Home Sweet Anywhere

by Lynne Martin

  Roberto summoned Raul, who pranced to my cubicle, shook his head, and did “tut tut” as he fingered my faded, over-bleached, gray-rooted locks. He and Roberto engaged in an animated conversation about my dire situation. Finally, with a gentle pat on my shoulder and dazzling smile, Roberto assured me that I was in good hands and that Raul would transform me into a goddess.

  Raul returned with a silver tray laden with pots and paintbrushes. Soon, I looked like the rest of the women, my head transformed into a porcupine with lustrous quills of hair. I watched the French customers sip champagne, consume their tiny lunches (no wonder they all weighed eighty-nine pounds), leaf through slick French fashion magazines, and receive manicures administered by young women who crouched on milking stools trying not to look uncomfortable. Not wanting to make a spectacle of myself by asking someone else to do it, I slipped into the marble and gilt bathroom and took a picture of myself in my plastic helmet. I thought that my friends who were reading the blog needed to see this, and as usual, I was just plain tickled by the whole thing. I’m sometimes my own best audience.

  When I returned, a white-clad girl invited me to the shampoo area. This began another heavenly experience. The warm chair massaged my body as if I were in a spa, a world removed from the beauty salons I was accustomed to where the shampooer would be distractedly rubbing my head (always more on one side than the other) while she carried on an animated conversation with the shampooer doing an equally inattentive job with the customer at the next bowl. While all this pleasant chitchat took place, my neck would be slowly stiffening as it rested in the hard porcelain divot of the shampoo sink. The Dessange shampoo lasted forever, and I was so comfortable that I would still be there if they’d let me stay. When I awoke from my happy coma, the girl wrapped my head in a warm towel and folded it as neatly as a surgeon. If I’d had a Gucci bag and some Christian Louboutin shoes, I could almost have passed for one of “them.”

  Roberto appeared on cue, and I drifted up that curving stairway to meet Kah-reeen once more. She created the elegant, perfect haircut of my dreams. When she finished, we double-kissed and I floated to the pay station. The bill was staggering, but in my current state of euphoria, I would have gladly signed over half my assets. Roberto provided me with discreet little envelopes into which I could tuck a little extra for the shampoo girl, the colorist, and my fantastic new friend Kah-reeen.

  Tim greeted me in the lobby, where the coat attendant traded my crisp white linen smock for my practical, dull black coat. Roberto saw us out the door, and I was once again a bag lady. But I was an American bag lady with the most gorgeous hair in Paris!

  ***

  During our month in Paris, we never made it to the Eiffel Tower, or to Giverny, Monet’s lovely home not far from the city. We also didn’t get to picnic by the Seine, because the weather didn’t cooperate. Instead, we ate lunch at home many days, loading up our little table with goodies scrounged from the local market and leftovers in our pantry and fridge. While June in many places signals the beginning of summer weather, in Europe it can mean cool temperatures and daily rain, which can ruin a picnic and certainly give hair the frizzies (a horror I never want to put poor Roberto, Raul, or Kah-reeen through again). Or it can turn hot and dry, making a sprint to the Metro an extremely uncomfortable enterprise. Wise visitors prepare for just about anything and use that old layering trick to their advantage, something we have since learned by heart. We also walked hundreds of miles through our beloved city with no particular place in mind, even dawdling an afternoon away at the Montparnasse Cemetery where the poets, writers, and composers rest together in harmony under the trees. So we commiserated near the graves of such French cultural greats as Baudelaire, Sartre, and Beckett.

  On one of our final days, we enjoyed scrambled eggs, creamy and golden, along with a leftover baguette, some crème fraîche, a little caviar, honey in the comb, smoked salmon, and a salad of maiche, parsley, arugula, and red lettuce topped with walnut oil and mild vinegar. When we are in places where “ordinary” food is all that’s available, I sometimes daydream about the contents of our French refrigerator and pantry. I had a glass of the last night’s fruity sauvignon blanc, and Tim enjoyed a great German non-alcohol beer. He also chose some soft jazzy Madeleine Peyroux tunes for our background music, and we watched the dignified geranium lady go about her business while the movie-star mom from across the street climbed into her big BMW and roared away. We felt completely at home and comfortable in our surroundings because we had actually managed to set up a life as we lived home free! Life had a rhythm; we had friends and a social life. We were on the right track.

