Have Mother, Will Travel

by Claire Fontaine

  I’m learning to pay more attention to these moments, to notice what notes are being struck within me that make me sit up and say Yes! Ever since that delicious reconnection with myself on the ride back from Chitwan in Nepal, I’ve become very clear that finding my way forward in life isn’t going to come from figuring out what I want to do, but by staying grounded in the person doing the wanting. The very core of my being, my essential, authentic, whatever-you-call-it self never has any trouble knowing what she wants, and certainly never worries about how she’s going to get it. That’s just mechanics. And she never goes away, though I’ve done a good job of shutting her up for a lot of my life.

  The girl on the train watching a prairie sunrise never left me. She’s the one who reached up from deep within when I saw the article about this trip, grabbed me, and gave me a good shake, hollering, Hey, wake up, I’m dyin’ in here!

  Without questioning or analyzing why, I’m supremely content now. I don’t feel any need to say, do, or even think about anything (normally panic-inducing).

  “That is probably her teacher.” My reverie’s interrupted by a lovely gentleman named Peter, who is pointing at the woman in the window.

  If women could design the perfect college professor, it would be Peter: tall, dark, and handsome, modest, gentlemanly, tweed jacket over khakis. He was our second big surprise of the day.

  The first was Plovdiv, Bulgaria’s second-largest city and a World Heritage site. As an art history major, I’m familiar with the Thracians as highly skilled goldsmiths; the biggest hoard of gold jewelry from antiquity ever found was Thracian. They were also powerful warriors eventually conquered in the first century A.D. by Romans, who named the capital Philippoupolis, after Alexander the Great’s papa.

  But I had no idea that Bulgaria is where Thrace lay and that Plovdiv, a city I’d never heard of, is Philippoupolis. Which means it’s older than Rome or Athens, or even Constantinople. And which explains the enormous Roman amphitheater spread out below us, well enough preserved for outdoor concerts. The city was built upon seven peaks (well, it used to be; the Soviets knocked down one hill for the stones).

  Borislav is proving less knowledgeable about Bulgarian history than border politics. He knew how to get us to Plovdiv’s historic area, but little else. We wandered out of a dim church, blinking like moles after admiring murals depicting the liberation of Bulgaria from the Turks by the Russians. We were looking for a kashta, whatever that is, the Milyu statue, and Sveta Nedelya church. Nothing’s marked and there’s almost no one around to ask. Which meant our last scavenge wasn’t likely to happen—have someone teach us the Cyrillic alphabet over a beer at Rehap Tepe, wherever that is.

  Then up walked Peter, briefcase in hand, asking us in English (is it that obvious?) if we needed help. He’s a professor of biology at the university, on his lunch break. Like most Plovdivians, he’s rightfully proud of his city and used to Americans knowing almost nothing about it, or Bulgaria. We gratefully accepted his offer to spend an hour showing us around the historic area on one of the peaks.

  The historic quarter is so beautifully restored that it’s hard to imagine it looked this good when it was first built in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. It’s like stepping into a fairy tale. Block after steep, twisting block of cobblestone streets are filled with fabulous and ornate homes and manors shaded by tall fragrant pines and sycamores. Some are built flush with the street, where their extended second stories form a kind of archway above the lanes. Others are enclosed in courtyards with fountains and gardens. Fruit trees drooping over the stone walls will be heavy with figs and plums in a few months.

  “Most of the homes now are museums and galleries, or used for concerts,” Peter explains as we stroll. We talk about Bulgaria’s economy, his research in zoology, the tensions in the Balkans, which have largely escaped Bulgaria. He leads us down a street to the edge of the peak; there are several huge rocks with views of the city. I must really have turned a chronological corner, because he takes my hand to help me up and down some of the bigger rocks the way I take the hand of someone older.

  Borislav rejoins us for the required beer at a bar called, of course, Rehap Tepe. Peter writes out the alphabet for us on the back of a receipt. Unlike in most of our other cities, we’ve not rushed through Plovdiv, which allowed us to really savor the unique experiences Bill intended these scavenges to be.

