PASSED ON THE STREET, I said Bonjour! And everyone knew I was a tourist. SO WHAT. I was.

My hotel was along the Seine across from the L'Ouvre. It was also an historical site, having housed a great many artists and writers. Our first room was on the 3rd floor, over looking the river and the sidewalks. Damn, I was in Paris! And I was alone. Nice.

I loved the hotel. Absolutely loved it. If I ever go back, and I will, I will stay there, in that hotel, with those people. Their food was ridiculously expensive, but it was good to be in Paris. I ate a croissant, for which I gained a love of, quickly. Most especially the chocolate ones. But now that I am vegan, well, no more of THAT until I find a good substitute. Hmm. I might do that myself, thanks to my unfounded belief in my abilities...

My camera was a part of me that never came off. I took so many photos of the people, and the places we visited, and frankly, I've not seen many of them. At any rate, I took photos of doorways, of windows, of the L'Ouvre, the boats on the Seine, the lights from the boats on the Seine, and people's feet.

I've not looked at all the photos yet. My darling husband and I had a "tiff" and I guess it is my dealing with it that precludes me from exploring the thousands of photos I took. OK! I'll get to it.

I remember one that I particularly liked, of a woman at one of the beautiful parks in Paris, who was elderly. I took a photo of balloons and children, and she exclaimed delightedly about the joy. I didn't understand her words, but her emotions were unmistakeable. It was a good photograph, but a better one was of her back. Yes, her back. This woman was elderly, but chic. Old fashioned beauty, elegance, and dignity. She was only about 4'11", but she was regal, and I have a need to paint this woman. It was of her back, but her head was turned to the side. It will be good, just wait.

My joy in Europe cannot be taken away by an emotional juggernaut. Whatever anger or disappointment was shown, I've decided to let go, and never revisit. It is his problem and not mine. That is the problem with expectations, you seldom get the picture perfect Thanksgiving dinner, or the perfect party. Not in my experience, anyway.

So I really enjoyed my time in Europe. Believe me, it took me a long time to come to this conclusion, after the pain, after the anger. But I'm there now. And I told him so. "I can't control how you see the trip. I can't control your expectations of what this trip should have looked like, what I should have worn, or weighed. But I can control how I feel about it, and Baby, I had a good time. I'll ignore your anger, and you deal with that. I had a great time, in retrospect. Letting the anger go..." Truly, it is the only way to see what I really saw.

I am a fighter. Whether I go about it with correct, straight on facts, or blunder through in high emotional pique, I will fight for everything I have. It is just the way I've been constructed. Love me or dislike me, "I yam what I yam, and that's all that I yam!" to quote a wise non-man.