It happened in Yugoslavia, in 1961. I had just got married when with a group of librarians I was scheduled for a tour through Europe. "You are lucky," an older colleague was commenting. "Your Jozo will let you travel without him. My Steva is not interested in traveling but wouldn't let me go by myself either." Unaccustomed to married life; I was taken aback, but also relieved to know that I had missed at least one of the possible Scilas and Haribdas of marriage. Back at home, in our small, rented apartment, I excitedly shared it with my husband, and his quiet, understanding smile followed me on my way, warming my heart. From now on, there would be someone at home to come back to. Now, I too will have somebody to pick me up when we come back. In the past, I could only watch others being greeted by shiny faces and kisses. That new, warm feeling followed me all along the way.
The target of our trip were the libraries, museums, and galleries of the major European metropoles. At that time it was illegal to take more than a very small amount of Yugoslav currency out of the country and we had no foreign currency of any kind. Under those conditions even the modest restaurants seemed expensive, so we packed and took with us plenty of canned food, chocolate, and lemons.
The tour was exciting and enjoyable. The autumn weather, mild and sunny, made it possible to walk throughout the cities without having to take a bus or other transportation. Then, we believed that a new city could be seen, and the atmosphere felt, only by walking through it. After some time, though, our luggage started feeling heavier and heavier, in spite of the fact that the food from it was rapidly decreasing. I certainly missed the presence of my husband who always liked to exhibit his athletic strength in front of me. What was heavy for me would have been a toy for him! More and more, even the overnight sleep did not seem to bring enough rest for our tired feet.
Additionally, our limited resources did not allow us to visit some famous but expensive places that we had read about and longed to see for years. In cases like that, I would, at least, take a picture of the facade, fearful that the pictures may not be good enough. Jozo had been an instructor of photography during his high school years!
True, I could not dine at Chez Maxim (and didn't even wish to do that, all by myself), but I could take a fine shot of its entrance. As for the Follies Bergere and Moulin Rouge, to see them from the outside was all I wanted anyway, since there was no chance of meeting Toulouse Lautrec there anymore! I took a series of pictures of Notre Dame, Les ponts sur la Seine (where I thought about my husband, singing softly Under the Bridges of Paris). I visited Sorbonne and Louvre inside and out. The spell of the Impressionist paintings from Jeau de Paume lingered in my memories for a long, long time. So did the scenes of the shabby but content clochars on the city pavements, the bearded painters from the parks of Montmartre, and the streetwalkers (les dames de nuit) of Pigalle, the picturesque bouquinistes on the banks of the River Seine, and the overall beauty of the Paris streets and parks in the autumn glory. All these memories stayed with me, making me strangely sad and happy at the same time, while the tour constantly offered new and fresh attractions and excitements.
The reality of the aching feet, however, was with me constantly, the food running short, and the purse empty, while we headed toward Monaco and the French Riviera. No plans to gamble at the Casino in Monte Carlo, but we certainly peeped into its spacious hall and observed some "rich looking people"coming in and out. After that, we walked the stony streets of the tiny princedom of Monaco, expecting any minute to run into Grace Kelly or some other member of her family. That we did not.
I managed to add a personal touch to the Monaco memories by losing a brooch of a high sentimental (if modest monetary) value while studying the windows of what I felt sure was Grace's and Renier's bedroom. It may have happened while I was hungrily ogling windows of the elegant shops displaying gift boxes with candied fruit. Quite starved, I thought the fruit never seemed more enticing nor have I ever wanted something so badly!
It seems unbelievable to me now that we had ever been in a position like that. But times were different then, sixteen years after the WWII. However restricted in finances and luxury, that tour had been one of the most enjoyable ones. Our youth and enthusiasm made up for whatever else had been lacking, and it turned everything into an enchanted dream-come-true. I did not really want what I could not have had. Just to walk with my husband those same streets once walked by Victor Hugo or Cezanne. To see the bouquinistes selling their rare books and prints along the same old (but always young and ageless) River Seine, or the street artists drawing portraits on the pavements for a couple of sous; just to sit in the pretty little park by Notre Dame where Katherine Mansfield had watched toddlers play. To observe in awe the white, majestic dome of the Sacre Coeur cathedral was enough to make me feel richer than Rothschild. All those experiences have become precious possessions that no one can take away from me. And although I have been back to Paris many times since, nothing has ever threatened to surpass those first impressions. Sure, later the regulations changed and we were allowed to take out more money and to buy foreign currency, so I could stay in good hotels, eat in fine restaurants, or use local transportation, but the excitement of that first visit to Paris has never been reached again. I would not trade those golden memories for any luxuries of so-called "better times."
