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Last January a friend mentioned to me that he had a companion ticket he had to use up by the end of June and might I be interested in a city break. Having flown first class with him to Copenhagen I was indeed ready for a trip and said I wanted to see Rome again. He agreed as visions of British Airways first class lounge danced in my head.

We were careful booking, wanting to be there before it got too hot, not during Easter or when school children were on break. Rome is a busy place. We booked for the 24-27 of April, feeling quite smart. ‘We should be okay, as long as the Pope doesn’t die,’ he observed. I was at the gym when he sent me a text saying, ‘The Pope just died. Our trip should be interesting.’ It grew more so when it was announced his funeral would be on the Saturday that we were there.

I first saw Rome when I was 21, recently graduated from university and completely and utterly lost in life. I remember Rome being huge, the traffic being scary, and wishing I was with my friend Tiff. It was on this trip I learned to be careful about who you pick as travel partners, but I’ve had mostly good luck since.

I had champagne on the flight mostly to brace myself for what I was sure would be the chaos of Rome, but the airport upon landing was almost empty. We walked straight through customs, even without an EU passport. At the bottom of an escalator we saw a group of priests huddled together and I thought, I wonder what the collective noun for a group of priests is? A religion? A pod? Given the news in the past years, my mind went to a few dark places.

As we took the train – clean, cool, comfortable, delightful, really – from the airport to Termini, I looked out the window at the passing landscape, thinking about all the area had seen as the image of Russell Crowe in Gladiator, walking through the fields, hand brushing the wheat, flashed through my mind.

Soon we were at Termini, and I was shocked at how big the station was. I remembered it as being a tube-shaped building, open at both ends with a few bakeries and coffee shops. The Termini I landed at had posh shops, bars, lounges – it was more like an airport – a really good airport – or a shopping centre from where trains happened to arrive and depart. The crowds that were absent at the airport were plentiful at Termini.

As we left the station I looked up at the buildings lining the street, wondering if I would see the place where I had stayed many years earlier, but we were greeted with a row of rather lacklustre shops, not the tall, multi-storey, off-white building on a corner I remembered. I hoped it was on the other side of the station and had not been torn down.

Our hotel was two minutes away. The lobby was nice, the staff pleasant, and the room, while not sporting much of a view – was lovely. The bathroom was tiled and the shower ‘threw off some heat’ my friend would later say.

Of course we headed immediately to St Peter’s, distracted along the way by motorcades and ridiculously handsome police officers. Carabinieri, polizia, and the Guarda de Finanza which confused us, but it wasn’t really their job descriptions that caught my attention. Somewhere on the application I am convinced it states: ‘Gorgeous men will be prioritized.’ But then, I’ve had a thing for Romans since studying their empire in grade ten history class. 

One of the main reasons I wanted to see the Eternal City again was to visit the Mausoleum of Augustus, Julius Caesar’s adopted nephew who ruled after him and was one of the Twelve Good Emperors of Rome. While not as famous as his adoptive uncle, under his reign Rome flourished. (And the first thing he did when he took power was to go after the men who killed his uncle. Family loyalty. Wow.) I saw his mausoleum on my first trip, but it wasn’t open to the public. I remember it looked small and inconsequential considering his role in the creation of Rome, more like a large hut than a mausoleum.

We made our way there very early Saturday morning, mindful of the funeral starting at ten. While I remember standing on the street looking at his mausoleum with not much around, now there is a museum next door – white and shiny, housing the Ara Pacis, the Altar of Augustan Peace commissioned by the Roman senate to celebrate Augustus’s return from three years away in Hispania and Gaul. With my back to the museum, staring at the mausoleum behind a shabby fence, I saw a homeless man rolling up his sleeping bag, and thought about the parallels between Augustus and the man who was being buried later that same day, a man who wanted his coffin to rest on the ground, wanted to be buried not in the Vatican but in a nearby church that was special to him. Who wanted a simple grave, with just his name.

I felt something as I looked at what was before me: a burial place for a great leader long gone, a falling down fence, a dome of a church in the distance. And something else: an opening in the sky, a portal – both an entrance and an exit perhaps. I began wondering again about what happens when we die, if there is a Heaven, if we come back again and again until we get it right. Mostly I wondered if Augustus and Pope Francis were connected thought the light in front of me.

I took a photo with my phone and marvelled at how it looked, showing it to my friend.

‘It’s like the sky is opening up to receive him. Or sending down light to replace his.’

My friend said, ‘Good shot. Your phone has a great camera.’

Know your audience, know your travel partners. That’s a good rule for life. We moved on, heading to St Peter’s for the funeral, as I thought about all the people who walked the same streets I now trod. All the people around me. Usually crowds make me feel lonely. That didn’t happen in Rome. But then, I was distracted by the officials keeping us safe.

*

Sunday evening rolled around and we found ourselves back at Termini. I told my friend I wanted to find the other end of the station, so I could look for the place I stayed at so many years ago. We wound our way along, looking for a place to have a drink before catching the train, mindful of the crowd, scanning for pickpockets… and then it appeared. The hotel I stayed at. Where I had to pay forty Canadian dollars for a call I made to someone in Canada I wouldn’t cross the street for now. Where I looked out the window processing hundreds of emotions.

‘That’s it,’ I said, pointing.

‘Do you want to have a drink there? Some sort of full circle moment?’ he said.

I thought for a second then shook my head. ‘No. She’s not there anymore.’

‘Who?’ he asked, looking around.

Once again I was leaving Rome, my mind swimming with all I had experienced, all I had witnessed, all of the thoughts I had on death and Catholicism and travel and where I want to live and… everything.

Augustus was a good leader who made Rome a better place. Pope Francis was a good man who made the world a better place. Maybe they are connected in some larger, cosmic sense. But I’m starting to believe you can reincarnate while being in the same body. I felt that in Rome, staring at a place I stayed thirty years ago that still stands in a city that has changed and grown and expanded. Much like me.

As we settled into the airport lounge to wait for our flight, I said I felt like finding a quiet corner to have a cry. My alpha male friend looked like he wanted to hop out the window and take his chances on the wing of the aircraft departing. I’m not everyone’s dream travel companion, either.

*

I’ve been back for weeks now. My small suitcase has been emptied and my large suitcase is being prepared for my next trip, spending the month of June in Canada, a trip I also booked in January. My mind is still whirring, and I keep thinking about Rome, wishing I had stayed for the conclave, or spent a day queuing to see where Pope Francis now rests instead of watching from outside.

 I couldn’t get close enough to the Trevi fountain to throw in three coins, like I did last time. But I know I will return – the appeal of Rome is eternal.

