Well we all have a face
That we hide away forever
And we take them out
And show ourselves
When everyone has gone
Some are satin some are steel
Some are silk and some are leather
They're the faces of the stranger
But we love to try them on.

 ...............................   Billy Joel

In the summer of 1977, I was kissed by a boy. My first kiss. It was clumsy, unpleasant and unimportant. Except that it marked a turning point in my early adolescence. The start of a year would see me try many new things.

The year would start with my first experience of buying new clothes for myself. For some time I had been working at my father's office during the school holidays. I cannot describe the euphoria of the moment I purchased a pair of denim jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt. New clothes from a shop! The feeling of these store-bought clothes on my youthful body was indescribable. Does a butterfly feel like this when it turns and sees the chrysalis, empty and redundant on the plant?

In the summer we holidayed in Taupo, where family friends had a small unit under their home. The family also had a teenage daughter slightly older than me. She introduced me to boys. To spontaneous gatherings at the lake, and whispered teenage daydreams.

While I was trying on a new me, my parents were becoming more emotionally absent from my life. Their own unhappiness and adult problems converged to allow me unfettered access to a new, more adult world. I discovered the fun of having friends for the first time. No longer expected to entertain friends at home, we would meet up at Youth Group, and at the shiny new shopping mall. Teenagers didn’t need parents to initiate or supervise their social calendar.

I discovered a passion for drama and public speaking. That year I won the best actress and best public speaker at school.

By the end of the academic year, I scooped every award except the sports accolades. I was giddy with pride after the awards night when I was called up to the stage over and over again. My friends had risen to their feet in a standing ovation, laughing along with me.

In the years that followed, the new, confident teenager took up drama, debating and student leadership. I explored my passions, by taking art courses. For a brief time, I dabbled in modelling and politics.

​These moments in time, often brief, and always exciting are simple expressions of the many facets that make me, an adult. Sometimes vulnerable, sometimes strong. Sometimes certain, sometimes lost. Examined in private, seen by all. The faces of the stranger.


Michelle Aitken
August 2022

A flickering image comes to life as modern technology opens a window to the grainy images captured on an analogue film camera more than forty years ago.

Uncle Jim’s face, etched in concentration as he releases a rope swing bearing a laughing Aunty Marie.  There is no sound, but none is required as their laughter is so obvious in their animated faces as the swing bearing a youthful Aunt swings out over the bushy outcrop dangling her above the steep embankment. The camera pans to show her three sons doubled over in laughter.

Another flicker and a younger Marie is now in her wedding dress. The smiling younger version of Marie is obviously ready for the day ahead, as the camera captures a youthful excitement. The camera is a silent witness as it captures the memory of Marie’s sisters, a hug from her beaming mother, my Nana, and a quiet nod from her father, my Pa. The bridal party poses on the stairs of the old farm house, “Walton”. With no colour I can only imagine the gardens that I am sure my Nana tended before the big day, what colour are those roses?

Another wedding, this time my own mother. The camera records her wedding day with echo’s of Maries day just a year or so before. A similar smiling bride, her sisters, and this time her new sister in law. I know that the dresses are in a “rainbow” theme, but the camera fails to capture this with the grainy black and white images. The same wide verandah and stairs. The wedding party posing for their formal photos. Do I see less joy or am I super imposing my own memories of a doomed marriage? My dad looks uncharacteristically animated. My Nana and Pa pose for the camera, and I remember the same pose in the formal photos I have in my family album. The dress Nana wore hangs in my wardrobe, a hand painted black velvet shift. I wonder if it was purchased new for my parents wedding because the dress goes on to feature in subsequent weddings.

The footage goes on, showing three more Aunties, all married from the family home. “Walton” is a special place for my older cousins and their parents. The grand victorian style weatherboard was substantial, boasting its own ballroom. My memories are borrowed from my cousins who speak of Walton with love and affection so deep that an outside might wonder if Walton was a person and not a place.

