Torino to Carcassonne, France
Less than three hours after successfully printing copies of the Donne di Pace contact sheet and working online for an hour, I am awake again (read: went to sleep at 3 am and woke up at 5:45 am). I can hear Dena’s chiding. I know this is not good for my health. I pack quickly and go downstairs for the goodbye/see you laters—we all pile into the van for one last spin around Italy to get each woman to an airport or a train. My ride is short—three blocks to the Torino train station. A quick departure in the still dark morning, Ciao, Dobreutra, Goodbye. I arrived in Italy with little idea about the women I would meet; I leave with a new Italian father and eight new mothers!
I board the train and promptly fall asleep. I wake up intermittently, each waking is a still frame of an 8 mm film: Dark desolate train station stop; pink smear in an aqua sky quivering over a field of snow-dusted grass and wine vines and inside the train a gaggle of high school boys en route to school; tall, jagged snow-covered peaks; rock walls; piercing sun that burns through my sleep; then the French conductor is asking for the ticket and everything has changed—the little cobblestone houses, the scrambling rocks and the Mediterranean scrub forest, the language and the demeanor of the people. I remember all the reasons why I love Italy so much, a place that is becoming a new home, and all the ways that the French terrain is still so foreign, with its plump distribution of vowels, glittering sunshine, and neatly arranged harbors. But the next snapshot is desert-like: prickly pear cacti, red rocks like Sedona, sage-colored brush and Spanish-style houses, and to the left the sea. Home is always a relative term.
I arrive after dark in Carcassonne and as I crest the top of a flight of stairs, I see Kristin and Jordan and a friend who has driven them to the train station. They are bright and glowing and it feels as if I am in a dream-- having planned this journey for the past two weeks--that is at once surreal and tangible. We pack into the car and zoom towards Montoleou—a small village further inland. We wind our way through the little streets of this castle-like village and then pull into the street of Krsitin’s house. We go up the white staircase and into a house that is made of the most beautiful wood I have ever seen. The floors and sidewalls are all finished with a light oak, and in random places old stones or planks of dark wood jut out. We eat together—the most warming squash and coconut milk soup and chicken and fresh ginger tea—and then we make a fire and we sit by the fire talking. Jordan curls up and falls asleep on the corduroy beanbag chair and Kristin and I talk into the night.
I board the train and promptly fall asleep. I wake up intermittently, each waking is a still frame of an 8 mm film: Dark desolate train station stop; pink smear in an aqua sky quivering over a field of snow-dusted grass and wine vines and inside the train a gaggle of high school boys en route to school; tall, jagged snow-covered peaks; rock walls; piercing sun that burns through my sleep; then the French conductor is asking for the ticket and everything has changed—the little cobblestone houses, the scrambling rocks and the Mediterranean scrub forest, the language and the demeanor of the people. I remember all the reasons why I love Italy so much, a place that is becoming a new home, and all the ways that the French terrain is still so foreign, with its plump distribution of vowels, glittering sunshine, and neatly arranged harbors. But the next snapshot is desert-like: prickly pear cacti, red rocks like Sedona, sage-colored brush and Spanish-style houses, and to the left the sea. Home is always a relative term.
I arrive after dark in Carcassonne and as I crest the top of a flight of stairs, I see Kristin and Jordan and a friend who has driven them to the train station. They are bright and glowing and it feels as if I am in a dream-- having planned this journey for the past two weeks--that is at once surreal and tangible. We pack into the car and zoom towards Montoleou—a small village further inland. We wind our way through the little streets of this castle-like village and then pull into the street of Krsitin’s house. We go up the white staircase and into a house that is made of the most beautiful wood I have ever seen. The floors and sidewalls are all finished with a light oak, and in random places old stones or planks of dark wood jut out. We eat together—the most warming squash and coconut milk soup and chicken and fresh ginger tea—and then we make a fire and we sit by the fire talking. Jordan curls up and falls asleep on the corduroy beanbag chair and Kristin and I talk into the night.
posted by rae @ 9:25 PM
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