I was home for Easter one year during university – I’m not sure which year it was but I’m banking on my third, when my living accommodations were a nightmare. As I looked out on the dismal pre-Spring brown of dead earth and mud I said to my dad, ‘I really don’t like Easter. Nothing good ever happens to me this time of year.’ Dad looked up from the grapefruit he was peeling and said, ‘I doubt our Lord was too fond of it, either.’
I laughed. My dad could always make me do that, no matter how dark the times.
Growing up it seemed the weather was always filthy over the Easter break. My first and later second big break ups played out over the Easter weekend. I came to loathe that time of year.
In 2011, Will and Kate decided to get married the week after Easter, which meant two four day weekends in a row for us living in England. I contacted Andrew, my travel partner, and said, ‘We’ve done northern France, now how about the South?’
He was in. After some plotting and planning we decided we’d fly into Carcassonne, rent a car, and head out on a Knight’s Templar tour.
‘I should warn you, though. Nothing good ever happens to me over Easter,’ I said. ‘Best be prepared.’
‘I will keep it in mind,’ he said.

I landed in Carcassonne a day before Andrew, armed with a new map and a plan. While most people would consider me well-travelled, Andrew makes me look like a homebody. So I decided to do some exploring before he landed, so I could show off a bit. After dumping my bags at my less than spectacular hotel located on the Canal du Midi, I made my way to the fortified city on the hill. It was a thirty-minute walk, give or take, but I can’t be sure, as I was distracted by the shoe shops. The modern city of Carcassonne is home to so many nice shoes stores that I started taking pictures of the window displays and sending them to my sister, who owns so many shoes her husband has dreams of them falling out of the kitchen cupboard and landing on him. The sun was shining and it was the start of a two week holiday in France. Frankly, it doesn’t get much better in my world.
Eventually I made it to the medieval city, perched majestically on a hill, only having to ask for directions twice – once when I was standing under a sign with a big arrow pointing to my destination. The lovely tall Dutch lad barely laughed as he turned me around by my shoulders and pointed. ‘Right!’ I said, and I was off. I clocked the different entrances and exits, aided by the fact that you needed to cross a drawbridge, so it wasn’t like I was looking for a small exit sign. Step one was done – I knew how to get to the old city.
Legend has it Carcassonne got its name from the dame of the castle, who, when it was under attack and she learned there was only one pig and one bag of wheat left, fed the pig and flung it to the attackers, who upon seeing the hefty flying side of bacon, assumed the people inside had enough supplies to keep them going for a spell and left. After the attack was thwarted the city bells rang for her, or the ‘carcas sona’. No one knows if the story is true or not but as I stood there I found myself hoping the pig was dead before it was launched over the incredibly high walls.
As I wandered, I studied my path with all the attention of Hansel and Gretel being led into the forest, clocking interesting things to point out to my friend and making note of shops I could use as reference points. After walking around for a few hours, I figured I’d learned enough that I could impress my friend. So I headed back to the land of shoe shops, thinking a treat was in order. I was feeling pretty good about myself.
The roads slope down from the medieval city, the houses interspersed with shops. As I looked, and walked, I saw a gentleman in a suit standing on the sidewalk. As I got closer he smiled at me, and I saw that his pinstripe suit was well made but old, not in tune with current trends. I could picture him, a much younger man, being measured by a tailor, perhaps for his wedding. That made me like him for some reason. As I approached, I saw that he was standing in front of a World War II Museum. He asked me if I would like to look around, and I nodded, smiling. How could I say no to a man who put on a suit to work at a museum? I stepped inside thinking I would give it twenty minutes and then hit the shoe shops. He was pleased as he ushered me through the door, and I got the feeling that whatever was inside was very important to this lovely man.
The museum was small, like it had been converted from a family home. I was greeted with that smell that seems unique to museums, like old manuscripts and dust, a scent that makes me feel nostalgic. I paid a small fee to enter, a few euros at best. The man told me a bit about the museum, but I was working so hard to understand his French, I missed the context of most of it. He gave me a brief tour of the layout and told me to find him if I had any questions. I could see the sunshine out the main door, and a part of me wondered how long I had to stay to make a good show. I wasn’t in museum mode, I was in walking in the sunshine and buying shoes mode. Plus, I wanted to find a good restaurant for my friend’s first night in town, and a bakery to buy breakfast. I had plans!
But the more I walked, the further the museum seemed to go. It was not wide but deep, and must have been two family homes originally, possibly three. I bypassed the clothing part, as military uniforms make me itchy looking at them. I read about Jean Moulin, the hero of the Resistance. And then I discovered some older photos, black and white, and gravitated towards them.
I love looking at pictures of young soldiers from World War II. I am not sure why, but it is unique to this period. When I see pictures of soldiers from World War I want to hold them in my arms. I send up prayers they weren’t gassed. World War I makes me weep in a way few things do, so I tend to be gentle with myself where photos are concerned. Soldiers from World War II all seem to me to be so handsome. They have a twinkle about them. I know the darkness, the evil, but I concentrate on the gallantry of the time.
I started flipping through the photos, placed like we used to stack albums at record stores. But they weren’t soldiers. I wasn’t quite sure of the theme at first, but then it dawned on me. Jews being rounded up. And suddenly the sunshine outside dimmed, and I got that weird, tight feeling in my throat that happens when you think of the Holocaust. My hands shook a little, and I looked to see the man in the suit watching me. I could have stopped, but that seemed wrong. Each person in the photo had a story, and in some small way I felt I was honouring them, perhaps remembering them, simply by looking. Isn’t that a responsibility we all have when it comes to history?
The photos were 8 by 10 with the white border you used to see, pressed against cardboard and covered with protective plastic. Women lined up at a concentrations camp. Naked. One of them holding a baby in her arms. I didn’t need to read the caption to know they were told they were going to the showers. But it was the gas chambers. We’ve seen those photos in history books. We know what happened.
I could not stop staring at the woman holding the baby. I thought about how afraid that mother must have been. I thought about what faced them. I thought about her pregnancy and if she had been excited or scared, knowing what was happening in her world. But there was more to it, something else. The way her hair was cut at the back, the way she was holding the baby. The slope of her shoulders. She looked exactly like my sister, in a picture I have of her holding her daughter, wearing blue shorts and a taupe shirt in the backyard of my parent’s home many years ago. We had a summer barbecue that day and it was a contest to see who could love my new niece the most.
My heart started to race, and the room tipped slightly. I remember pressing my left hand against the shelf to steady me. A little voice said, ‘It’s ok, put the picture down, step outside, it’s over.’ But I couldn’t. A few hours earlier I had been sending that same sister pictures of shoe shops. Now I was looking at her double, a few moments from death at the hands of the Nazis. Holding a baby. My eyes filled with tears and I knew I was in for one of those crying jags that you feel inside, days after your tears dry. Standing there, looking at the photo, I made space for a new kind of pain in my heart.
I don’t know how long I stood and stared. When I lifted my head the man in the suit was walking towards me, a concerned look on his face. I knew I was pale, for I had felt the colour drain from my body, as my heart felt like it was working overtime to keep me standing up. It felt like someone had picked me up and shaken me, and even as it was happening, I was staggered by how my body was responding to this photo.
I set the picture down gently, as though my physical actions might cause the woman to drop the baby. I thanked the man in the pinstripe suit that had held up well but had seen better days, and for a few seconds I saw a fedora on his head. It was so clear, I blinked a couple of times, and it disappeared. But I knew I had seen it. I still know it, now, all these years later.
I made my way outside. The sun was high in the sky, the day in full bloom. I put my sunglasses on because tears were still falling and dipped my head, which I think is universal code for I’m falling apart but pretend you don’t see me. I walked awkwardly back to the main part of the city, adrenalin making me so twitchy that when I checked my phone to see my sister’s messages, like that was proof she was alive and unharmed in Nova Scotia, it slipped from my hand and clattered across the street.
I have never felt so wobbly in my life, and that included when I worked in radio and suffered from vertigo. Instead of buying shoes, I sat at a café and drank a big glass of wine, then went back to my hotel, curled up like a hedgehog, and tried to get warm again.