  I’m so enjoying the moment I didn’t think about the fact that offering to buy Borislav a beer was probably not a good idea, given the mountain roads we’re about to take across the country on the way to Romania. He’s taken off his leather jacket and pushed up the sleeves of his sweater, baring the most well-carpeted arms I’ve ever seen.

  You know how you sometimes get a feeling that someone understands English better than they let on, because there’ll be that little look or unconscious gesture? Well, Borislav either understands far less English than I thought or he’s a very good actor. Because when Peter laments that he and his wife can’t really afford to have more kids because his monthly salary is roughly what we’re paying Borislav for two days’ work, Borislav’s beer keeps going right down, not a burp or hiccup. I, of course, want to gag on mine.

  Peter returns to work and Borislav gestures that we can take our time walking back. The sun through the tall trees creates a forest of slender sunbeams in Plovdiv’s narrow lanes that makes walking back magical. I fall in behind Mia as she descends a steep, bumpy street.

  I take my time, lagging behind. A yard on one side has a row of fat peonies not fully open, their petals balled up tight like purple cabbages. I run my hands lightly along a tumble of tangled morning glory and grape vines spilling over a high wall, feeling the tiny bright-green balls that will become grapes as the months pass.

  All of a sudden, I’m filled with an unexpected melancholy. It feels like grief almost, my throat catches on an inhale and I have to force myself to swallow tears that seem to be coming not from my eyes but someplace much deeper.

  It’s bewildering and distressing. Where is this coming from? Why here? An hour ago, I felt more authentically happy than I’ve felt in ages. I’m glad I’ve stayed behind because I don’t want to give in to my immediate response to shrug it off. Because I need to notice this, too. I’ve made far more, and bigger, mistakes in my life by ignoring the nos than the yeses.

  What woman hasn’t? If for no other reason than we’re trained from a young age to please, to be a good girl—“Don’t be so negative, smile!” After a while the hesitation, the doubt, the I don’t really wannas are so subtle we can miss them altogether. But there’s always a moment. It may be hard to recall, but there’s always an exact moment when we go underground, twist a no into a yes. And for me it usually feels like this, but I bury it so quickly I just experience it as a drop in energy, a flash of sadness in my body.

  I want to pay attention to this melancholy, but not analyze it. Women can tell themselves all kinds of great stories; we’ll analyze the why of something until we’re disconnected from the raw emotion. I want to simply name it—I’m sad.

  When I worked with families in crisis, I would cut short women’s stories by asking, “If you were sobbing so hard right now that you could only get out one word about what’s going on inside of you, what would it be?” For some women it was easy, immediate. But most would go mute for a moment, then they’d burst into tears and choke out the one word they’d avoided for a long time. The only one that would heal them if they hadn’t been so terrified of it: sad, lonely, hurt, scared, worthless, unlovable, angry.

  Mia stops at the bottom of the road to wait for me, which makes me instantly tense up. I realize that this is one of those exact moments—I’m about to bury all of this on autopilot and put on a smile for her, avoid the vulnerability that once brought us so close and that she’s asked for again. I would have given her the same fake self that’s been passing herself off as me for a good part of my life,
especially these last few years, without blinking, probably without awareness.

  And I’m aware of something else—the first no of that earlier sadness felt deeply right, so utterly authentic I felt my whole body relax; I feel this no, this shutting down, as physically unpleasant, discordant. My jaw is tighter.

  “Loss” passes from my lips on an exhale. My one word.

  “What?” Mia calls as she walks up to meet me.

  “I don’t want to leave here, Mia,” I say quietly, and somewhat bewildered. “I’m sad I’m leaving, like really sad.”

  It’s that simple. I don’t want to leave this shade of green, the peridot-colored tendrils of the vines, or leave the way the air smells and the trees droop. I don’t want to leave the peonies or the old yellow house. The boulders and lush slopes, the moss and lichens in the shadows.