The black and white images give way to colour, as the weddings of my two uncles are also captured. First Uncle John, tall, self assured. His wife confident in her position within the family, marrying the “Golden Son”. Now images of Uncle Rick, in the context of my uncles character with images of motor boats and motor bikes. His bride laughing and enjoying a less formal affair. Walton doesn’t feature in these weddings, the family no longer lives there.

The weddings of two cousins follow. I watch intently, trying to identify people I’ve not seen for many years.  Weddings and Funerals formed the back bone of compulsory family gatherings. I imagine that all families experience the joy and sadness inherent in the traditions that surround these celebrations.

I watch as the film comes to an end and wonder at amazement that it has surfaced after so many years rekindling memories of people I will not see again. Their faces, joy and laughter captured at a moment in time and preserved beyond their lifetimes.


Michelle Aitken,
July 2022

Over the Christmas of 2021, I read The Tattooist of Auschwitz, a memoir penned by New Zealand author, Heather Morris. Heather, now a resident of Australia was introduced to an elderly gentleman, Lale Sokolov in 2003 after being told that he “might just have a story worth telling”. It was a meeting that proved life-changing for both Heather and her subject Late. The Tattooist of Auschwitz traces the incredible story of survival which challenges the reader to ask, what length’s would you go to to survive?

Originally, Lales's story was told as a screenplay which was lauded at several international competitions. Heather then reshaped the story into her debut novel. In documenting Lale’s story Heather has captured the internal battle of a man who sees his survival in the Nazi death camps as an ultimate triumph over Hitler's evil mission to eliminate the Jews and other minority groups. Heather’s talent for piecing together Lale’s memories of his time at Auschwitz is extraordinary. The reader can only imagine how fragile the elderly man’s recollection may have been. Heather proved to be an excellent listener, clearly winning Lale’s trust as he shares his intimate thoughts with the reader.

Elements of Lale’s story resonated strongly with me. My mother-in-law was a Polish War Orphan. Hania (Anna) never really told her story to her family, I imagine this was because the story she lived was painful. I met Hania (Anna) after I had met and fallen in love with her eldest child, James. We didn’t meet each other until our engagement was announced, and she was saddened to lose her eldest son to another woman. We never became friends. She was a difficult woman to get to know, mostly because she suffered from paranoid schizophrenia, and struggled with many aspects of daily life. She was, however, devoted to her three children.

In 2015 I began the process of discovering Hania’s story so that I could facilitate my husband and older children applying for their Polish Citizenship. I was not prepared for the story I was about to learn.

In 1939, following German and Soviet attacks on Poland (see Polish September Campaign), the territory of the Second Polish Republic was divided between the two invaders. Eastern Poland was annexed by the Soviet Union, and soon afterwards Moscow began a program of mass deportations. Hundreds of thousands of Polish citizens were forced to leave their homes and were transported to Siberia, Kazakhstan, and other parts of the Soviet Union. There were several waves of deportations during which whole families were sent to different parts of the Soviet Union.

The fate of the deported Poles improved in mid-1942, after the signing of the Sikorski–Mayski agreement. An Amnesty for Polish citizens in the Soviet Union was declared. The Anders' Army was formed. Between March 24 and April 4, 33,069 soldiers left the Soviet Union for Iran, as well as 10,789 civilians, including 3,100 children. Thousands died along the way to Iran mostly due to an epidemic of dysentery, which decimated men, children and women. Hania’s parents were just two of so many that died before the family reached safety. In September 1944, the orphaned children were loaded onto warships and transported to New Zealand, Canada and South Africa. Hania and her sisters and brother were sent to New Zealand.

Along my journey to understand my mother in law, I came into the possession of a copy of a handwritten record of the children’s lives before the war and their subsequent deportation to Serbia, journey to Iran and new life in New Zealand. The story that Hania’s sister tells is of simple people surviving in extraordinary times. It details the evil that can exist when people in power seek to fulfil their diabolical manifesto on the innocent.