The next day I met Andrew at the tiny airport. I had wanted to greet him as he got off the plane, but I was late getting there after a lousy night’s sleep. My plans to impress him were shaky at best, as I concentrated on plastering on a smile and being happy, dammit, all while thinking I might be sick at any moment. I took comfort in the fact that if I looked rough, he would think it was due to a few glasses of wine the night before. Being sad on vacation is just not done, although in 2009 we both cried our way across the Somme.
‘I walked to the medieval city yesterday, so I know the way. It’s really pretty, and I’m so glad the sun is shining today,’ I had a slightly manic note in my voice, and I knew he could hear it by the way he studied me. We picked up our rental car and headed out. As the car made its way up the hill to the old city we passed the museum. I turned away from it, beaming my attention on my friend. I didn’t want to see the man in the suit. I didn’t want to think about the picture. But that was the only thing I was thinking about.
And so we climbed, up the path, to the drawbridge, and entered.
‘I wonder what the knights would think if they came back and discovered they fought and died so that this place could sell t-shirts?’
‘But think of the good stuff they would experience!’ I said.
‘Like hot showers and better career options than being a knight?’
‘Exactly.’
That is why Andrew and I travel well together. We have a similar outlook on life and a love of travel which helps, but our sense of humour is in sync. And it felt good to laugh with a friend. It kept some of the darkness at bay. But with each step I took, I carried her with me, that woman who was photographed on her last day of life, that baby who never got to live. I pointed out a well, and the few things I remembered, but mostly we walked silently, the sunshine on our shoulders. Every time I feel that it makes me happy to be alive. But it also made me feel guilty, too. I’ve had it pretty easy, overall.
In the bright sunlight of the day we sat in a back garden in the medieval city and drank beer and ate croque monsieurs and planned our trip. As we left, I asked if we could walk a different path to the main city. Andrew lifted his head, looked around for a few seconds then pointed, and we headed left. After a few blocks I knew where we were. All the plans I made to impress him crumbled around me.
We walked around the quiet city, the shops closed since it was Good Friday. We ended up buying groceries and eating on a picnic bench outside the gite where we were staying. The woman who owned the place was recently divorced and had an air of hurt and loneliness about her that made me want to hold her hand. Andrew opened a bottle of wine we’d bought, and we drank it together, while I thought about the pain of loneliness. As I sat there on the second day of my vacation, I remembered telling my dad nothing good ever happened to me over Easter. If he were still alive then I would have called him, told him about the photo, said the Easter curse had struck again. But he was gone, and I was on my own.

Six months after the trip to France I found myself with my sister, walking along a Florida beach as the Atlantic Ocean shimmered besides us. I thought about telling her about that photo in Carcassonne but was hesitant. Would she want to know I saw her doppelganger in a photo at a death camp? I didn’t think so. And somehow it didn’t seem right to bring the darkness into the few moments of perfect light we were experiencing.
I have thought a lot about those two weeks in April long ago that changed me somehow. Thought about it until the starkness of it faded and it became its own part of memory. I think about it again now as we commemorate World Holocaust Day, seeing dignitaries lay wreaths at Auschwitz, hearing the incredible stories and unparalleled dignity of the few survivors who remain. I have thought about it as I believe more and more in reincarnation, and I wonder what fated me to see that photo.
Nothing good happens to me over Easter. But nothing truly terrible has ever happened either. I learned that in France, from a charming man in a blue suit, who I pictured in a fedora, and who I still wish I had hugged.

Writing a book involves a lot of time thinking ‘What if?’ and then playing out scenarios, wondering if they are realistic, if they drive a story forward, if they work – and if I want to write them and if anyone will want to read them. I seem to do this with my own life more and more, now that I am older. What if I had studied something else, moved someplace else, had stayed home the night I met someone at a bar who would change the course of my life – and not for the better. Events and missed opportunities from the past play out in my mind often as I go about my day, buying groceries, walking in the park, working out at the gym. Lately one plays out more and more in my head.

My second year of university I took a bus trip from Ontario to Fort Lauderdale, Florida. It was me and a girl from my residence and two of her friends and forty strangers on a long bus ride that saw mechanical issues in Montreal and extreme delays. By the time we got there we were a day late and the bus had a ripe smell of unwashed bodies and a dodgy toilet. We passed the time braiding each other’s hair and listening to music. Guns N’ Roses were big at the time.

I can’t remember the name of the hotel, but I do remember a lot of things about our eventual arrival and that trip. As we got out of the bus in the parking lot and the driver started pulling luggage from the hold, my friend bent down to get her bag as a coconut fell from a tree and hit her in the head. I almost fell down laughing. She was not impressed with me. I have always had a strong appreciation for physical humour, and it has got me into trouble a few times.

We checked in, took showers, pulled on swimsuits and headed to the beach. I used SPF 2 and burned like a marshmallow over on an open flame and spent the rest of the trip spraying myself with Lidocaine. At the local bar, I think called the Candy Shop, I had to wear a big wrist band saying I was underage. I ordered a diet coke (which I never drink) and was served a rye and coke (which I had never drunk before or since) and thought I was going to end up in prison. Some sailors from Australia where there and one took a shine to me. As I tried to avoid him he kept telling me not to be so shy. A guy from Ryerson in Toronto rescued me, and I had a little holiday romance. He bought me roses from a street vendor and we walked along the beach. His name was John and I still think about him.

At a pool party I ran into someone I went to high school with. It was a peculiar interaction, as he sent his friends over to ask me if I was who he thought I was. We chatted for ten minutes. It was more than enough time.

The shop across from the hotel sold little chocolate cheesecakes and I packed away a few of them on the trip. I went through a stage where I thought cheesecake was the work of magic fairies, but I don’t care for it much anymore.

We were all sharing a new clear shampoo by Dep I think. It smelled divine and I looked for it for years after, wanting to experience the scent again, but can’t find it.

It was a good trip, and all these years later I still remember it fondly.  

On the way back, I was standing in MacDonald’s in a different state, I’m just not sure which one. A few of the buses ferrying Canadian students back to the land of snow and ice were filling the parking lot. I remember I was wearing white jean shorts, a peach coloured anorak I bought from a beach shop, and white tennis shoes. My skin was a mixture of soft tan and fading burn and my was hair pinned up. I was standing with a group of girls from the trip, drinking fountain pop and not eating as I’d run out of American money when a guy nearby broke off from his group and came over to ours. He started talking to me. In my memory he looked like a young Wayne Gretzky – no small thing back then. He told me he liked what I was wearing, that I knew how to dress. Everyone had bought what I call a festival anorak, with Fort Lauderdale and the year (which I am keeping to myself) written along the side. I have never cared for clothing with writing, so I bought a plain one in a peach and cream herring bone pattern.

