Author: Melanie

And suddenly the memory revealed itself. The taste was that of the little piece of madeleine which on Sunday mornings at Combray (because on those mornings I did not go out before mass), when I went to say good morning to her in her bedroom, my aunt Léonie used to give me, dipping it first in her own cup of tea or tisane. The sight of the little madeleine had recalled nothing to my mind before I tasted it; . . . . But when from a long-distant past nothing subsists, after the people are dead, after the things are broken and scattered, taste and smell alone, more fragile but more enduring, more unsubstantial, more persistent, more faithful, remain poised a long time, like souls, remembering, waiting, hoping, amid the ruins of all the rest; and bear unflinchingly, in the tiny and almost impalpable drop of their essence, the vast structure of recollection.
— from Remembrance of Things Past, by Marcel Proust (aka The Cookie)

Today’s Writing Group prompt: Do you have any foods that are tied to specific memories or emotions?

Huh. The title of this prompt was Eat Your Feelings, which is an actual thing that I do, so at first I was thrown by the substance of the prompt. But then I remembered that just last Sunday, on my birthday, driving home from dinner at the tapas restaurant where David and I had our first date, I posted this on Facebook:

It’s amazing how a piece of crusty bread with chorizo and manchego can so thoroughly transport me back to Spain. Proust was on to something.

So of course there could be no other quote to head this post. I’m telling you, I sighed audibly when I took my first bite last weekend. And really, I don’t even need the chorizo or the manchego.  Sometimes just olive oil, with a little salt and pepper, for dipping.  And sometimes just the bread is enough to send me back, especially when it’s still warm.

One of my favorite things in the whole world to do with the crusty bread is something I discovered in Spain: pan con tomate (I almost wish I  could reuse the quote from that post for this one – too perfect).  Trust me on this one. This is the dish that brings me most immediately back to Spain – to so many tiny restaurants in Barcelona where I had it for the first time, to Salamanca where I made all my new study abroad friends try it and felt like a native, to a private room at a restaurant way up in the hills way outside Barcelona with one old friend and 12 new ones where I had it for the last time in Spain. I’m tearing up just thinking about the last one now – I remember sitting there that night, listening to five different conversations floating around me – in both Spanish and Catalan – drinking wine, sharing bread (I don’t even remember what else we ate), laughing so loud, thinking how lucky I was and how I’d always remember that moment.

Money may not buy happiness, but I’d rather cry in a Jaguar than on a bus.
— Francoise Sagan

Today’s Writing Group prompt: Talk about a car trip you’ve been on. Do you like to travel by car? Do you prefer to drive or be a passenger?

We drive to and from Detroit about twice a year.  We always take David’s car (since it’s his family we go to see) and he usually drives the whole way.  Car trips make me tired; I’m usually asleep before we hit Pennsylvania (we come from Northern Virginia). We play this license plate game that we picked up at the LL Bean in Freeport on our way home from our honeymoon to pass the time.  David thinks it’s unfair to have to suspend the game when I nap, so the deal is, he keeps track of the ones he saw while I was asleep and then if I find them twice before he finds them again, I get them.  Otherwise, he gets them.  He always wins.

I love taking car trips, especially by myself.  I sing as loud as I can to my iPod and car dance and don’t care what anyone around me thinks.

I’ve never been on a “movie road trip,” you know, you and your girls with the top down, music up, back seat full of snacks and drinks.  But I do own The Bad Girl’s Guide to the Open Road, which I’ve read cover to cover.  That counts, right?  Maybe when we turn 50, me and Aimee and Karen will ditch our husbands and kids and finally take that trip.

. . . [We] watched the half-moon out the window while we creaked back and forth in the rhythm that all women know from secrets whispered to their genes at the time of their conception.
— from Range of Motion, by Elizabeth Berg

Yesterday’s Writing Group prompt:  Where or when have you felt the most relaxed and at peace?

This is a hard one for me.  It’s not easy for me to relax; my mind runs a million miles a minute with things that need to be done, I worry about so many things, and I hardly ever let myself just BE.  I’ve been in the middle of massages and had to catch myself getting anxious about stuff and just repeat, “Relax, relax, relax.”

Maybe the best times, though, have been when my niece and nephew were tiny babies and I would watch them for the evening while my brother and sister-in-law went out.  I loved rocking them in the dark after feeding them, singing to them while they fell asleep.  I would keep them in my arms long past when they were finally asleep, just watching their sweet faces and their little chests moving up and down.  There is just no feeling like that in the world, is there?

What is that feeling when you’re driving away from people and they recede on the plain till you see their specks dispersing? – it’s the too-huge world vaulting us, and it’s good-by. But we lean forward to the next crazy venture beneath the skies.
— from On the Road, by Jack Kerouac

Today’s Writing Group prompt: Which 5 songs would you like played at your funeral and why?

This was my contribution to the list of prompts.  I’m not sure why I came up with it, but I’ve been thinking about it since I submitted it.  Here’s what I’ve got:

1. Wonder, by Natalie Merchant

Yes, I used this in the theme song post, but there you go – if you talked to people who knew me during a particular period of my life, they’d tell you that this song is mine.  I want it sing me out.

2. Seasons of Love, by the cast of Rent

This song, man.  The lyrics are gorgeous, and the music just gives me chills.