Lale’s survival has a familiar story, a noticeable difference being that his captors were German. Like Hania, Lale had no inkling of the fate that awaited him when he was first ordered onto transport that would take him to the death camp. Once there, his existence relied on his capacity to live one day at a time, and his will to survive. Indeed, Lale saw his survival as a sure sign of his captors' defeat. He tells his story without judgement, occasionally hinting at the hatred he felt toward the German guards and camp officials.

Stories like Lale and Hania’s have been told and retold. Each time the horror that mankind can inflict such depravity on each other tests our understanding of the world. How can such evil exist? What causes one man to turn against another with such deadly consequences? How does the human spirit survive?

As I read the book I felt that Lale was willing me to examine my capacity for compassion. He challenged me to judge the actions he took to survive Auschwitz kindly. After all, how would we know what lengths we would go to just to survive?


Michelle Aitken
May 2022

I remember the day I met Queen Elizabeth II. It was a warm day, but I have no idea if it was summer, spring or autumn. There are no photos of the day to capture the memory and allow me to revisit the day. The memory mine alone.

I imagine you would think that meeting the Queen was a thrilling and memorable experience for a child. Queen’s, Princesses and fairytales are indeed ideas that thrill the imagination of most children. And so it would have been for me were it not for the fact the meeting the Queen was completely overshadowed by the most embarrassing moment of my life!

I recall that I had been a Girl Guide for a short time. A celebration was to be held at the Auckland Governor Generals residence and one lucky guide would be selected to be presented to the Queen.

As a relatively new guide I didn’t believe there was any prospect of me being chosen. However the sole criteria for selection was that the guide needed to fit into the period Guide Uniform. This guide alone would be the one to go to the celebration, and be presented to the Queen.

I remember the uniform was only tried on by a few girls, presumably the guide leader cast her eye over the group and visually selected the most likely to fit the uniform. The scratchy woollen fabric was not comfortable, and so it was with mixed emotions that I was selected. The uniform and I were a perfect match.

I have no recollection of how I arrived at the Governor General’s residence in Mount Eden, simply that I was there, with hundreds of other people.

Therein lay the foundation for what would become the most embarrassing day of my life.

There appeared to be inadequate arrangements for guests to go to the toilet and so the brownies and guides were encouraged to make use of the expansive gardens. I was not a child accustomed to “making do” in such a way and held on as long as possible before giving into my desperate need to empty my bladder behind a tree. The garden’s were vast, and there was a large number of mature trees to choose from. Having selected a place I thought was far from the crowd that was in the gardens, I quickly took care of business. It was not until I was scrambling out of the garden that I turned behind me to see that there were dozens of press and photographers on the other side of the fence clambering for a view of the gathering below. Although it seemed clear that no one had taken any notice of me, my embarrassment was burned into my memory!

When the time came, the Girl Guides paraded behind the flag to be presented to Her Majesty. I lined up with the other girls in historical uniforms and when my turn came I curtseyed exactly as I had practiced. I could hardly believe that it was happening, and in a blink of a moment it was over.

My memories of that day are of my embarrassment and amazement of being presented to the Queen.


Michelle Aitken,
​February 2022

​The rough leather case was a faded brown. Worn at the corners and with a metal zipper. The zipper itself suggested years of continuous use. With a single tooth missing the fastening was more or less redundant as the pull refused to budge past the gap in its mechanism.

The size of the case was the first clue as to its use, the exact size of an old fashioned writing pad.  Once open it revealed a pocket, presumably for postage stamps, a loop to house a pen and a strip of leather sewn so that a writing pad could be hung through the strap allowing the writer to use the case as a writing surface.