  So now that our time in Paris was running out, we were despondent at the thought of leaving. Although we had tried hard to control ourselves, the volume of our possessions had increased significantly. All that saved us from sinking into a serious blue funk was the knowledge we would return the next year for three months.

  ***

  That afternoon I knuckled down and began to think about what I could possibly write that would be worthy of a publication like the Wall Street Journal. All of my writer’s neurosis came roaring into my head, but as I began to consider some kind of framework for it, I began to see that people would have some interest in our homefree life, and even benefit from the story of mature people striking out to do something daring and different from what’s expected of them.

  Almost everyone we had met along the way thus far had been intrigued about what we were doing, and my little blog audience was growing a bit every day. They all had so many questions about how we had managed to let our belongings go, about the details of insurance, visas, housing, transportation, and even more important, how we felt about striking out in the world without a base. The idea of being in a position to share a new approach to retirement with so many others helped me to overcome my terror and get on with it! I convinced myself that it was just a query, and a rejection would not be the end of my world, after all. Then I could retreat to the place where I felt more comfortable and happily assume my role as “the wife of” again.

  ***

  We stayed up late our last night, fiddling with last-minute details, phoning the children and grandchildren since we couldn’t predict the quality of our Internet access for the next few days. We also snipped at each other, a predictable attack of nerves and free-floating anxiety that repeats itself every time we’re in moving mode. It’s nothing serious, just our own worries surfacing. We both think of things like, I wonder if the next place is going to be as nice as this one? Should I have bought another pair of those pants? They really fit well and I’ll never find any more the right length. Did Robin sound cross with me on the phone, or was it just my imagination? How bad will the traffic be after we pick up the car at Charles de Gaulle?

  The next morning, we received a surprising tap at the door at 8:00 a.m. Couldn’t be the driver who was to take us to the airport where we would rent the car; we didn’t expect him for another thirty minutes. Nor could it be Andie and Georges, who always slept until nine. Yet, there they stood in running clothes, their hair askew, coffee cups in their hands. They had come to see us off! We were touched that they would come and made promises to see each other again soon, exchanged double-kisses, and joined together to drag our belongings through the little lobby. “Au revoir!” the geranium lady called as she waved her garden snippers. I waved back, delighted that she had acknowledged us at last!

  I glanced to the end of the street. There was our African friend looking regal in the costume I always liked best, a purple number with gold stripes. I wondered if he was really playing the market as he read his WSJ.

  Andie and Georges blew kisses as the cab drove us away. A bag of our dirty linens, bound for the laundry, sagged beside them on the cul-de-sac’s sidewalk, the remnants of our extraordinary month in Paris. We could hardly wait to return.

  Chapter 8

  Italy

  We picked up our leased Peugeot at Charles de Gaulle Airport and headed south t
hrough Paris traffic. No one spoke except Victoria, the GPS, who enunciated directions in her refined British accent. She was unflappable, even when wrong, which was rare for most people, and especially for us. So far, she had managed to guide us through Mexico and Turkey, and would serve us well on the drive through France and for two months in Italy and on to England, Ireland, and Portugal. We were grateful for her company.

  Victoria led us through the French countryside to Vézelay, in the Burgundy region, an ancient village famous for its tenth-century abbey. The landscape was so beautiful that it looked almost unreal. Graceful spires anchored charming villages, and cows grazed on tidy green pastures next to leafy vineyards. I gave myself a sore throat from all the “Ooohs and “Ahhs.” As always, poor Tim saw very little scenery, but thank God he did see—and dodge—all the crazy drivers, wandering livestock, and rattling horse-drawn carts filled with branches. We were elated by our good fortune—to be so free, healthy, and surrounded by natural beauty we could thoroughly enjoy.