I remember wondering why he was talking to me when I was standing next to my tall, gorgeous friend. I flashed back to the sailor telling me not to be shy – I had no interest in him and was trying to let him know, but this guy, well he had something. And I couldn’t figure out why he was talking to me. He tried a few times. I was tongue tied. And he walked away.

My friend said, ‘he liked you. He was trying to talk to you.’ 

I did not pick up on it. With him I was shy. It’s happened to me many times in life. Someone really interesting comes along and in my mind I wonder why they are choosing to pay attention to me. I spend so much time lost in my thoughts the person gives up, then I want to chase after them and say… hang on. I’m actually normal.

Most of the time.

Here it is, thirty years later, and I still think about that guy at MacDonald’s. Because I have a PhD in Dwelling, and I am addicted to making myself unhappy. But also, because I like to play the ‘what if’ game.

What if I had picked up on it? Because he was cute, and outgoing, and I was standing in my happy place in the US, not MacDonald’s but the eastern seaboard. Say I had picked up on the signals, like any normal female probably would have. And say we’d had a great conversation. Say we kept in touch, and he wrote me long letters, because he strikes me as the kind of guy who would, and we fell in love. That would have saved me from a few dark relationships in my twenties that changed me as a person, and not in a good way. Maybe he would have been the one. And maybe… well, there are so many maybes. So many what if’s.

If he ever thinks of me I hope he knows I was shy, the way I am around men I find attractive. I hope he doesn’t think I was rude. And I hope he knows like with many moments in my life I wish I had that one to do over. And I hope the next time he told a girl she looked nice, she smiled at him, as I wish I had done.

It’s long gone. The memory remains. Maybe there’s something in that.

*

Many years ago I was driving with my mother on a backroad in Nova Scotia, on our way to visit my father who was in the hospital. Two squirrels ran out on the road and I saw them, but I was also aware of a transport truck behind me. I couldn’t brake or swerve. And I hit one. It was my first and only roadkill and I felt sick as it happened, and sick now thinking about it. I said to my mother, ‘Oh God. I killed one. Do you suppose they were a couple?’ To this day I have no idea why I thought this but my mother said, ‘You never know. You might have done them both a big favour.’ I still think about that, too.

Sometimes I believe everything happens for a reason. Sometimes I believe there is an elegance to the world, a plan if you will. Other times I think we are given opportunities and have to make the most of them. Sometimes I think I missed the opportunity for a wonderful romance with a boy who looked like Wayne Gretzky on a bus trip to Florida. But then I remember what my mother said when I hit a squirrel on a backroad in Nova Scotia. Maybe I was spared pain. For now it remains a ‘what if’ in my life, unless I use it for inspiration instead of despair, and turn it into a story, into a book. Make a few bucks to take another trip. And this time if someone speaks to me, I plan to be ready.

My friend’s son is into mountain biking. I don’t know much about the sport. I know I like the looks of mountain bikes more than that of a ten speed, the lines being cleaner and the bikes themselves looking stronger, but that is the beginning and end of my input on the subject. He’s preparing for a race and as I asked him question after question his mom suggested he show me a race on the computer. 

It was eye opening to say the least. 

As a bike flew down dusty, curvy trails, whizzed into tunnels and sped dangerously close to trees I said, ‘Are you ever scared?’

‘Sometimes,’ he said, with breathtaking honesty.

 And then, a beat later he added, ‘It’s all about trusting yourself and your bike.’ 

I felt that funny feeling I get when I know I have heard something I am going to dwell on, turn over endlessly in my mind and maybe adopt as a new belief.  

It’s about trusting yourself and your bike. I’ve never met a bike I’ve had any sort of relationship with but the idea of a bike as a metaphor for life danced in my head and made me think about the idea of trust. The role it plays in life, in our relationships, but mostly the idea of trusting yourself.

*

I was on my first trip to BC in twenty years and I was dizzy by how much everything had changed. Landing at the airport and seeing the shops, the brightness of the place after Heathrow, the impossible beauty of the mountains as they stood in the distance, I returned in my memory to the person who had left a much smaller city, a person who was struggling after a bit of illness, a bad but necessary breakup, and a career change I still question. The friend I was on my way to visit had a front row seat for all of it. She had seen me when I was in her words ‘scary thin’, had picked me up from a visit to the hospital where she literally helped me get dressed and had shared her circle of extraordinary friends with me. We had danced at the Side Door, a bar long closed, cooked together in the kitchen of our shared home and become friends. The kind you always trust to have your best interests at heart.

I had big plans for my visit, some to do with family, some to do with promoting my books. Much to do with reconnecting with old friends. One day my friend and I went shoe shopping on West 4^th and once I recovered from the shock of the prices I thoroughly enjoyed browsing, buying a new pair of Converse trainers. The last pair I ordered online felt flimsy and soon began to squeak. I thought I might have been duped. The pair I picked up had the weight I was used to.

Once back in the car my friend asked where I wanted to go next, and I asked if there was a bookstore nearby. We ended up at Indigo on Granville and 10^th.

My old neighbourhood. Where I had lived for four years. I remembered when the shop was a diner and I remember when the bookstore opened. I smiled as I recalled spending rainy afternoons picking up book after book, reading the first sentence and making a little pile to buy. I still choose books the same way – nothing that starts with dialogue and nothing first person. A first line that makes me think, ‘wow, someone wrote that’. As I browsed the shelves and talked to the very kind staff about my books (first line in one: ‘Bullets sing.’ – I’m still proud of that – and in my second book: ‘May is an awkward month to start over.’) I felt the enormity of where I was. Thought about how much I had changed, of course on the outside, but the most profound changes were on the inside. I felt more were coming, and I braced myself.

‘When we finish here, I’d like to walk over and see the apartment where I used to live,’ I said. She got it. She understood.

So as the sun lit our way we walked over. Stood in the street. I pointed out the apartment where I didn’t so much live as survive, struggling with who I was when I lived there, and who I wanted to be. I worked to feel compassion for the young woman who was dealing with so much change, and growth, and I apologised to her for letting her down. For not dreaming bigger. For accepting things she did not deserve.

‘It’s smaller than I remember,’ I said.

As we walked away I thought about this, how the small building and the small flat loomed so large in my life. As I wished whoever lived there now, in the pretty little building so close to so many things a happier time than I had, I turned and walked away.

When we returned to my friend’s gorgeous home, a home that vibrated with the family love that echoed inside, she started dinner while I spoke to her son about mountain biking. It was then he shared his wisdom about trust.