Grandma Hall’s writing case came into my possession when she moved from our family home intoa nursing home. At the time I was an avid writer of letters, either to my Nana or to my pen friends.  It seemed logical that I would inherit it rather than see it thrown into the rubbish. However, my connection to the case was tenuous to say the least. I had not been close to Grandma Hall and there was no transfer of emotion with the case, simply an acknowledgement that its form and purpose would be useful.

As youth gave way to adulthood, the case itself became redundant. The creation of self adhesive postage stamps meant that they had to be stored separately, since we seemed to only possess these on a roll rather than a flat sheet. Home computers further made the case less than useful since my letter writing no longer happened with the case balanced on my lap.

The case would disappear for long periods of time, resurfacing every now and then to surprise me with its contents. Long forgotten letters would reveal themselves to me when I opened the battered zipper. Had I penned a reply?

The last time I found the writing case was shortly after our move to Benalla. Unpacking a box, there it lay waiting to reveal its contents to me. I knew what the case contained, and was in no hurry to revisit the three documents. The last letter from my Nana, the order of service for her funeral. A last letter from someone I’d rather not remember.

With trembling fingers I unfold the pages. Once read, I refold each one and return them to the case. Wiping away a tear. Time for reflection before I put the case away.

Is it a trick of the mind that I forget where it is right now? Once found and now lost once more.

Michele Aitken
​November 2021

I was 5 years old when my parents took a break from their marriage. My family had migrated from New Zealand to Canada some 18 months before, where my dad had settled well. My mother had not, and she returned to New Zealand with my older sister, younger brother and me. On our return, she took a nursing position and moved into the nurse’s accommodation. My sister moved in with our paternal grandparents in a small coastal town some 100 miles away. My younger brother, still a toddler, went to live with my maternal grandparents, also some 100miles away but in a farming district. They sent me to live with my aunt and uncle.

​It was the best thing to happen in my brief life.

My uncle and aunt lived in suburban Auckland with their three sons. I was about a year younger than the youngest cousin. Reflecting now, I’m not sure that my cousins viewed my arrival as the wonderful event that I experienced. Surely I unbalanced their happy home? To me, though, it was bliss. My aunt enrolled me in the local primary school, which I attended with my cousins. I adored her. She cheerfully assisted at the school. I especially recall days when she would attend to make lunches that the pupils could buy. They were a simpler time, with Vegemite and potato chip sandwiches and little boxes of sultanas. School lunch day was a treat anyway, but observing my aunt mixing with the other mothers made me feel irrationally content. At home, she would sew, knit and cook. She would make me dresses and we would venture out to purchase the fabric and trim, often making a similar dress for my dolls. My cousins and I would play outside. Their large backyard was a paradise for small children. The boys were partial to games of cowboys and Indians. To this day my eldest cousin and I think of each other as brother
and sister.

They are memories of apple pies and laughter, sunshine and love.

My father returned to New Zealand and reunited our family. My mother and her sister
were not close, and we rarely visited the family that I loved. I experienced a profound
sadness that never left me, wondering how my life would have been different if I’d been
able to remain with them.

I renewed my relationship with my aunt and her family when I dated my husband and we
discovered he knew their family well. As a couple, we relished the opportunity to spend
time with them. My aunt embroidered and sewed a beautiful layette for my daughter when
she was born.

Many years later, she was diagnosed with leukaemia. Knowing her time was limited, we
scraped together the airfare so I could return to visit with her. The time we spent helped
me to understand the family dilemma surrounding the situation with our family. While my
head understood this decision, my heart always wonders what my life would have been if
only I’d stayed with them.


Michelle Aitken,
September 2021

​Crash
noun (c) failure
A situation when a computer or system suddenly stops operating.

The occasion of our son Kevin’s 18th birthday took a sudden and frightening turn when he crashed to the floor unconscious. He was paralysed on his left side when he came around.

The party had been a joyous occasion, Kevin was almost the last of his cohort to celebrate the milestone of turning 18. Additionally the group was looking forward to the end of their school life.  Our house renovations were in the last stages, but the kids didn’t mind the relative chaos of the house as they gathered.

