When we get back

 

When we get back 

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My friends, Nancie and Julie were touring Italy for two weeks. Their husbands showed no interest in Italy. The women said, “That’s okay. We will go by ourselves. Keep the home fires burning. When we get back we will have so much to tell you.”

If I went to Italy, I’d choose a small village, maybe near Lake Como, and stay for the duration, get to know that area, maybe even get to know some of the people. Same plan if I wanted a city immersion.

However, for an overview to hit the high spots, tours are a great way to see a lot of country quickly.

We all knew that the women would be too busy, too much on the go, to send reports. Nancie is her family photographer, so she sent photos almost daily, photos of famous palaces and cathedrals and statues, pictures of hotel rooms, shots of food, of restaurants, of streets, of stores.

Based on their photos and my own tours or tour-ship watching, I have taken liberties and extrapolated their trip.

On only two days, her photos included a picture of herself and of Julie. Each time, sitting at plates of food. Looking glad. Or, looking exhausted. One of them seemed to be thinking, “This is it? This is all?” Or, maybe her feet hurt.

When the women returned, they said, “Oh, it was marvelous.” “We saw so much.”  “Would you like more coffee?” “This weather is ruinous. I can’t believe the garden looks so—ragged.”

They don’t tell us about the other people on the tour. No mention is made of lumpy beds, welcome nonetheless, at the end of a day tromping through museums, churches, up streets, down streets.

They don’t tell us how glad they were to kick their shoes off aching feet at the end of each day.

“Hurry, hurry,” the guide says, “We’ve so much to show you. Fifteen minutes here and meet back at the bus.”

We don’t hear about the strange foods, though many plates rated photos. The only meal with honorable mention was fish and chips in Sorrento. They neglect to say that some meals were merely bread and coffee, because the plate in front of them, “Well, we couldn’t eat ‘that’, could we?”

We know they walked through innumerable Cathedrals, each one breathtakingly beautiful, hurried, scurried through ‘because there is a schedule to keep so we can see everything’, until each Cathedral mushed together into one, like mashed potatoes.

Our friends don’t tell us about all the jewelry stores on the list (expensive) or the tourist trinket stores (cheap, imported from China).

They don’t mention the buff young men or dissolute middle-aged men who might have approached them, offering ‘private tours’, because all American women tourists are rich. And who can blame them for wanting to help themselves.

No mention is made of street vendors, in their faces, pushy, relentless, loud.

Neither woman mentions the smells. Venice, Rome, Florence, each has its own odor, even in the tourist areas, and nobody is encouraged to explore outside the designated tourist area.

The photos they show us are not equipped with sound. What is the street noise like? Every city sounds different.

They don’t talk about their companions in the tour group. About the giggly matron who is revealed to be so kind behind her provocative mask, dressed like she is fifteen. Or the man who drinks too much, always laughing, to ward away the tears. Or the couple, we know they are a couple, who never speak, never look at each other, don’t touch. Or the kind person who seems to know how to put everyone at ease. Or, the pair at the back of the bus, the back of every queue, content within themselves.

I made up the parts about other people. Details may vary, but I know from experience it is true enough.

They have so much to tell us, but they cannot, can they? How do you condense each day with thousands of new experiences into a conversation? Over the years, individual memories will pop up, in relation to something seen or something said. We will get a glimpse. Meanwhile . . .

“We have so much to tell you.”

But they don’t.

 

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

How can October be over? Boo!

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