I am surmising because I have no intention of ever finding out for myself that in a mountain bike race, you see the troubles coming at you, the solid and imposing trees, the dips and drops in the path, the sudden turns. You have time to react, recalibrate, prepare. As you climb on a bike you anticipate what is going to happen. Wheels roll, pedals turn. Gears shift. Life doesn’t work that way. Things come at you suddenly on a random Tuesday that blindside you. And things happen gradually, as if in slow motion, and no matter how hard you might pump the brake, the movement continues. You can stop a bike. You can change direction. This is not the case with life. All you can do is hold on and learn to deal with the bumps. The very best you can do is to trust yourself in the race of life.

Later, meeting her son in Whistler I watched as he somehow defied gravity and jumped a flight of steps with his bike and without so much as a flick of the wrists. I wanted to ask him how he did it but I also didn’t want to come across as his mom’s weird friend. I figured I was already dancing with that as it was, with my awe at the beauty of BC, my concern over all the bears people told me I was going to see, and my sudden fascination with a sport I’d never much thought about before.

Still, it kept crossing my mind, what he said, as I sat on ferries and buses and dealt with the landscape of my past in all its beauty and its sorrow.

What if I had trusted myself more, earlier in life? What if I’d trusted myself to study creative writing instead of broadcast journalism? Trusted myself to walk away from bad relationships believing there was something better waiting for me?

What if I had trusted myself more with my own life?

My friend’s son is sixteen years old. You can tell from his quiet calm demeanour, his lovely manners, the way he thinks, that he’s going places in this world. I just hope he does it with all of his limbs intact. 

(Apologies for some repetition…)

D-Day

There is something about Bayeux, France that brings me great comfort and peace. In unsettles me, too, but in a good way, a way that reminds me that life is filled with wonderful mysteries.  

Bayeux is a medieval town in the commune of Normandy, in northern France, about seven kilometres from the channel coast. It is famous for the Bayeux tapestry, a very long piece of embroidery depicting the conquest of England by William the Conqueror, who also happened to witness the consecration of its cathedral, Our Lady of Bayeux, built in the 11^th century in the Norman-Romanesque style and rebuilt in the 12^th century in the Gothic style. But that’s stuff you can get from any guidebook. It was the feeling of the place that drew me in. A feeling I’d never had before, despite all my travels and all my visits to new and wonderful places.

I arrived at the train station on a cool June day with a friend. We’d been visiting the battlefields and cemeteries of World War I, where his grandfather had fought and where my great uncle through marriage was buried. After a few days to recalibrate in Paris, which we sorely needed after visiting la Musée de la Somme in Albert and Beaumont Hamel in Auchonvilliers, we decided to see the landing beaches of D-Day.

I had no idea how much this unplanned part of the trip was going to change my life.

My friend and I have travelled all over the world together and know each other’s strengths and weaknesses. He has a great sense of direction (strength) and I am an excellent follower (also a strength). But something happened to me in Bayeux. Something magical. I knew where I was going. As I headed through the streets, away from the station and toward the town, I felt a tingling sensation, and knew something profound was happening, I just didn’t know what. As I stared at the homes that lined the road, my friend trailing me for the first time ever, I turned and said, ‘I know this sounds crazy, but I feel like I’ve been here before.’

‘You said you’ve never been to northern France,’ came his practical reply.

‘I haven’t, in this body,’ I said.

We walked in silence, him accepting this new bit of information I offered, me walking calmly but feeling like a whirling dervish inside. I wasn’t sure what was happening, but I was loving how alive and connected I felt to this brand new bit of the world. How familiar it seemed. A fluttering sense of belonging pulled me forward, to a place I knew I was meant to be. It was both exhilarating and unnerving – what, exactly was happening? As I passed the cathedral I almost expected someone to wave to me, a friend from another life reconnecting.

I have travelled many places and have a list of favourites I add to regularly. Paris brings me joy and makes me wish I had both French girl flair and a flat in Montmartre. Florida makes me appreciate jeans shorts and cold beer. From the moment I stepped inside the Bangkok Airport I knew I was going to love Thailand. And I did, and I do. The heat, the people. But Bayeux is the only place I’ve ever been where I thought, this is it. I’ve found my place, I can stay.

And it was about to get better.

I’ve known since the day I read Paddington Bear as a first grade student in a small school in eastern Canada that I wanted to be a writer. And I was, in many ways. I wrote great book reports and excellent essays. At least that’s what my English teachers told me. My math and science teachers threw up their hands and probably took early retirement because of me, but my English teachers were always in my corner. I wanted to be a writer but didn’t quite know how to voice that desire until later in life, after I burned through a few questionable career choices and navigated the world of depression. Through it all I scribbled and scribbled and outlined. I had a draft of a first novel sitting in a drawer, a novel that ‘started off very well’ as one agent told me. I’d set it in Maine, a state on the eastern seaboard of the United States and one of my very favourite places.

But it was in Normandy where the idea for what would become my first published novel came to me, almost completely, as I visited Omaha and Juno, saw Ardenne Abbey and learned about the massacre of Canadian soldiers just after D-Day. As I walked and learned I thought about what it must have been like for these soldiers, knowing they were about to be executed, shaking hands with their friends before being led away to die. The powerlessness over their own lives, the unnecessary brutality of it. I thought about the people who had their land, their homes, their way of life invaded by an enemy. And I thought about all the lives impacted for generations to come by the war.

As I roamed the cobblestone streets and ate at the fabulous restaurants, I felt the memories of the place, the darkness and the light. It felt like someone was whispering in my ear, telling me bits and pieces of their story, wanting me to weave something together from all the paths that crossed in the small part of northern France. I made more and more notes – some even on restaurant receipts if that is where the muse hit – and I daydreamed.

I was working full time and started getting up early to write before going to work. This more than anything made me feel like a writer. It took a few years and many edits before The Time Between Us found its way into the world, but it all started with a sense of connection I had with Bayeux, France.

Travelling for me has always been about the feelings that well up when you visit someplace new and open yourself up to the magic it holds. You can pick the places you want to visit, but sometimes the place picks you, to share its secrets, to tell its stories, provide the backdrop to make your dreams come true. That’s what happened to me in Normandy, and I am so glad it did.

My book came out November 11, 2021. At the time I said I would be grateful for 50 nice reviews on Amazon. I now have 1,355 – most of them more than nice. A complete stranger contacted me to tell me my opening scene was a ‘belter’. Once I learned what that meant (very good!) I was delighted. The Time Between Us opens on D-Day, and it is the scene that got the attention of my agent. Remembering the day I spent at Omaha, toes in the cold water, thinking about what those men who fought went through, something happened to me. A new voice filled my head. My creativity came alive.

Looking back now, I think it might have been an extreme example of psychogeography, the way a new place affects the emotions of the person visiting. But you never know. Maybe my characters had lived there and chose me to tell their story. Maybe they met me at the train station and moved me towards the city centre. Maybe I had been there before, in another life. Or maybe I was just ready for the right story to find me, in the right place, at the right time.

Whatever it was, Bayeux is where the magic began, and I will always be grateful for the feelings of connection I experienced walking its beautiful streets and dreaming.

My father grew up in a small part of Nova Scotia near New Glasgow. It was about a three hour drive from my hometown, and we made the trip often before my grandmother died.