By midnight I was ready for sleep and left James to ensure that the kids all found somewhere to sleep since many were staying over.

Sometime around 2am James woke me, urgency in his voice as he relayed that they had called an ambulance because Kevin collapsed after doing a headstand. The kids had been playing truth or dare and Kevin had selected the option of a dare, thus doing a headstand. A superb athlete, he was more than able to complete the dare and surprised everyone when he crashed to the floor. One of the kids at the party had his first-aid certificate and he rushed to aid Kevin.

Kevin was prone to exaggerating his injuries and so James wasn’t worried until it became apparent that he was not faking his current symptoms. An ambulance was arriving as I joined the group in the family room.

A rapid assessment by the paramedics had Kevin bundled into a neck brace and rushed off with lights and sirens to the local Emergency Department. James and one of Kevin’s friends went to the hospital to wait with Kevin while I settled the remaining kids for the night.

By morning it was apparent that Kevin was seriously ill. The headstand had uncovered a neurological condition, Chiari Malformation Type 1.

In the weeks that followed Kevin crashed in and out of consciousness. The pressure of the brain crushing his central nervous system was life-threatening. On one occasion the ambulance officers asked me if they should resuscitate him should he crash on the way to St Vincents in the city.

The neurosurgeons were amazing and life-saving surgery was performed just weeks after diagnosis. Throughout this time we were constantly aware that his condition could deteriorate. He had severe headaches and would lie down only for us to find him semi-conscious. His eyes would be bloodshot red as the pressure on the spinal cord became acute.

Kevin’s recovery, although very painful at first went well. His neck muscles had been severed and the bones in his spine drilled to accomodate the malformation in the brain. He shows off the scar that runs from the top of his head to the base of his neck. He’s of the impression that girls find scars attractive! When I look at his scar I’m reminded that life is a precious thing.

Michelle Aitken
​August 2021

​The sun had already risen above the tree line by the time my Pa returned from the milking shed. I always knew when he was home because suddenly, the house would come to life. Pa would have already kicked off his gumboots and made his way to the bathroom long before I saw him. I knew he was home though, because there was a pail of fresh milk in the kitchen, waiting for Nana to skim off the cream.

Suddenly, the large country dining table was crowded with my two young Uncles, Nana, me, my cousins and my Pa. Sometimes other men would be there, men that worked around the farm or men that had come for Pa’s advice, but mostly it was just my family, Pa, Nana, the uncles and me. On this day, conversation flew all around me as I quietly waited just in case any of the adults wanted to address me. Often they didn’t and when this happened I imagined I was truly invisible. This was not a bad feeling, I had learned early that invisible children couldn’t be beaten. Although I was safe in this house that feeling of wanting to be invisible never left me.

Sometimes though, the conversation would include me.
“Micky-Lizzy what will you do today?”, my Pa asked me.
I shrugged and shook my head.
“Well now I’m going into town today and you will come with me.”
Startled I realised that he and I were going on an adventure without Nana. I looked at her for confirmation of this unusual arrangement and she smiled and nodded. I couldn’t remember the last time Pa had driven the ‘good’ car out to town, it was Nana who did the driving. Pa drove tractors or an old ute, not the ‘good’ car.

Breakfast finished, I cleaned my teeth and put on my shoes, taking care to check that the soles of each one were clean lest I mess up Nana’s floors. I picked up my small purse and slipped it into my pocket. The coins within the purse were a source of great pride. At 7 years old I was a “saver”. My sister was not a “saver”. It seemed to me that whenever we went somewhere together she would demand I pay. This was the case when we visited the zoo, wanting to ride the miniature train I had my fare of 20c but alas Louise did not. Without hesitation, I paid her fare too, but I did wonder if it was entirely equitable.