  When we arrived in Vézelay, the Hôtel de la Poste et du Lion d’Or looked as perfect as we imagined. It featured a mansard roof, French blue shutters, an old stone façade, and window boxes brimming with red geraniums beneath four large chimneys. We walked into the lobby to find more delights: luxurious carpets, antique furniture, paintings, and miles of shiny brass. “Vee are so ’appy to see you!” the pretty girl behind the desk chirped. “Your room vil be en the floor four. We do not ’ave an elevator, but there vill be one next year after zuh remodel.”

  Our elation faded a bit. We had no interest in “next year,” since this year it was hot, the stairs were steep, we were tired, and we had brought far too much luggage to drag to the attic. We tried to negotiate with her for another room, but it didn’t work.

  We had a problem. “Okay, here’s what we can do,” I said as we approached the car. “We’ll just reorganize right here. We don’t need much for one night, and if we try to drag all that stuff up those stairs, paramedics could be involved.”

  “Do you really want to root around in suitcases in the parking lot, looking like hillbillies? Underwear and socks flying around?” Tim asked.

  “Oh, get a grip, darling!” I teased. “I have no shame and we’ll never see any of these people again.”

  Thus began our parking lot humiliation. We reorganized toiletries and undies, and shoved them into smaller bags. Other tourists were amused by the spectacle, but we barely noticed them. We dragged our odd assortment of luggage into the lobby, panting from the effort. A young man scowled at us as he lurked behind the desk. He did not offer to help but gestured to the girl instead. Apparently, the girl was not only the receptionist, but also the porter! She grabbed two of our bags and trotted up the stairs, encouraging us to follow. She remained perky all the way to our fourth-floor room. We were embarrassingly breathless.

  After settling in, we walked up the picturesque little cobblestone street to join the other visitors in the medieval church. For three hundred years, worshippers have gathered here to start their pilgrimage to the shrine of Santiago de Compostela in Spain, one of the most important of all medieval pilgrimage centers. In 1190 Richard the Lion-Hearted and Philip II Augustus met there to leave for the Third Crusade, when European leaders tried to recover the Holy Land. Inside, nuns and priests were chanting, their harmonious voices floating up to the high stone arches. Within the building’s flickering candlelight, we could feel the presence of the millions of devout visitors who had celebrated their faith in this serene place. We were both utterly transfixed by the mystery and sanctity of the church.

  All that beauty made us hungry, of course, so before meandering back to the little hotel, we stopped first for a break at a busy outdoor café. Tim needed a little downtime after his first European driving adventure of the year. Later, in the hotel dining room, the scowling chap from the front desk greeted us. Now, he manned the bar and acted as maitre d’. His attitude had not improved. Another young man, whom we had seen parking cars earlier, appeared with our menus.

  Confused, we felt a Fawlty Towers theme emerging. The maid we had seen pushing her cleaning trolley earlier in the hallway bussed the tables. By now, we fully expected John Cleese to silly-walk across the room as Basil Fawlty and punch Manuel, the surly waiter. Instead, it was the pretty girl who had checked us in and carried our bags. She now served my escargot with puff pastry and a creamy little sauce, as well as Tim’s sublime foie gras. Our steaks were perfect, the vegetables well prepared, and the wine excellent.

  We mowed right through our meal, which was surprisingly as beautiful and delicious as any we had in Paris. “Boy, this was a fabulous meal,” Tim said. “But the way this hotel operates, I wouldn’t be surprised if the chef is also the head gardener or the electrician!”

  Apparently, everyone had several jobs in this little country hotel. They certainly had a long, hot summer ahead of them.

  The next morning, after an excellent breakfast, served by the same odd cast of characters, we dragged our hobo luggage to the Peugeot and instructed Victoria to take us away to the sea.

