A Roundabout Passage to Venice

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Memories and Echoes from

My mother’s ever-present Daily Journal

Recounted & woven together

By Patricia Steele

DEDICATED TO MY MOTHER,

NEYDA BETTENCOURT

A special thank you to Chloe Guerber-Cahuzac, who made our week in Paris easy and memorable; her parents Bertrand and Brigitte in Beauvais, France; Silvain and Janine Vinnier in Pertuis, France; Bernadette and Claude Frenot in Beaurecueil, France; Romeo and our esteemed Italian tour mates.  Without all of you and the many friends along the way, this book could not have been written – and without a doubt to Nancy Earl who introduced me to my first trip to France and world travel.

I’ll drink to that.

A lifetime of pent-up dreams, a year of blissful conversations, and the big day finally arrived.  We’d flipped through a gaggle of magazines and travel brochures.  Our airline tickets and passports were stowed in our bags.  Enthusiasm mounted and today our dreams would come to fruition!

After listening to endless hours of French conversation spewing into weary ears, our heads were awhirl with words and phrases.  Then, Mom decided she would defer all French conversation to me.  I memorized Ou est la toilette?, Where is the toilet? and Jous voudrais un verre de vin. We would like a glass of wine. What other words could we possibly need besides booking our rooms, a phrase that was already indelibly etched in my head?

And Mom depended on me.

Despite her anxiety about leaving her husband for three weeks, excitement still reigned. Dad’s glistening eyes belied his pleasure as her dream of a European holiday would soon be realized.  He’d spent months in Europe during his military days with no desire to return.  Although both emotional, they kissed good-bye, she promised to call and our return date was written on the calendar back home.

Let’s back up a few months and I’ll begin our story. 

Since I yearned for a return visit to France, my suggestion was, Let’s go to France, Mom.  I mean it!  We just save our money and buy a ticket.

She’d looked at me with a quizzical smile and slowly shook her head.  Oh, honey.  I couldn’t leave Dad..... 

Since her dream of Europe had lain dormant far too long, I dug in my heels.  And she was hoping I would.....So, we started making plans to visit my friends, the Vinniers, in Pertuis, located in the south of France (Provence) and our young friend, Chloe, who had an apartment in Paris.

Once Mom realized our trip would soon be a reality, she mentioned a desire to ride the Chunnel Train.  What???  But Mom, we’d have to fly into London because that’s where it starts......  What happened to flying straight to Paris? My mind skidded like tiny pebbles beneath my feet.

Yes, I know, honey.  But you know I’ve always wanted to see London too... and we could take the Chunnel Train to Paris... it goes under the English Channel and into Calais.  Chloe can meet our train and guide us through Paris to that bed and breakfast you found for us. 

Her words blended together all in one breath like a train gathering steam.  I recognized her anxiety; she was afraid if she stopped mid-stream she might miss something or I might stop her.  Mom had definitely done her research, so today we were flying to London, England; that leg of our trip was settled.  The rest, she had fed to me in stages.

And you know I’ve always wanted to see Venice, honey.  I’ve dreamed of Dad taking me, but he just doesn’t want to go to Europe at all.  I’ve visualized Venice and the gondoliers on the Grand Canal in so many books I’ve read... well, I can see us there.  Her blue-green eyes sparkled expectantly.

I remember glancing at her, sure she was joking.  Her lips stretched in a smile.  And I knew she wasn’t joking at all. But, Mother!  That’s. In.  Italy!!  I couldn’t believe how our trip to France was ballooning into a European walkabout.

Yes, I know it is, dear.  We can take one of those little tour buses I’ve read about, so no worries about driving and following maps like we plan to do in France.  AAA magazine is filled with them and your travel agent could surely line it all up for us.  Then, we can take a train from France to Rome and see the Mediterranean Sea.  The say the Mediterranean is a sight to behold.  To see it personally instead in films, well.....  Yes, the woman had definitely done her homework and I knew I was sunk.  Cooked.  Done.  Without a doubt.  Sunk.

I called my travel agent, who began making arrangements that included our flights and the tour in Italy.  She was very helpful and I was so relieved the details were in her hands.  I found London and Paris hotels on the internet, but left the airline and tour arrangements to her......never imagining the fiasco ahead. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Mom?  Well, she left ALL the arrangements to me.  She said that was one of the best parts of our trip, she didn’t have to think, just follow me, let me speak French and have fun.  Well, I straightened my shoulders and focused dead ahead.  I began preparing folders and packets of information while she continued to cut out articles, save magazines and call me periodically with places we had to see!  Delightful anticipation, while preparing for our trip, kept us breathlessly contemplating a world so far away and most of the butterflies at bay.

I registered for a French conversation class at the local school and practiced placing my tongue on the roof of my mouth to mimic the French sounds.  The teacher assured me I would pick it up quickly.  I wasn’t so sure.  Where does that flumpy sound come from? I wondered.