Arriving in town, Pa had grown up business to conduct and I silently followed him into the Stock and Station Agent and then to the bank. Each time I contented myself with being invisible. When we had finished Pa looked down at me and announced that we were going into the stationery shop, where I could buy gifts for my brother and sister since they weren’t lucky enough to be on holiday like me. Pa had an amazing superpower to read my mind, I thought as I felt the purse in my pocket.  

Inside the stationery shop, there was a small selection of gifts and I carefully selected one for Louise and one for Paul. I took my time on each selection trying to find the ideal gift. On one shelf was a china Piggy Bank. It was pink, with a flower painted on the side. It reminded me of a book I had at home all about a Piggy Bank that sat on a shelf feeling invisible and useless. Eventually, the Piggy Bank discovered its true purpose when the child that owned it turned it upside down and cheerfully removed the coins he had been saving. Gazing at the Piggy Bank I wished I had more money so that I could buy it for myself.  

Instead, I cheerfully passed over my coins to the shop assistant and completed my purchase. Behind me, Pa reached over and put that pretty china Piggy Bank on the shop counter. My eyes were wide with amazement as I watched the shop assistant carefully wrap the precious pig in tissue paper and place it into a paper bag. Pa completed his purchase before reaching down and looking me in the eye.

“You're a good girl Micky Lizzy, using all your money on presents for your brother and sister. This is for you - I think you know what it is for”, he said before ruffling my hair and taking my hand in his.

As we crossed the busy road to the car, I thought to myself how lucky I was to have my Pa and how glad I was that I wasn’t invisible to him.


Michelle Aitken
June 2021

​Lifting my fingers from my keyboard I read over the words on my screen. Satisfied I hit print and sit back with my coffee. Another letter completed.

It has been two months since I disconnected from social media. The first few days had been a little strange as I found myself scanning my phone for the familiar app that was no longer there. Sipping my coffee I reflected on how quickly the world had gone from letter writing to phone calls and then to email and finally social media. The last year had been especially tough for me and yet I had found it uncomfortable to “broadcast” our families intimate struggles with life and death through social media. In fact, I confess to being very comfortable no longer being tied to the popular platform.

Retrieving my letter from the printer I sign it and fold it, placing it into an envelope. How would my friend feel when she opened the letter? Letter writing had been something I had grown up with. My family had migrated from our New Zealand home to Canada when I was just 5 years old. We had made the journey by ship. It was an age when phone calls across the world were costly and so letters were the bridge to those we had left behind. Needless to say, I did not receive many letters myself, indeed the only ones I have any memory of were the letters from my Nana.

A letter would arrive, written on thin “airmail” paper, lined in blue. In deference to my age, each word was constructed in distinctive printed letters rather than the cursive handwriting reserved for her correspondence with my mother. Her letters always started with a comment on the correspondence she had received from me, followed by a story about the farm animals - the principal protagonist was Mrs Duck. At the bottom of every letter Nana, more than a competent artist, would illustrate her story with pen and ink or watercolour signed “love, Nana xxx”.

Nana was a farmer's wife and she filled her letters with news of the farm and its animal inhabitants. These letters remained my most treasured item, each one read and re-read, folded and placed carefully in a small tin adorned with a picture of a young girl cuddling a cat. While the cat’s made me ill, my Nana loved them and therefore they were loved by me. I kept these childhood letters safe until they vanished when I was about 15yrs old. The final letter she wrote to me, weeks before her death at the age of 82yrs is stored safely in my old leather writing case.

My Nana was my anchor and we continued to write to each other throughout my life. As I grew from child to woman, the content of the letters became more intimate and therefore more meaningful. A wise and generous woman, my Nana continues to influence my life long after her death. The mother of eight children and grandmother to more than 38 grandchildren she made a gift of her time to me without hesitation.