  But first we had to climb the Alps, our gateway between France and Italy. If the Romans could push over the top in brutal winter weather to conquer ancient Gaul, we could go the other way in much warmer temperatures. Well, slightly warmer. We paused for several stop-and-gawk breaks, gasping at their majesty while digging through the car for jackets. As we drove on, there seemed to be ten thousand tunnels, along with plenty of rain. This was not an ideal situation for claustrophobic Tim. I turned to him and joked, “Hey, look at that. The French installed blue neon lights in the tunnels at regular distances. See…the idea is that if you stay a blue light length away from the car ahead, maybe you won’t cause a huge pile up and be asphyxiated in a ten-mile tunnel.”

  He laughed. “Thanks for the great imagery, dear. What a comfort you are to me!”

  The Italians do not hold to such strict safety rules. When we reached their side of the mountains, no blue lights appeared for those risk-taking macho guys. It was every man for himself, and some were in such a hurry that they actually passed each other inside the tunnels. I closed my eyes often and tried to control my impulse to scream. This was our introduction to the Italian way. They drive just as they speak—fast.

  We were happy and relieved (and warmer!) when our spry little car delivered us safely through the mountains to Santa Margherita Ligure, a lovely Italian beach town about twenty miles southeast of Genoa, near Portofino. The sea sparkled below a comfortable balcony in our adorable room, and a little town glittered on the other side of the bay. Down below, rows and rows of precisely placed chaise lounges and umbrellas filled the beach. Uniformed servers tended sun worshippers, bringing drinks and towels on command. It was exactly what I’d always imagined an Italian beach resort would be. Thankfully, my darling Tim had stretched our budget so we could enjoy it in luxury. “Playing rich,” my mother would have called it.

  By now, we’d grown accustomed to planning these mini-vacations between long stays, in the same spirit and for the same reason as a weekend getaway in the United States: to relax and recuperate. Even homefree people need a break from shopping, cooking, and doing the laundry, regardless of where they might be.

  We spent one more vacation night in Livorno at an enormous, recently refurbished hotel, a complete departure from the places in which we’d stayed. It featured what seemed like miles of marble hallways, and gorgeous rooms with high ceilings and lavish bathrooms, but its most unusual feature was a glass infinity swimming pool on top of the building. What a rare treat: to swim while looking out across the Mediterranean. Our sunset dinner on the rooftop terrace offered the perfect conclusion for our little holiday.

  As you probably know by now, Tim and I don’t quarrel much. However, the next day, Florence’s hysterical traffic brought out the worst in both of us. Roundabouts and lights control the traffic flow, and sometimes, they offer four or more possible routes at each exit of a traffic circle. Being
in the wrong lane can prove disastrous, because most of the streets are one-way; there is no such thing as driving around the block to start over. In a more modern city, one would make three right turns, come back to the original street, and turn in the opposite direction. That would do it. Not so in ancient cities because the streets wind in and around one another until the tourist is hopelessly, helplessly LOST. Florence is so crowded that on many streets, cars are parked with wheels halfway onto the sidewalks, leaving barely enough room for a very small vehicle to drive down the middle. Sometimes, our side mirror clicked with a parked car as we crept by. Nerve-racking, to say the least.

  This idiosyncrasy is not peculiar to Florence, or to Italy. Many European cities were founded a thousand or more years ago, and most were developed from the ring pattern, in which the church or cathedral was at its center and all roads radiated from that central circle expanding outward, in all directions, like the rays of the sun leaving their source. That was the intent, anyway. It looks simple on a map, but when driving at eye level in those cities it’s nearly impossible to detect any plan at all.

  Under these adverse conditions, my job was to program Victoria, look at her map, and keep an eye out for the correct turning lane to alert Tim. His job was to execute whatever upcoming, death-defying maneuver was needed to deliver us to our destination without killing anybody. Both of us were so nervous that naturally our conversations got snappy.

  “Hey!” he shouted that first day as I hemmed over which way to go. “Do we go down through that little tunnel or NOT?”

  I scrambled to read the GPS map, which the bright sun had obliterated. “Hang on, the sun has washed out the map. I can’t tell.”