One trip we made was on New Year’s Eve, when I was about eight years old. It was getting dark when we hit a patch of the Trans Canada that was dotted with old homes – five, maybe six of them, spaced well apart. Perhaps the owners didn’t want to sell when the highway went in, or maybe it was a part of the road used so seldom back then it didn’t matter. In my memory the houses are all hunkering two story affairs with big front porches and farm equipment lurking nearby.

They were, for the most part, all glowing with Christmas lights. This was back in the day when lights were long strings of multicolour bulbs, some of which burnt out in the time between being put up and taken down. Orange was a prevalent colour I seem to remember, and an amber kind of yellow, like at a traffic light. The blue were my favourite and I used to scan the long rows that ran along the eaves, the squares of lights framing the windows, for the soft halo of illumination they gave. It was before the days of clear lights, wire reindeers and restrained decorations. These lights seem to scream, like they wanted to send a signal saying, ‘We are still here, look at us! It’s dark out and this is an isolated stretch of road, but it is still magical!’ At least, that was how it played in my eight year old head. Maybe I was seven? I don’t know, but I do remember we were all sitting in the front without seat belts, me between my dad who was driving and my mom who was always the front seat passenger. It was a very different time.

As the sun set and the sky darkened, my mother observed to my father that it looked like a lot of time and energy was spent on the lights. Until a house appeared, dark and almost cowering in the dimming night sky. It had no Christmas decorations – the only light at all was a haze that came through the front widow, spilling over from the light in the kitchen at the back perhaps. It was impossible to make out the colour of the home, and the very building seemed to be collapsing into the darkness.

‘Look at that one,’ my mother pointed. ‘Strange to see it isn’t decorated when all the ones around it are so bright.’

‘Probably couldn’t afford to,’ my father responded.

And just like that, I was worried. About the family, about any kids that might live there and if they had or hadn’t got any Christmas presents. About them being bullied at school for not having decorations. And strangely, about the house itself. Were the floors sagging, needing to be reinforced? Were the walls damp from the cold? Was the house ashamed, embarrassed, by its darkness? Did it remember better days, different families dwelling within, and yearn for those times?

I don’t remember New Years eve or what we did. I don’t remember looking for the house in the daytime, on the journey home. But I still remember seeing the house, devoid of holiday decorations, how it looked next to the others. The sadness I felt, that has stuck with me. Visited again, in different countries, different places. Because sometimes, a house, a strip of land, a place will speak to me. I feel its energy. Since that day when I was eight (or maybe seven?) and felt badly for that house, I’ve had other connections which may seem odd, but have become one of my very favourite parts of travelling. There are places I have visited where I have no emotional response, places I enjoyed but to which I felt no connection. And then there are some what all but absorb me, like they have been waiting for me to visit. Those are the places to which I return.

*

On a trip to France many years ago, I left a train station and started walking, ahead of the friend I was with. I had a sense of familiarity about the place, a feeling of returning and being met with open arms. I told my friend it felt like I had been there before and he said, ‘I thought this was your first time in Normandy?’

‘It is in this body,’ I replied. He was silent as we walked the rest of the way to the hotel, me cutting a path across cobblestone streets that felt familiar under my feet. He didn’t shake his head or laugh; he just accepted this part of me. It is why he is a friend, and why we travel so well together. We have spent many days in France, taking epic road trips and visiting battle sites. While all are poignant, some are almost overwhelming to visit. There are many parts of France where you can still see the trenches cut into the ground from the battles of World War One. Can see the ridges and valleys created by the mortars and bombs that rained down over one hundred years ago. The grass that now covers the gashes is almost like scar tissue, a layer of protection and a constant reminder of what once was. The torn holes made in the earth have been covered over but have not healed.

On the opening day of the Battle of the Somme, the artillery could be heard in England, across both land and the water of the English Channel. I find that staggering to think about. How loud would it have been for the young soldiers who were fighting in the thick of it? The land I think still feels the pain, still holds the memory of the young boys who fought and died there. You can feel the sadness, and I think the land still mourns. I think it always will.

As you walk to the Vimy Ridge memorial outside of Albert, France you are restricted to a paved path that winds its way from the visitor’s centre to the extraordinary and overwhelming memorial where Mother Canada weeps for her dead sons. On the grassy slopes that run along the pavement are signs warning of undetonated explosives. You must stay on the path they say. Walking along, I wondered what would happen if someone tripped and fell, accidently sprawling on the ground. I wondered about the work that went into laying this path for tourists to come.

A guide told us there are factories working 24 hours, seven days a week to deactivate recovered shells, and it will still be many decades before the work is done, if it ever is. The shells must have fallen like rain drops. How did anyone survive?

At Beaumont Hamel, a sign says the ground you are about to walk on is sacred. As I walked it one cold morning in June, I saw where entire regiments of Newfoundland soldiers were buried where they fell. I saw the Danger Tree which marked the gap in the barbed wire where soldiers filed through, and learned they were picked off one by one by the enemy, hunkered down not very far away. I think the land remembers this. I think it knows what happened. I think it weeps for the inhumanity people show one another. I also think there is a lightness to land that has not witnessed an atrocity. And I think people feel the effects of this, too.

Cities have energies. Some are lethargic, some are young and keen. I feel it when I visit. And I am not alone in this. People who have the travel bug the way I do feel it, too.

Once, many years ago, I visited Greyfriars’s Cemetery in Edinburgh, Scotland. In the corner of the cemetery is the Covenanter’s Prison. For four months men who supported the National Covenant at Bothwell Brig were imprisoned in this area. They had no shelter and were given four ounces of bread per day. Many died. Some were executed. As I stood with a friend I said, ‘this sounds crazy, but I feel like I’m standing near a fire, like I’m burning.’ As we left we stopped into a shop and learned of paranormal activity in the site of where we had just stood. People had reported a sense of being warm, like they were burning. My friend went pale. I shrugged. These things happen to me, and I think it all started when I felt sadness from an old house that stood out from the others. But I’m older now. I know that there are worse things than being poor. That house could have been filled with love and kindness and the ones that shone so brightly could have hidden deep, dark secrets. I hope not. I hope they all looked out for one another. And I hope in the holiday seasons since that time, they all glowed with joy.

A few years ago, I was making my way to Florida for Christmas. My mother had started renting a condo there for the holidays after my dad died, and from the moment I laid eyes on the place, nestled between the Gulf of Mexico and the Intracoastal Waterway, I loved it madly.

The first trip was during the great economic meltdown of 2008-2009, which also happened to be during El-Nino, and the weather was perfect. Eighty degrees and sunny for the three weeks I was there. I met new people, danced on the beach and found new happy places.

In 2009-2010 I invited some friends to help me celebrate my birthday. The weather was cool and the energy different, but as we danced at the local beach bar on New Years eve I loved it even more.

Maybe it was the following year, I’m not sure, as dates have a way of getting away from me, but I was very excited as I made my way to Heathrow, anticipating a rather fabulous time. I was excited about the pool, the random chats with strangers, the food, the shopping… everything. I was all but humming with excitement as I stood in the queue at check in. As I approached the ticket agent (if that’s the right term?) I knew something was up by the way she dropped her eyes when she saw my reservation before saying, ‘The second leg of your journey has been cancelled. You will be overnighting in Philadelphia. There’s nothing I can do so I don’t want to hear about any of your problems.’