Each grandchild remembers Nana a little differently based on the role she played in their lives. I remember her as a strong and independent woman. My Uncle - the keeper of the family stories - recalls she was always this way. She worked as a chauffeur and housemaid from the age of 16 years and was always the driver in her own household. As a young, unmarried woman she worked with the apparently singular purpose of flying with Sir Kingsford Smith, a dream that came true on 2 February 1933. The fact that the ticket from that flight survived her after her death is testimony to the importance of that encounter. She married my Pa in 1934.

I holidayed on the farm on many occasions and my favourite time was the early mornings. Pa would be away in the milking shed and the house was silent. It was a well-understood rule that this quiet interlude was Nana’s exclusive time to begin her day with a cup of tea and the newspaper - a ritual I respected and have taken with me to my adult life. In the early morning, a cup of coffee and the mornings' news at hand, I pay silent homage to the woman that was my Nana.


Michelle Aitken
​April 2021

​​The sun is struggling to make its way out from the heavy cloud cover. The chill is exacerbated by a strong breeze and the jacket I am wearing is inadequate for this autumn day in Paris. I wished I had held onto the vintage camel coat I hurriedly sent back to Australia while on a layover in Singapore. Typical of me I’d overpacked and then worried that it would be a continual problem as I circumnavigated the globe to get to my ultimate destination in Houston, Texas.

Why-oh-why am I so plagued by indecision about such irrelevant things? In my “day job,” I’m highly regarded as being able to make quick and sound business decisions, but in my personal life, the opposite is frequently true. Today is a perfect example.  

I’d arrived in London just 48 hours before expecting that this morning my sister and I would be here in Paris together. I was relying on her knowledge of French, and confidence in navigating Paris when she announced that she had to attend business meetings and would not be joining me. Her announcement hit me for six as I weighed up the pro’s and con’s of simply staying in Kent. Embarrassed at my hesitation I simply went along with her plans to get me to Ashford Station where I would catch the Eurostar to Paris.  

Once onboard the train, I was again plagued by indecision. Would it be safe to leave my bag and go to the loo? What if I got thirsty? How would I find my hotel? In desperation, I pulled out the well worn “Lonely Planet Guide To Paris” that Helen had pressed into my hand as she rushed off to her meetings. I skimmed the pages trying to settle my nerves. Finally finding some sort of calm I sat back and tried to enjoy the landscape flying past the train’s window.

​Arriving at Grande Norde I joined the long line to purchase a local Metro Ticket. The line crept forward at a snail pace until I was next to be served. Listening in on the conversation of the travellers in front of me I realised that my schoolgirl French would be of no use. Even if I could make myself understood I had absolutely no chance of understanding the rapid-fire French that the ticket seller was using.  

My turn. I hesitated before stepping forward.

“Excusez-moi s'il vous plaît parlez-vous Anglais?” I asked.

My fumbling apology worked like magic and I was soon on my way with a ticket to the Metro. Having already memorised the route I needed to take I sought out the correct line and followed the crowd to the platform. The train trip was remarkably fast, just three or so stations before I alighted my carriage. I needed a taxi to take me the rest of the way - the novice travellers get out of jail free card when faced with no idea which way to go. But where would I find one? The appeared to be three exits and I had no idea of my direction Too Hard Basket Michelle Aitken given that my journey thus far had been underground. I took a chance on the exit to my right and reached street level. Changing my mind I referenced the map on display on the street and quickly found my way. Growing in confidence with every step.

Above ground, I was curious at the random nature of French driving etiquette. Here, cars moved at an alarming speed as cyclists and pedestrians jostled for space on the too narrow streets. Quintessential French architecture with glorious attic floors capping off the buildings looked down on the cobbled footpaths, tree’s softened the landscape, their colourful autumn leaves scattered on the path. Patrons sat at cafe’s with their chairs facing the street they appeared to be spectators watching the day’s parade play out before them. The confusing puzzle of streets, so different from the ordered boulevards of Melbourne, while charming presented as another cause for confusion. Determined to enjoy the moment I took in my surroundings and decided that I was glad I had fought my hesitation and come to Paris. It took no time to work out that I’m only a few blocks from my hotel which is a charming old bank converted into a pleasant hotel.

