I was young once

My dad and I always said that one day we would visit London together.  This is important because my dad and I are two of a kind.  Particularly this is true because my dad and I are able to sit on a Saturday afternoon and listen to old love songs and talk about life and poetry and heroes and very particularly we can talk of certain feelings of nostalgia as if they were books or paintings- understanding each other quite well.

"I walked by the gas station last summer on a very hot day- and I heard children's chatter.  It has been so many years since I took the time to listen to children's chatter." - My dad says.

And so- we chose London because my father at twenty went to live and work there for a while.  I had never been before and I wouldn't have wanted to under any circumstance.

"September 28? Until October 4th?"
"Yes."
"Done..."

And so began our little trip together.  Might I mention that my father and I had never taken a trip longer than a weekend together in all 27 years of my existence.

Our flight was as expected. Upon arrival in London my father suggested a taxi to our hotel.  I wanted to take the train.  He was hesitant at first, but allowed me to take a bit of a lead in the matter and this was the first unusual little happening.  Our train ride to the South Kensington guts of London was a beautiful and significant moment.  The train was unfamiliar to my dad and seemed very much like the layout of Paris or New York or any large city to me.  And so I watched my father as I stood guarding the luggage.  I watched his nostalgia for the old and forgotten awaken along with some fear of the new and unknown.  After observing the people around him for a while I saw a smile emerge.  Surely this was the beginning of what would be a beautiful experience together.

Our hotel was situated very close to his previous habitation.  And so generally speaking our trip was the brilliant balancing act between my youthful familiarity with what's current and my father's classic tastes and general romance with this city.  We had teas and coffees and selfies and shopping and proper breakfast every morning.  We also just so happened to be there for fashion week- London.

Our days were spent with no specific plan just a general location where we would head.  Yet somehow we always ended up in Piccadilly.  We had long walks in Hyde Park and talked about the 70s and how in time there are always rebells that live life as if it were a little game- reminiscent of Antoine Doniel.  I wondered about his youth there and how the city had changed in 40 years.  For the first time in a while I was enjoying the present while remembering a yesterday I never intimately knew.  My father took me to a musical about the Kinks and we ended up sitting next to the writer. We went to discover the new Notting Hill which now sold $300 underwear.

Dad and I Selfie in Hyde Park

This trip was in a way the marking of a new beginning.  My dad and I are in the middle now, where he offers me advice and wisdom and I offer him  a sense of insight to a changing world. Together the world is ours and this time in life is a beautiful place to be.

The Ring Thief

One late night, not too long ago, I came around to watching a movie that was overdue.  A classic.  The Bicycle Thief.  I so often avoid movies that I know I will like quite a bit because whenever I am exposed to something that touches the very base of my soul, there is a certain level of unease that arises and torments me.  I did like the bicycle thief as I knew I would.  It wasn't the grand characters or the alluring plot that made me chuckle at the all to familiar.  Rather, it was the reiteration of some known truths that are so well portrayed in the simple tale.  The circumstances in the movie are not so extraordinary, they are transcendent beyond the specifics.  The movie reminded me of a small event in my youth that aimed to teach me the same lessons at such a young age.  When I was about 13 years old I went to visit my grandmother.  She always woke up and headed to the local market quite early on Wednesdays in the summer, mainly to avoid the heat which ruthlessly beat on the foreheads of those not too wise to it, or too young to notice.  I found myself on such a Wednesday, waking up quite early and keeping my grandmother company.  This hot summer day in particular was close to my birthday.  And so, as many times before on special occasions, my grandmother decided to take me to choose a birthday gift.  I found in a small jewelry store the most elegant ring of yellow gold that tied in a perfect bow in the front.  This was quite a unique and meaningful gift given to me at age 13.  The ring was very meaningful to me and continues to be so.  When I went back home and ultimately to school after that long summer, I often wore my ring.  One day I took off this ring before my gym class and left it on top of many other things in a small locker.  Under some evil spell of unawareness, I must have forgotten about the ring and flung it as I removed my belongings.  The following day, as if this evil spell were continuously plaguing me, I caught sight of an elegant, golden bow enchanting the finger of another girl in my gym class.  I asked her of course if she had found the ring.  Then more and more aggressively I pleaded.  Oh I pleaded and begged and promised that I wouldn't tell anyone and that I wouldn't even remember her misunderstanding and that this ring meant a lot to me.  Had I the mind then to buy a heck saw and retrieve what was mine.  But I didn't.  And I don't.  This is the lesson of The Bicycle Thief.  I never got my ring back, and I probably never will.  And that is the rotten luck of some people.  How easy such things come to some people! And yet some, even when their life and happiness depend on it such as Antonio Ricci or myself at age 13 cannot sum up the courage to be ruthless and we suffer as we silently watch.  The movie teaches us that when we act forcefully out of character, the universe will tame us with a whip so taught, it will make us wonder with awe at how anyone can sum up courage to execute such deviant tasks.  And so the real retribution comes not in an eye-for-an-eye philosophy, but in the brutal memory.  Surely as I remember the theft of my grandmother's ring, she who stole it remembers how she was able to carelessly hurt someone and a shadow of shame must weigh over her.  But ultimately honesty does not triumph.  Because now, I do not have anything to hold that will remind me of a sweet lady that cared for me so much.  My grandmother passed away 11 years ago on this day.  I have stories of her. Stories of a nurse during a war that crawled across a mountain with a wound in her leg.  I have memories of a sweet woman whose meals were made with love and who traveled far to see me at an old age.  Yes, it will take more than a ring thief to affect the good memory of my grandmother.