It was clear she loved her job and had exemplary customer service skills, refusing to look up and barking at me the way she did. I was angry, for a second, then I shrugged and said, ‘there’s nothing you can do about it, why would I yell at you?’ It was a subtle dig at her in many ways, but I’d flown enough to know these things happen, and I’d get there eventually. She looked up at me in surprise and said, ‘I like the way you handled that.’ Then she gave me my boarding pass and sent me on my way.

I remember using my credit card to call my sister and let her know what was happening so she could cancel my shuttle van. Then I walked around the terminal, taking in the familiar and fabulous sights.

I got on the plane and found myself sitting next to a young girl, nineteen, maybe twenty. She was talking to her mom, asking her to book her a hotel. She was crying, scared of being in Philadelphia on her own maybe, or perhaps desperate to get home after a long time away.

After she hung up I said, ‘I’m sure the airline will provide us with accommodations. Call your mother back, tell her I’ll make sure you’re ok when we land.’ I forget her name now but I will never forget her smile when I said this. ‘Tell her I’m Canadian, so she has nothing to worry about.’ To this day I have no idea why I added that part.

Flights, airports, everything is different during the Christmas season. People feel the kindness of the time. The magic. I remembered the year I took a shuttle to the condo along with six other strangers. The driver was wearing a Santa hat. When Feliz Navidad came on the radio we all started singing along to the chorus. I was the last person to reach my destination and I felt giddy and teary, watching my fellow passengers being dropped off, walking into big hugs as people waited outside for them, Christmas lights blinking in the darkness of the land surrounded by water.

This flight was subdued, perhaps everyone on board had dealt with the same agent I had. I don’t know why but it was quiet. It didn’t feel so jolly.

Then, we arrived in Philadelphia. Those of us who were overnighting unexpectedly were asked to make our way to a kiosk to get our new flight information. I remember thinking, here we go, navigating a new airport at ten at night, me looking out for someone’s kid. But we didn’t have to look because employees met us as we got off the plane. They were wearing Santa hats and had all our information ready and organised, including a shuttle to our hotel, to which we were escorted. As we made our way I pretended I was famous, being guided by bodyguards through the thronging mass of adoring fans. This also perked me up considerably.

It was snowing lightly as we stepped out into the cold night into the waiting shuttle van. It made the drive pretty, seeing the white flakes against the lights on the highway. When we arrived at the hotel the driver opened the van doors and took out our luggage, carrying it to the door of the hotel. There were maybe eight of us, and as he ferried back and forth I dug in my bag for the US money I had from my last trip. All I could find were a handful of ones, and not a big handful either. I folded it up to make it look better, thanked him, and said Merry Christmas. Then I raced inside before he could see my four dollar tip.

As I stepped inside the lobby I could feel a different energy. The quiet, subdued passengers from the flight all seemed to be getting a second wind, a new sense of joy, as we stood about, not quite sure how to proceed. It was quiet, the bar empty, but someone asked if they could get a Philly cheesesteak nearby and then someone else said that sounded like a great idea and the person working reception called the kitchen and the bar lights came on and everyone suddenly seemed rather delighted with this unexpected stop. I stood watching until it was my time to check in. I didn’t want a Philly cheesesteak. I wanted to take a shower and go to sleep. I asked if it would be possible to get an apple, some crackers, and a mug of herbal tea. The worker came back with stuff she found in the kitchen. When I handed her my voucher she said, ‘Save it honey, use it for breakfast.’

I melted at the kindness, and at being called honey. Grabbing my suitcase I found the elevator and made my way to my room.

Now, I love hotels. I love the way they smell. I love the quiet when you walk down the halls. I love looking at the décor and deciding if I like it or if I would do something different. I love the quiet. This one was very much to my liking: a king size bed with white sheets and a jumbo tv. At the time I was sleeping on a bed from Ikea and didn’t own a tv, so it felt like a suite at the Ritz. The bathroom was gorgeous, clean and modern, and I stood under the hotel shower until I was embarrassed by all the hot water I was using. I turned on the TV and found the Big Bang Theory, a show I liked at the time. Heavier snow was falling, and as I watched it land in the parking lot, a little part of me hoped there was a storm, and I got to stay another night.

*

My flight was leaving at just after eight, and I made my way to checkout very early. I had a mug of coffee while I was waiting and skipped breakfast. The same clerk served me, and this time I was ready. In my large suitcase I had copious amounts of British chocolate – Cadbury Roses and all kinds of stuff. I had pulled some out for the woman who had been so kind the night before. As I handed it to her she said, ‘Girl, you gonna make me cry,’ then she came from behind the desk and gave me a hug.

We got to the airport, and I found my gate. Then I took a little stroll. Nothing makes me happier than an airport. They are the portals to new dimensions. Gateways to new experiences.

On the flight I was sat between two children. The parents were on the other side with one child and I offered to move but the kids were happy. One wanted to sit next to the window and one wanted to sit next to his mother, across the aisle. So I sat in the middle. Somehow we all ended up watching Despicable Me together. I hadn’t seen it and thought it was hilarious. The little boy took on a Siskel and Ebert approach, resting his hand on my knee as he filled me in on the backstory. The parents slept. I had fun.

And then I landed at the Tampa Airport. My happy place. How I love it. When you get on the tram and you see the outside, the blue sky and the palm trees, I feel like life makes sense.

I made my way to baggage claim then outside to hail a cab. I hadn’t rebooked a shuttle because I didn’t want to wait.

The driver asked me where I was from and before I knew it I was hearing about some footballer he loathed and I’d never heard of, so I looked out the window and watched for cool billboards, something I only do in Florida. I love seeing adverts for Cracker Barrel and shopping malls and restaurants I’ve never heard of and factory outlets I love. I love crossing the bridge that seems to float just above the water. I love seeing the sign that welcomes you to Treasure Island, Florida. I could go on for days about the things I love, the same way the driver was still bleating on about football when I said, ‘Stop! Stop! There’s my sister! Pull over.’

I had the door open before he came to a full stop as my sister looked slightly alarmed at everything that was happening as she tried to carry a bag of groceries. She climbed in with me, saying, ‘I saw this little blond ponytail and thought, that looks like Marina…’ she rambled. It was a nice break from hearing about some overpaid goon who played for Chelsea. Only I could go to Florida and find a cabbie obsessed with the premier league, something I almost avoided in NW England, where I lived at the time.

But it was nice. I was excited to see my sister, and she was happy to both see me and set down the groceries she had walked all the way to Publix to buy.

The guard at the complex waved us through, and I gave both him and my cabbie some British chocolate.

Later that day we walked on the beach and I told my sister about a funny movie I’d seen on the plane, with ‘little yellow characters that looked like buckets’ as she yelled, ‘minions!’

