By Jennifer Stahl
A weary traveler struggles to find a sense of
belonging. A foreign friend helps her understand a fuller meaning and
significance of connection.
I woke to scratching and squawking outside my window. Fumbling to grasp
the corner of my pillow, I wanted nothing more than to throw it at the magpie
who so presumptuously assigned himself the duty of my alarm clock. Instead, I
muffled my ears and began the ever-reluctant process of accepting another
morning. A cool, spring breeze blew through my window, slightly rustling the
metal blinds; I still hadn’t invested in curtains. Curtains, I thought, maybe
curtains will do the trick; a personal touch to make it feel like home!
Looking around my room, I recognized the humor of this thought. Two suitcases
and a backpack lay deflated and disheveled on the floor strewn with clothing,
makeup, assorted adapters, and a few pieces of jewelry spilling out of a pink
container with the etched expression, “Distance makes the heart grow fonder.”
My neighbour had given the container to me as a welcome gift without any
understanding of the English words or how they would constantly pick away at my
mental health. I should have simply put the well-meant item straightaway into
the bin, but there was a deep sense of gratitude also attached to it. I almost
felt guilty about the distance I imagined between those curtains I was planning
to purchase and myself.
Throwing aside my duvet and stepping onto the wooden floor, a
melodramatic sigh escaped my lungs, perhaps in effort to exhale the last
sixteen months of movement. As far back as I can remember, I had an insatiable
appetite to see the world; growing up, Mexico, the West Indies, most of the
States, and a good portion of Europe filled my summer holidays. Most recently,
I’d set out to explore the Balkans, but something kept pulling me north, nearer
and nearer to the center, the very heart of Europe. With months of travel under
my feet, I decided at the end of winter it was time to settle and rest for a
while. I found a studio flat in a valley village, just a short train ride away
from Prague. I never was a city girl, but the routine of an ordinary life and
an occasional itch for the bustle was wearing on me; maybe moreso, that pink
container.
I carelessly selected a shirt and trousers from the piles at my feet. I think they’re clean. I brushed back my
hair into a low ponytail and wondered why all of this required so much effort.
It didn’t make sense. I loved this place; I loved the view out my bedroom
window. I loved the savory smell of garlic and marjoram that filled the
hallways everyday at precisely eleven o’ clock. I loved walking to the corner
coffee shop, listening to church bells toll the hours, and purchasing my
groceries from the farmer who drove to the edge of the village every Friday
morning. Why couldn’t that pink container say something about home being
wherever my heart is? Now that would have made a nice welcome gift!
Home. The word felt less like velvet and more like sandpaper. Perhaps my curtains should be made of
velvet. A garbage collector now joined the outdoor chorus of magpie
squawks, and I was reaching for my keys, when there was a knock at the door. I
froze and quickly calculated the date. I’d already paid my rent for the month,
had no maintenance scheduled, and I had kept this one day free for myself this
week. It must be a neighbour. But, I only had elderly neighbours who didn’t
speak a single ounce of my language. I had been practicing the Czech basics,
and I’d been building confidence while ordering my coffee or going through the
checkout lines at the supermarket; but I was nowhere close to understanding the
quick pace of jaunty syllables that came from the elder generations, especially
from the one woman who had given me the pink container. It was too late to
pretend I wasn’t home or hadn’t heard the knock. Squeaky floorboards had for
sure given me away. The knock came again. I quickly shoved the mess of my
belongings behind the door with my feet. I tried to swallow, but my mouth had
gone dry. I mustered any bit of courage I could find and opened the door.
It was Pink Container Neighbour, Míla. I’d interacted with Míla one or two other times beyond the gift
endowment. Those exchanges, I imagined, were kindly words of endearment,
similar to how my grandmother would have often greeted me at family gatherings.
Míla was very
affectionate and embraced me from our first encounter. I had never noticed any
visitors at her flat; it was always only her and her grey cat, Šmudla, from what I’d
observed.