From Monaco and Monte Carlo we headed toward Italy. Venice greeted us majestically, blazing in the sun. Happy, loud music was heard from everywhere, white doves fluttered on the Piazza San Marco. People were humming or whistling, laughing loudly, or shouting greetings from across the piazzas, while opening their little shops displaying the Murano glass, jewelry, gifts, and knickknacks. Venice was full of tourists as it has always been and will be. We soon forgot about our aching feet, gnawing stomachs, and empty pockets, and joined the happy crowd enjoying the sunshine and music, the ever-present smell concocted of the sea, pizza, and spices. Black stately gondolas swayed dreamily on the murmuring waves of the Venetian street-canals, and all the garbage and food leftovers floating upon the surface could not mar the everlasting inexplicable beauty of the eternal Sinking City. The aroma of spicy pastas, spaghetti sauce, and what-not lingered in the hot air and joined the smell of leather goods hanging in front of the crammed little shops that sold everything imaginable from bottles of Chianti to corkscrews and mish-mash a la Italienne! There were so many little, charming things I craved to buy my newly married husband, yet at that point I, like everybody else, was literally penniless.
Although beautiful, Venice attacked all of our senses simultaneously and powerfully, draining us even more. Soon, full of exciting memories, our suitcases containing only dirty laundry and a few small gifts, we boarded the train for home. To our clean beds, to our home cooked meals. Home, sweet home!
At the railway station in Ljubljana, Slovenia, we had only about ten minutes of stay. There I was supposed to meet, if only briefly, my husband who had been there on a business trip. The train was due early in the morning. It was cold and foggy. The station looked deserted at that lonely hour. Tired and sleepless, several young women were clustered around the train window. I was there to look for my husband, they out of curiosity.
With a shrill whistle muffled by the heavy fog, the train was slowly approaching the empty platforms. My husband was already there, running along and smiling at me, holding a bouquet of chrysanthemums. I bent over the window and kissed him awkwardly, conscious of being watched. When he handed me the flowers, I stammered:
"I'm hungry. We are all starved. No money left. Spent a long time ago."
He did not wait for me to finish, but ran to the station buffet and brought back an armful of sandwiches, fruits, candies. Handing it happily to me, he just stood there watching me and smiling.
"I crave a cooked meal. I've dreamed of an omelet for over a week now." I blushed apologetically.
"Go to the wagon restaurant and have all you want," he said smiling, handing me some money. "Give some to your friends, too." Another shy kiss and the train are slowly pulling out of the station, accelerating. He is still standing there waving as long as I could see him.
Then, heartlessly, I left the flowers on the seat and headed toward the restaurant. I, who love flowers so much that feel pain if they are not put in water right away. What will starvation do to a human being! All I wanted was a restaurant and a huge omelet. I ordered it without looking at the menu.
Nothing ever tasted so good as that omelet in the dining car near Ljubljana in 1961. After that, happy and full, I returned to my seat and the rest of the trip was uneventful.
Years passed. My husband and I bought a fine home, and furnished it, as we have always wanted. We both worked and were well situated. Since we both love to travel, we took every chance that had presented to us. The times changed and there were hardly any restrictions on travel abroad. We had a foreign account, which made it easy to shop anywhere in the world. Travel agencies offered comfortable tours by air (no more train trips), luxurious accommodation and full board (no more canned food, no more walking through the big cities and soaking our feet in the hotel sink afterward). The store windows did not look so tempting anymore. The stores in Belgrade were just as luxurious as anywhere else, and Jozo brought me presents from his trips abroad. All I had to do was tell him what I wanted. But, soon enough, I did not want anything anymore.
That is when I noticed that something was missing in my life. With nostalgia, I remembered those days when he surprised me with a bunch of timid chrysanthemums and a smile of quiet pride and admiration.
Even more time passed, and I lost my husband of twenty years to brain cancer. Another twenty years, now, of a lonely, single life taught me that it would take much less to be happy now. If we could only, in our old age, be together, sharing those happy memories, saying from time to time to each other, "Remember when..."
But, I am alone, aging and remembering.