I laughed as I thought of how the ticket agent dealt with me in Heathrow, and how things had turned out. I loved my hotel in Philadelphia (I think it was called the Four Points) I loved the interaction with the staff, I loved the airport and I loved how the young girl who was so scared on the plane sat at the bar and told me she was fine, so I could go to bed. I loved the staff wearing Santa hats and the shuttle driver and the hot shower and how comfortable the bed was. I loved the sunshine and buying groceries and drinking a cold Bud Light Lime by the pool. I loved meeting up with people I’d come to know on earlier trips. I loved the feeling of the place, even with the hiccups that come with traveling with family.

With travel, as with life, approach is everything. How the agent dealt with me was her approach, how I replied was mine. Maybe she’d been yelled at by all the customers who came before me. Maybe she had a friend coming in and she’d been excited to meet them and now they were delayed as well. I don’t know. What I do know is that giving her grief was not going to help, and perhaps she could have been a bit kinder in how she informed me. But it all turned out ok. And I hope she had a great holiday.

The world seems to be on fire, and the United States is changing. The off the chart customer service you once took for granted is not there anymore. The weather is crazy and so is the politics. I haven’t been since before the pandemic and don’t know when I will return. But I remember that trip and it still brings me happiness. I think it is better to celebrate the joy in the memory than lament the current state of affairs.

Approach is everything. And so is pretending.

My debut novel has won an Independent Publishers Press Award, known as an IPPY. I got a very cool gold medal in the post.

I am tremendously grateful for my US publicist, the IPPY awards, and everyone who read it and liked it and let me know.

Last January I visited Copenhagen. It was an odd time of year to visit the country perhaps, but a friend had frequent flyer points and wanted to go and I tagged along. I’d never been to Denmark.

From the moment I started telling people I was going, something interesting happened – everyone who had been there raved about it. Everyone loved it. Everyone thought it was beautiful or told me their favourite museum was there, a place called Louisiana. A few people said if they could live anywhere, that’s where they would live. It was not like Paris, which I adore but some dislike, or Spain, or any place really, in that the love for it was universal. I was excited to see what all the fuss was about.

We flew out on a Friday, and I was smitten with British Airways First Class lounge. Cold champagne and hot mashed potatoes – it was like they read my mind about things that made me happy. The flight was delightful, what with all the extra leg room and the flight attendants dancing attendance upon us. We had cream tea and another glass of Champagne, and I said as we landed the trip was already perfection, and that I wasn’t drinking anymore alcohol.

I had found the hotel and apart from a bathroom door that didn’t quite click shut, it was lovely. The staff were kind and helpful, informing we when I asked about bottled water that the tap variety was drinkable. I was shocked and pleased but bought a bottle from a shop anyway. The air was cold and bright as we made our way to a nearby jazz bar. I got to test my new Monzo bank card on a bottle of fizzy water and near beer and was delighted when it worked. The music was fine and the venue atmospheric, but the most fun came from people watching. There was a couple on a first date I guessed who went from awkwardly sitting across from each other, to gently holding hands, to a full on snuggle by the time we were ready to leave. I wasn’t sure if it was real or the product of whatever amber liquid they were drinking, but she seemed happy enough so I smiled and made my way back outside. We wanted to have a good rest and an early start. Besides, I love a good hotel room when it is more than dropping stuff off and using it to sleep. This one was nice. One wall was lined with windows, and it looked over an outdoor bar. A few times over the weekend I stood looking out, thinking how much fun it must be to meet friends there in the summer, when the days were long and the nights had a golden light.

Saturday dawned cool and grey, the way I pictured a winter Scandi day. We bundled up and set out, grabbing a coffee from a small kiosk in the middle of a town square. The young man who waited on us was cheerful and kind and I regretted not having kronor to tip him. He was so nice about it when I apologised that I felt even worse and gave him a few euros, for when he travelled.

We walked and we walked, visiting shops and a castle and stopping for lunch on the harbour. The meal was a collection of dark breads with assorted fish and the best potato salad of my life, and I left with a mixture of happiness and melancholy, knowing the chances of my visiting again were slim. I wish I could remember the name of the place, but I don’t, however it was a short walk to where the Little Mermaid rests in the harbour. It was smaller than I imagined – understated, classy and sleek – like Copenhagen.

It felt like it was near the end of the day and getting colder, although it was only four o’clock, when I saw an interesting building. It was modern, round or maybe cylindrical shape, on the edge of a street. A sign stated that it was the Museum of Danish Resistance, and my friend and I decided to visit.  

*

I have been to a lot of museums over the course of my travels. I have visited more war museums than I can remember. In some of these I read stories of young soldiers that still live inside of me. I defy anyone to visit the Museum of the Somme and leave feeling the same way about our world as upon entering. But the Danish Museum of the Resistance was something else. Focussing on the lives of a handful of people at the start of the war until the end, you walked a meandering route, getting updates on how their lives changed as the war progressed. There was a young man who fought in the Resistance, and I found myself uttering small prayers he survived. At the end you learn the fate of each person, and then you watch a film about the ones who survived and how they spent their time after the war. We left as it was closing and as we stood once again in the cold I said to my friend, ‘that was both heart-breaking and beautiful.’ I think he agreed.

The way the museum told its story, much like the building itself, was deceptive in its simplicity, carrying so much weight with dignity. I still think about it.

We went back to the hotel room where we saw the door was left ajar. I was alarmed about my passport and my remaining cash, but nothing was amiss. We brushed out teeth, I tried to fix my hair after wearing a hat all day, and then we went to the old meatpacking district, now home to a variety of gorgeous restaurants. We got a table in the window of one called Gorilla and I had a lobster roll done with tarragon and gruyere that was out of this world. I still think about that, too.

Sunday was more walking, more marvelling, and the best dark chocolate cinnamon pastry of my life. A touch of rain fell, then the sun came out, and I fell a bit more in love with Copenhagen.

It was a short visit and I was already planning my return when it came to an end. There was no first class lounge at the airport and the flight was just as nice, but the sadness of the trip being over settled in, as well as the lingering feelings from the museum, the tang of unworthiness I often feel after seeing what people went through during a war that took place not so long ago. It seems unreal that people can suffer so much and then go on, but I learned at the museum about those who did. I liked that their stories had been completed for me.

January turned to February and to March. Somehow lots and very little changed in my life at the same time. This happens when you are a writer. You work hard then wait for feedback. Wait for reviews. Wait for sales. Eventually, just as another book begins to percolate, you get editorial notes and brace yourself for their impact. All the while there is the concern about cashflow and retirement and the fear of being perceived as negative when you voice concern that you are worried about your life. It takes it out of you, but it is nothing compared to what the people living through war and occupation go through. I try and remember this.

A few weeks ago I was talking to my sister about the Ukraine and if we will ever visit Florida again, and somehow we ended up on the subject of Jeff Bezos money. I said that if I had his cash I’d put a pack on my back and travel until I simply keeled over someplace. I wouldn’t mind if that happened in Copenhagen – I would obviously have more than enough tip money this time.

Coffee!

When a friend asks you to write about some books with strong settings for a new magazine and you casually ask if you can promote your own – and proceed to put yourself in very good company, too. Thanks, Becky!