Mom and I also borrowed French conversation tapes.  For months, I’d listened to a Frenchman repeat specific words and phrases in my car during my daily commute to and from work.  I succinctly repeated after him and jabbed the rewind button to listen again and again.  I was determined to speak French.  Oui!

We were told if we could speak or understand Spanish a little, we would understand Italian so we didn’t try to learn that language too.  I knew a few Italian words and hoped my smattering of Spanish would carry us through.  I would soon learn she was wrong or I was Italian-dumb. 

Travel always transforms us -—whether we like it or not -—in subtle ways or in permanent ones.  It gives us new perspectives, new ideas about ourselves and the world we live in.  But sometimes a trip is more than just a trip; sometimes it flirts with transcendence.  These are journeys we remember forever.  And this was definitely going to be one of them. 

Mom’s 65th birthday was at the end of the month. I was 48, single again after walking away from a turbulent 22-year marriage, and happier than I’d been in too long to remember.  We focused on maps and a quest for adventure.  Looking forward to a mother-daughter trip and the pictures we would enjoy long after our return to reality, made it a time of dreamy contemplation for Mom and a time of renewed freedom for me.  We were healthy, adventurous, impulsive and ready for whatever Europe could throw at us.  I would find out soon enough that I would have trouble keeping up with Mom.  But today, we were ready!

England 

Instead of a bundle of nerves, Mom was calm; she’d already been packed and ready to go for a week!  I was a bit dazed, but she forged ahead like a seasoned world traveler.  Our itinerary was mapped out and carefully stowed away with purses full of English pounds and French francs.  It looked like play money in a Monopoly game, neatly folded and waiting for action.   (Euros had not been implemented yet.)

We flew into Cincinnati, Ohio at dusk and enjoyed our layover, each with a glass of red wine at a little table overlooking the city before boarding another plane at nine.  Our pilot introduced himself via intercom with the intriguing name of Parker Lovelady.  We giggled like children, setting the tone for the camaraderie and laughter that would dog our amazing trip across Europe. 

We burrowed down to sleep in the cramped seats, hoping to arrive rested when we taxied into London.  Mom carried a miniature pillow, which had been folded and stuffed inside her pink carry-on bag.  She couldn’t sleep well without it, so no matter where we went or how much stuff she put into that case, that small pillow took top priority. 

At dawn, the tantalizing aroma of freshly-brewed coffee wafted toward us as the morning sun peeked through the edges of our window shade.  We smiled at one another, surprised we’d slept so well in the small confining seats.  An airline attendant offered us hot, wet washcloths, scented with lemon.  My face drifted into that soft warmth and wanted to stay there.  Lingering in its folds, we groaned with pleasure and felt reborn.  It was one in the morning Oregon time when the airplane wheels touched London soil two hours before lunch in England.

And we arrived on time! 

After rolling and bumping our luggage out of Heathrow’s terminal, we looked for a taxicab.  The busy street was filled with people.  The sounds of lilting English accents ricocheted around us.  We paused and studied the crowd until we heard a uniformed man repeating the words, Follow the queue. 

Our foreheads creased in dumb curiosity.  The queue?

Mom and I glanced around like yokels fresh from the country.  Then we saw black boxy-looking cars lining the curb like licorice sticks as far as the eye could see.  People were bustling toward them and a line of people stretched before us.

Ah! The QUEUE. 

We quickly queued up with other travelers, as ordered.  When it was our turn, we were surprised when the cab driver didn’t offer to get our bags, so we hauled our luggage into the back seat with us.  There was one seat for us and a missing seat behind the driver with ample space for the bags.  And the driver was sitting on the right side of the car, of course.  When he turned the corner, we saw the wrong side of the curb...so close. (Ouch!)  It was very odd.

We were surprised when the cab driver stopped in front of a brick two-story house.  He stopped, removed our bags, collected our ten pounds and drove off, leaving us stranded on the sidewalk.  Wondering if he’d made a mistake, since it was a quiet residential street and unlike any hotel we’d seen before, we stood agape just staring at it. 

Our paperwork assured us it was the correct address for the Willett Hotel, 32 Sloan Gardens in Sloan Square.  So, we grinned at each other, raised our eyebrows and rang the private doorbell about noon and waited hopefully. 

Almost immediately, a delightful English girl with wavy black hair invited us into a charming wall-papered hallway.  She led us upstairs and told us breakfast was from seven to nine.  She also told us to ring the doorbell for entrance into the hotel if we left the building as it was locked at all times.

Mom called the Willett a darling little hotel.  And it was.  Our room was very narrow.  Twin beds sat along one long wall; headboards butting each other.  A five-foot space, the length of the room beside the beds, led to a superb window, open to the bouquet of London.  We felt giddy, ready to maximize the short time allowed, and London beckoned.

Fighting sleep,