The mystery’s within, akin to the mystery’s of the world. That of which I haven’t seen, I come to wonder if is even real. The greatness of the Coliseum. Is it truly that grand? Does the strength of the pillars stand in a resistance against time? Against revolution and reconciliation? Or is that of what I haven’t seen non existent. A picture and story made for me by the media. A picture and a story I make for others in the media, of strength and perseverance of self. Both of which I have yet to see, but have set out to find.
“Tickets?”
I looked up, snapped from foggy early morning dreams of coming croissants and rich histories of enclosing corridors. I fumble through my carry on bag, searching for the boarding passes but was already shuffled to the side to be pat down.
Upon boarding the plane, a couple returning to Paris sat behind us. She wore big glasses, circular and dark. They concealed her eyes and the stories of her travels behind them. I looked out the plane side window at the setting sun. The colors of pink clouds concealed our plane, unlike what I had ever seen before. My boyfriend and travel partner, reached for my hand. As I hoped for our trip be as consistent as the daily setting sun, but as unpredictable and beautiful as the colors that paint the sky. I wished I had big circle glasses to veil our coming stories.
A kaleidoscope of events developed spilling out in front of me once landing. The men in the airport carried guns and didn’t show amusement at my confusion of where the train station was.
Accordion music ran through the station, which we eventually stumbled upon, and graffiti covered tunnels, with laundry ridden rooftops unfolding out the train window as we vaulted through the rural areas into the city.
Cobblestones streets not fit for cars, showed off locals walking, dressed in flowing skirts. Faces of red lipstick floated, passing me by. Lovers on bikes returned from work with red wine and flowers in baskets.
Rain came down in the evening and we rushed between stores, concealing loafs of bread under our shirts as not to get drenched by the downpour. We entered a thrift store and I got lost within the drapery of luxurious scarves. The cashier spoke to a customer in English and I eavesdropped from behind a rack of Levi’s jeans.
“Such poor weather today.” Said the cashier nodding to the glass door that was stained with rain drops.
“I think it’s romantic, when it rains in Paris”.
This sentence dripped in his French accent, soaking in authenticity of what Paris meant to him. He picked up the neatly wrapped item that he purchased and opened the glass door, the brown paper package meeting the rain. I never understood why these two spoke in English but part of me likes to think the conversation was only meant to be heard by me, a backpacker from Canada, spending her first time in Paris looking for history between the rows of embellished corsets.
I burst out into the street. Joyful with the Persian rain, that I now deemed to be romantic. A little girl stared at her reflection in the thrift shop’s window. Her red raincoat was reflected on the glass in a smudgy blur of streaky raindrops. I paused in front of the window too. My stripped red shirt blended with hers in the reflection as the rain distorted the bodies into one. Our reflections smiled back at each other in the shop window.
The train to Amsterdam was filled with people clutching baguettes and we found our way to first class, not because we had the tickets but because no one asked to see them. We arrived in Amsterdam with one night booked for a hostel above a street of bars.
The streets were amassed with Dutch citizens celebrating Independence day, and between the celebrations and chaos of the first night, it became very apparent that there was nothing to be booked for the remainder of our stay.
The next destination was Germany, but the family we planned to stay with, would not be expecting us for another night. Despite this shortcoming, we spent the day outside of the city center peeking in the houses that once harbored Jewish people during the Second World War.
The streets glistened with sunshine that banished the rain and the houses whispered stories in the creaks of their staircases. I listened to the voices of the homes and their owners until dark blanketed the rural areas of outer Amsterdam, and we returned to the lights of the city, still with nowhere to go.
The night lead us to a bar, illuminated with green lights that bounced off tequila shots and words between old friends. My head grew heavier while waiting for day in the green bar. As the bartender left his station to clean the glasses from the nearby tables, thoughts of Paris and the little girl in the window, flooded to me. She and I the same. The bartender and I the same. The houses along the historic streets and this very bar the same. Homes and people. People looking for homes, in houses, in bars, in people, in themselves. Only to find that they are all the same. That home is none but a feeling, and that others are reflections of ourselves no matter how far we go. The mysteries of the world are as wondrous as those within each of us, even though we may not always see them. I lay my head on the table and close my eyes for a moment letting the weight the wood hold me and blocking out the green light with the heaviness of my eyelids.
I did end up standing in front of the Roman Coliseum on my trip, and It was indeed great. The pillars are truly resilient and it was how the media depicted. I passed by people who held within deep secrets and sights that murmured mysteries. We spent more nights without places to stay, and sought refuge on trains in which we didn’t have tickets for, but I can’t help but think about the little girl in the window. About how all the sites I pass and people I meet are all the same as I. Full of mystery torn between believing it or having to see it.
We found ourselves back in the airport a month later. Our backpacks heavier and shoulders sorer. I went to an in airport bakery for a final chocolate croissant, even though the pastry already didn’t taste the same as the ones from the heart of Paris. Maneuvering my way through the souvenir stands, I saw one selling large circular sunglasses. I slipped them onto my face and handed the vendor the last of my euros. Boarding the plane back to Canada, leaving the home that I made in Europe, and bringing with me the memories I made, hidden behind big glasses, but a bit less mystery.