Míla was especially animated this morning. “Jani!”
she exclaimed as she grabbed my hand, pulling me across the hallway toward the
direction of her flat. Her brown eyes were twinkling with mischief, and she was
rambling on with a clear tone of urgency. Šmudla was now also expectantly waiting for me at
the threshold. Submitting to the regret of leaving behind my phone for
translation help, I followed my neighbour friend. Šmudla purred and rubbed against my ankles as I put
on the slippers I was given. The door closed behind me, and I recognized the
necessity of embracing my situation.
Míla placed me at her dining table next to a large
window with lace curtains and set to work mixing a cup of instant coffee. Her
hands shook as she stirred the granules. I noticed for the first time this
morning that it was drizzling outside; no wonder the breeze had been so cool. A
clattering of cup against saucer reminded me I needed to rally a few Czech
words. Míla proudly
set the coffee in front of me, spilling a little onto a needlework doily
ornamenting the center of her table. I smiled and timidly whispered a Czech,
“Thank you.” I was awkwardly quiet, glancing around the kitchen at the dusty
photos tacked onto the walls. Míla
noticed my curiosity and jumped from photo to photo, identifying her daughters
and grandchildren. For every one photo of a family member, Míla would retrieve a whole
album of at least twenty more photos of birthdays, school events, and
holidays. She didn’t bother making a cup
of coffee for herself. I nodded my head, smiled, and expressed innumerable ooh’s and aah’s in attempt to match the level of enthusiasm Míla exerted. And when the
last sip of my coffee neared, relief of release was on my mind. I pushed back
my chair, ready to announce my departure.
Míla took my hand again. “Jani,” she began. The
inflection in her voice changed. She was no longer the animated, fiery woman of
celebration I had just spent the last hour with. I knew the empty cup of coffee
would not be enough to set me free now. The drizzling outside had softened to a
scarce pit-pat against the window.
Something shifted in me as well as I heard the tender notes of sadness in Míla’s words. I wondered
what she would show me next.
Off the side of her kitchen was a small room with a bulky black stereo
system on a single shelf. Šmudla
had curled into the corner of the sofa that was seemingly strategically
positioned for ease of listening. Míla’s clumsy hands placed a disc into the stereo, and all the
nostalgia of champagne music flooded her entire home. Her eyes closed; her hips
swayed back and forth, and she waltzed her way to a framed picture on a corner
desk. Her waltzing stopped as she picked up that picture, transfixed by
memories and love. I’m sure time itself also held its breath for her. A jazzy saxophone was mid solo when Míla opened up her arms to
me. I understood, “My husband. My dear husband.” Grief spilled from Míla’s eyes as she firmly
placed her late husband’s portrait in my hands. Whatever she said next, though
I could not decipher any clear vocabulary, I knew everything she meant. Míla felt small as I held
her, and I felt even smaller. Perhaps her heart really was made fuller inside
the distance she experienced; her true home was found in absence. I saw Míla as brave in that
moment, and I didn’t know that a pink container could humble me in such a way.
We stood in silence for a minute and looked into each other; my heart
whispered a Czech, “Thank you.” Míla dried her eyes, and her smiled returned. The rain had
stopped altogether, and sun was piercing through the eyelets of lace across the
kitchen window. Míla
scurried ahead of me, pulled back the curtains, and once more excitedly
squealed my name, “Jani!” Again I followed her as she ran through her living
room and opened the door to her balcony.
Míla had the best view in our whole village, I’m
certain. Her balcony was one of the highest, and it was almost exactly in the
center. Houses, hills, fields, and life buzzed below and all around her. With
the clouds parted and the sun pouring down from blue skies, songbirds had
replaced the screeching magpies, and a warm sunbeam prickled my bare arms. I
caught a glimpse of what had triggered Míla’s elation, and something happened. Now this
was what Míla had to
show me! The heart of Europe was no longer a location; maps, suitcases, pink
containers, and curtains all seemed to disappear from the realms of importance.
A vivid rainbow, larger than any I had ever seen before, stretched the full
breadth of our village; and I could see it all there with Míla. This was it; a way of
living, sharing and outstretched arms, the welcome gifts of hearts and hands -
and I was home.
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