I was going back home. Couldn’t have missed my grandma’s Christmas dinner for the second year in a row. I landed in London on December 24 right after a snow-storm canceled most of the flights of the day and Heathrow had become a yelling jam of disoriented people trying to find out what was going on.
I stood in a line for more than three hours before they informed me that the first available seat on a flight to Milano was in two days; British Airways would have payed for my stay at a hotel next to the airport. No way. I was not going to spend Christmas stranded in the London suburbs. I left Heathrow as fast as I could, took the Tube to Kings Cross and jumped on the first under-the-Channel train. In less than three hours the sun had set, and I was in Paris.
The next train to Milano was leaving the following morning. I had the whole night in front of me; might as well take a walk. I went straight to Montmartre. My Paris lover. Can’t go to Paris without paying her a visit. The bold marble church overlooking the entire city of Romance from the top of those proud steep steps that climb up the hill of painters, the hat of Paris, the prime lookout for Love, my dear Montmartre. I sat there and stared at the sleepy city lights for a long time, lost in deep thoughts; thoughts as deep as in – I’m hungry it’s cold and I have nowhere to go, Merry Christmas.
I’ll walk and keep myself warm and forget about food – that was my idea at first and it kind of worked out perfectly fine until midnight when the wind started blowing stronger and I began shivering and my stomach growling louder and finally had to stop in a restaurant and order some warm food. I ate as slow as I could, postponing the moment when I had to leave the restaurant and jump out on to the cold cobblestones again. Empty streets of Paris and just the echo of my steps. Enormous paper faces laughing at me; I salute them and walk away.
I walked and walked and walked and morning finally came and I was exhausted but only a couple of hours and the train would have ridden me back home. Home. I had been away for more than a year now and was happy to go back and see everybody again. The train left the station and I was looking forward to enjoy the view of the misty French countryside scrolling outside the window, but ended up falling asleep right away.
My last thought before my eyelids shut went to Marie, a cute bright-eyed Parisienne I had met a few years earlier at a straw bale bar on a monsoon afternoon in a palmy beach in Goa, India. I had rented a scooter and took her for a ride on the green rainy country roads along the Ocean. She would hold onto my hip while riding and that little innocent touch felt so intimate and warm and comforting that I wished that ride had lasted forever. She left for good a few days later and I haven’t seen her ever since. I liked her a lot, but never told her so. I’ll write her an email as soon as I get back home…
I woke up in Milano Centrale, got off the train and slowly walked down the platform, still half asleep. I had forgot about Marie. All I could think of at that point was my Grandma’s Christmas dinner. Glad I was not going to miss it this year.
Fuma
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