3. Angel, by Sarah McLachlan

I know what this song is about, but I don’t care.  I think it’s beautiful, and I find it so comforting.  I’d hope others would as well.

4. If I Should Fall Behind, by Bruce Springsteen

For David.

We swore we’d travel, darlin’, side by side
We’d help each other stay in stride
But each lover’s steps fall so differently
But I’ll wait for you
And if I should fall behind
Wait for me

5. All Good Things, by Jackson Brown

And I want you to remember/All wild deeds live on/All good times/All good friends

Indeed.

Regular maps have few surprises: their contour lines reveal where the Andes are, and are reasonably clear. More precious, though, are the unpublished maps we make ourselves, of our city, our place, our daily world, our life; those maps of our private world we use every day; here I was happy, in that place I left my coat behind after a party, that is where I met my love; I cried there once, I was heartsore; but felt better round the corner once I saw the hills of Fife across the Forth, things of that sort, our personal memories, that make the private tapestry of our lives.
— from Love Over Scotland, by Alexander McCall Smith

Today’s Writing Group prompt: Show us a specific Google map location and tell us about its significance to you.

I have a good one:

That’s the Praça do Comércio in Lisbon, Portugal. Go ahead, zoom in.  I’ll wait.  See that statue of the guy on the horse?  The base of that is where I ended what I laughingly refer to as the worst day of my life.

When I studied in Salamanca, Spain, during my junior year of college, we had a 10-day mid-fall break.  My dad had colleagues in Lisbon, and they were kind enough to let me stay with them for part of the break.  I took the train from Madrid. (On the train on the way back, in the middle of the night, I met some Spaniards on their way to Paris to work in restaurants.  They told me they loved me and asked me to come with them.  God, I love Europe.)  I arrived on a weekend, but my first weekday there, my hosts had to work.  Manuela dropped me off near the water, not far from that statue, and I commenced my adventure.

At first I wandered around near the water, looking in shops and people watching.  Around lunchtime, like any good American abroad, I found a Burger King.  In my defense, I don’t speak Portuguese, which is shockingly unlike Spanish, and the Portuguese are big on seafood, which I don’t eat.  I figured, on my own, BK was a safe bet.  I had a Whopper with cheese, fries, and a drink, just like I would have if I’d been home.  Afterwards, I hopped on a bus.  I don’t remember my destination now, but it doesn’t matter anyway.  I’d never make it there.

As I was riding the bus, my stomach began to rumble.  Clearly, Portuguese Burger King did not agree with me.  I thought about trying to get off the bus, but it was so crowded and I didn’t really know where I was.  I concentrated on taking deep breaths and trying not to think about what must have been in my burger.  Um, that didn’t work.  I threw up on the bus.  I was in a window seat, and I vomited on the floor by the wall.  I don’t know if anyone noticed, at least at first.  At any rate, no one asked if I was ok.  I kept my head down, too embarrassed to look at anyone or get up to get off the bus for fear of being discovered.  I can’t remember, but I’m sure I was crying hot tears of shame, too.

Stop after stop after stop, and no one helped me.  Finally, the bus stopped for good.  We’d reached the end of the line.  After everyone else got off the bus, the driver announced more loudly that it was the end, so I looked up, looked out the window, and realized I had no idea where I was or how far we’d come from where I’d gotten on.  I was utterly and completely lost.  I got off the bus and tried to get my bearings.

I started walking in what seemed like the direction of the water, but I really had no idea.  No one I ran in to seemed to speak English, and I didn’t even know the name of the location I was trying to reach and I didn’t have the Portuguese words to describe it.  I had no map of the city and no Portuguese-English (or even Portuguese-Spanish) dictionary.  I kept walking, but I was in a totally residential neighborhood and there weren’t very many people out.  At one point, I ran into some police officers and asked them for help, but we just had a complete language barrier.  It was comical in its inefficiency.

By this time, it was starting to get dark and I was starting to get worried.  This was, of course, in the days before ubiquitous cell phones (1996), and even if I’d had one, I couldn’t have told Manuela where I was.  After what seemed like forever, I finally stumbled into an area that seemed familiar from my visit to the city the previous day.  It was a street lined with shops and restaurants.  I went into several and mimed a phone with my thumb and pinky.  The first couple of people all shook their heads no, but the last one nodded and pointed to the back.  I nearly collapsed in relief as I put a coin into the slot and dialed Manuela’s number.

She picked up, worried because she hadn’t heard from me.  I told her I had been lost all day and didn’t really know where I was but that I thought we were close to where we’d been the day before.  She told me to ask the waiter for directions to the Praça do Comércio and wait there and she would come find me.  I managed to make out the directions, which turned out to basically be, “Go straight down the street til you see the guy on the horse.  You can’t miss it.”  I sat at the base of the statue, resting, catching my figurative breath, and scanning the cars that passed for Manuela’s.

All of a sudden, a tall, young African guy sidled up to me and sat down.  He started making conversation, asking me where I was from and what I was doing in Lisbon.  Then, out of the blue, he asked, “Would you like to come back to my apartment and smoke pot?”  You could have knocked me over with a feather.  Before I could think of how to Just Say No, Manuela pulled up in front of us.

“That’s my ride.”