  “I’m sorry you’re down, Mom,” she says softly. “What do you think it is?”

  “I’m not sure. It’s a lovely, simple kind of sad, the way a child feels sad.”

  Her understanding smile melts my heart and makes me happy that I shared this with her.

  “Maybe it’s just having to leave someplace I find so beautiful,” I muse. “Not Meteoros-spectacular, or the grand peaks of the Himalayas—that scale feels off. This is beauty one can live in. This is going to sound stupid, but I had the sudden feeling like I belonged here, like something matches me, my whole body seems tuned in to it. I feel like I’m being dragged away.”

  “Maybe it’s not important to know now,” Mia says as we continue down. “I’m sure it’ll come to you at some point.”

  After a moment, she adds, “I’m glad you told me. I’ve hardly ever heard you acknowledge feeling sad.”

  “I’m almost never aware of it myself. It’s sort of my no-fly zone. That’s the problem with autopilot. You miss half the territory.”

  “What would cheer you up?”

  “Cheer me up? Are you kidding? I’ve never been so happy to feel sad!”

  After a long enough drought, you can get drunk on a thimbleful of authenticity.

  The drive to Rila Monastery is beautiful. So I hear. Borislav, bound and determined to get us there by sunset, drove so wildly through twisty mountain roads that I forced myself to sleep before motion sickness had a chance to set in.

  Two hours later, we stop at a monastic complex surrounded by wilderness. The setting sun has turned the snow on the mountaintops to a soft gold and cast a tawny glow over everything in the valley. Borislav grins in satisfaction when he sees the wonder on our faces, and you just know that if he spoke English he’d say, Now was this worth it or was this worth it?

  From the outside, the monastery is austere, a four-sided fortress of gray stone, but when you step through the main arch and into the cobblestone courtyard, the bright and whimsical interior is a delightful surprise. Surrounding the courtyard are four tall stories of arched porticos, each painted with fat black and white stripes; the walls behind them are painted in thin red and white stripes. An ornately painted five-domed church sits in the courtyard center.

  The complete lack of symmetry and dizzying stripes are zany in an almost Willy Wonka–esque way, creating a visually thrilling frame for the old-world frescoes covering the exterior church walls—azure skies filled with warring angels and demons, Old Testament kings with flowing beards and pale-peach skin, stoic-faced martyrs and apostles.

  The monastery was founded, rather unintentionally, by Ivan Rilski in 927 A.D. Revered as a saint even in his own lifetime, Ivan was a bit of a loner. When the miracles he performed brought him fame throughout the country, he sought solitude by moving to a cave deep in the Rila Mountains. Solitude was short-lived; growing numbers of believers set up camps around his cave to seek his blessing, and their settlements eventually came to form Rila Monastery.

  Every Bulgarian tsar made large contributions to the monastery, which turned it into an important center that kept Bulgarian culture and language alive during the five hundred years of Turkish rule. The monastery also houses the remains of the beloved Tsar Boris III, the ruler who famously defied Hitler by refusing to deport Bulgaria’s fifty thousand Jews to concentration camps.

  My mom’s quiet as we wander through the monastery, and I wonder if she’s thinking about her mother and the Holocaust or if she’s simply spellbound, as I am, by the uniqueness and beauty of this place. I don’t ask, because if she’s not thinking about it, I don’t want to bring it up and possibly ruin the moment for her, and if she is thinking about it, she might lie, not wanting to ruin the moment for me. So we walk side by side, quietly pointing out things the other might have missed.

  I took this trip to figure out what’s been going on with my mom, and, considering I know no more about her daily life today than I did a month ago, I’m not sure I’ve succeeded. But I don’t much care. These past weeks have made me realize that I don’t want to know about her life over the past few years, I want to know her, period. It’s interesting how at some stages in life I’ve needed to point out our differences, to stake out a separate identity, but at others, like now, I feel like understanding her will help me understand myself.