Aware that I was arriving too early to check-in I negotiated to leave my bags with the hotel porter and, armed with my research set off in search of the antique fabric markets. This is my mission here in Paris, to attend a renowned flea market which is only open on Monday (today) and Sunday. It is here that I have read that astute buyers can snap up century’s old fabrics and laces. This is the treasure I seek. Noting that it is already almost noon, I feel a sense of urgency to get to my  ​destination. Another Metro train took me to the chilly Paris quarter.  

I’d left behind the Paris of postcards and ventured into a part of town that seemed seedier - edgier.    The buildings, no longer quaint, were rather utilitarian insults to architecture. Graffiti disfigured their walls and the functional footpath found no room for trees or cafes. Following my own handwritten directions, I quickly found the flea market, trying to muster an air of confidence as I wandered among the trash and treasure.

It was not at all what I expected...

​"The sun was kissing the terracotta rooftops, bidding farewell to another day and casting long shadows on the cobbled street. Slowly people were gathering, as though they had been waiting for this precise moment in time to emerge from their hiding places. Music could be heard faintly wafting into the Plaza and mingling there with the sounds of people greeting friends. The smell of food beckoned me.  I realised that my stomach was protesting that it had been too long since my last meal.

Absolutely nothing around me was familiar as I wondered how it could be that just days ago I was standing in my kitchen moving through the drudgery of preparing the evening meal for my family. The daily grind, nothing alarming, but seriously boring, was now consigned to another place and time. For now, my feet seemed to move more easily than usual and I wondered at the freedom that travel to this place had brought to me.

At the doorway Cara, my daughter, hesitates, not sure if the eatery would suit me.  Any place where I don’t have to cook and clean up qualifies as perfect!  Kevin, now keenly embracing this new experience, pushes past Cara to the interior of the cafe and proceeds to strike up a conversation with the bewildered Spanish barman. Looking up, he greets us with a smile and welcome “Hola”, before slipping easily into English, at once making us feel at ease.

We sit near the window, Cara and I, sipping our sangrias while waiting for my husband James to emerge from the Church that sits inside this magical Plaza.  Kevin continues to chatter to the barman, making himself at home on the barstool. He’s discovering that conversation comes easily in this exotic place.

The minutes turn into hours and the Sangria flows freely.  Every now and then I wonder how it is that I’m here, living in this moment and drinking Sangria as if it were water. Where is the responsible middle-aged woman I am, where did she go?  James has joined us, food has been ordered and consumed and dusk has given way to the night.  Around us, the bars and cafes have filled with noisy groups enjoying life. I get the idea that this is not a unique experience for these Catalans.  I envy them this place, this way of life.

I’m aware that the hour has turned very late, and that I have not stayed out as late since I was a woman without responsibilities - that time BC (before children). We wander now through the maze of cobbled streets, vaguely aiming for Las Ramblas and our temporary accommodation.  

Music wafts out from late-night bars and since my inhibitions are already dulled by the many Sangria we have enjoyed, I declare we should investigate each and every source of music. The journey to our lodgings becomes very slow as we variously find ourselves in small bars tucked down unassuming laneways. I’m tipsy and giggling and laughing like a young girl.  James too is in high spirits and we find everything funny.   A window display of toilet paper takes on an energy of its own. Official looking guards monitoring the comings and goings of a function that looks like something serious could be happening attract our mirth.  Our hearts are light as we wander about this fabulous place.

Ah, Barcelona.  

A song comes on the stereo and my memories return …  

And you and I we're flying on an aeroplane tonight
We're going somewhere where the sun is shining bright
Just close your eyes
And let's pretend we're dancing in the street
In Barcelona
Barcelona
Barcelona
Barcelona

(Ed Sheehan)"


Michelle Aitken,
February 2021