  Especially given we have more in common than I thought. Listening to her talk in Cairo about being lost and confused in her late teens and very early twenties was sad, because I think she might have been happier if she’d made different college and career choices, but part of me was pleased. I’ve only ever known her as determined, focused, and self-possessed, none of which I’ve felt much of the past few years, and therefore none of which I’ve wanted to talk to her about.

  “I’m glad I decided to go with you to France, Mom,” I say suddenly.

  She turns from the fresco she’d been studying to look at me.

  “Me too, monkey,” she says with a smile, using my childhood nickname.

  It’s silent for a minute until I realize I’ve been waiting for her to ask why, and that she’s not going to.

  “Well, you know I wanted to go to France to spend time together and all that—which I definitely do—but remember when you asked me in China why I left my life?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yeah, well, aside from feeling like you were being ungrateful, it pissed me off because it was the first time I was confronted with the fact that I came just as much to get away from my life. I’d never say I was unhappy—I was having a lot of fun, I love New York and being with my friends—but I wasn’t at the best place with myself. I was aware of elements that really weren’t working for me, but I couldn’t put my finger on it so I sort of shelved that feeling of . . . I don’t know, maybe a nagging discomfort would be the right term?”

  Partially because it’s getting late and partially because I just don’t feel like it, I don’t go into the specifics, the part that I can put my finger on now—not feeling grown-up, not liking my body, not liking my job but not knowing what to do instead.

  “Generally, I didn’t know what I was doing and just felt kind of lost. Which is why I loved listening to you in Cairo—I totally related to it, and had no clue you ever felt like that. Yes, sometimes I don’t like telling you things because it’s like opening the advice floodgates, but sometimes I don’t talk to you about feeling insecure or confused because it’s kind of embarrassing. My whole life you’ve known what you wanted to do, you’re extremely self-possessed, and don’t even get me started on body issues, because you’ve never had to deprive yourself of baklava!”

  My mom’s five foot seven and thin, despite eating like a horse and rarely exercising. I’m five foot three and, even when exercising, am of average weight.

  She shakes her head and looks at me, a little surprised.

  “Mia, just because I didn’t have to watch my weight doesn’t mean I didn’t feel insecure. Looking ‘ethnic’ is exotic now, but when I was growing up, Bo Derek and Farrah Fawcett were in vogue—and I had black hair, olive skin,
and big lips. And the confidence I felt when I was twenty-five was only because I was doing what I thought I should be doing. If I’d been truly confident, I’d have gone to medical school. Your questioning yourself and what you really want, even if it creates anxiety for you, also means you’re more likely to consciously choose your life. Assuming you pay attention, that is, rather than continue shelving it,” she adds pointedly.

  “I know; that’s why I said I was glad I’m going to France. If I went back to New York right now I think I’d be more aware for a few weeks but I’d go back to business as usual pretty soon.”

  “I’m glad you realize that. And I hope you also realize that unless you regularly allow time for solitude and reflection, you’ll probably go back to business as usual once you’re home, even after a whole summer away. Think about it, Mia, you’re basically always available, by text, tweet, e-mail, Facebook; you guys even sleep with your cell phones. You’re never truly alone in the way that matters most—in your own mind; part of it’s always on alert, listening to see how much you matter to everyone else. All of my formative years, unless I was in school or happened to be home when that plastic box on our kitchen wall rang, most the time my mind was mine, walking, driving, studying, doing chores. Being by yourself is a big part of how you get a sense of self. I think you’re all scared to death to unplug and find out how much you really matter. It doesn’t seem to be enough for you to matter just to you.”

  She’s just given me a lot to think about but it’s well past dark and Borislav is waiting, leaning against the courtyard wall and staring up at the half-moon gleaming silver. Something else occurs to me.

  “You know what’s funny, Mom?” I ask, laughing a little. “Right now, at fifty, your life is more similar to mine than if we’d both been in our twenties.”