Impressionistic Love

It was 1974 and I was on my first tour of Europe. My student rail pass allowed me to travel cheaply through Western Europe. My backpack and sleeping bag were my only luggage and slept most nights in hostels or public parks. I was one of hundreds of international students travelling the continent that summer. We all had our stories. Most travelers were in pairs, I was solo. My best friend, Bob, had bailed at the last minute. I figured travelling alone would force me to break out of my shyness. So far, it hadn’t worked. I was f****** lonely. I had trouble initiating conversations and would just smile when addressed. I fancied myself to be a taciturn poet. My notebook was always close at hand. I had just graduated from Harvard with an English degree and had scholarship offers from several Ivy League schools to continue my studies. My ambitions and delusions of grandeur were at an all-time high. I would conquer the world of literature and become world famous. My poetry had garnered rave reviews from Harvard faculty, and I was working on my first novel. My adventures in Europe were going to provide much of the material.

 I had already run with the bulls in Pamplona, following my hero, Earnest Hemingway’s lead. An inopportune fall in front of his statue outside the bullring embarrassed me. My persistently sore left butt reminded me of the bull goring me as it passed by. I was lucky the wound was only superficial. Another runner pulled me out harm’s way before the bull could do further harm. I was too anesthetized from a gourdful of Sangria, I had imbibed before the run to feel anything until the next morning. A Canadian girl who was watching from the sidelines helped escort me back to the hostel where we both were staying.  She arranged for a Spanish doctor to examine me.  He said I was lucky it was only my butt and superficial. After bandaging me, he gave me some antibiotics and left. I was fine as long as I was not sitting. It still stung two weeks later. I wasn’t sure what stung worse the wound or my embarrassment. In my drunken state I only managed to say a sloppy thanks to the Canadian girl before passing out. She had seen more of my anatomy than anyone had in months. Still, I hoped to see her the next morning, but she was gone when I awoke. It was another blown opportunity to break out of my shell. She was beautiful, seemingly kind and I overheard her say that she was a newly minted Rhodes Scholar. She was to study poetry at Oxford. Her dark complexion and eyes and long black hair gave her an exotic look that was just my style.

I spent the next day composing a long love poem to this unknown girl.  Using Byron’s poem, She Walks in Beauty as a template, I mythologized her. She would always be in my memory if not my heart. I realized I was only fantasizing but that’s all I had. It had been almost a month, and I hadn’t said more than a few words to anyone. My loneliness was eating me up. I had a chronic knot in the pit of my stomach and was talking to myself frequently. Uncharacteristically, self-doubt crept into every decision I made. Shyness had always been a disability but at home and college, I had friends and family. Eventually, I was always able to connect with someone, but the initiation was painful. Now, I was on a train traveling to Paris. I was in a compartment with two Dutch guys who tried to talk to me, but their English was minimal, and my Dutch and German were nonexistent. So, we spent several hours in silence. I finished my love poem and wrote another about the Spanish countryside. My creative juices were flowing but emotionally I was a wreck. I needed to connect with someone, anyone. Maybe Paris would be the place. I had minored in French and was almost fluent but why did I think I would do any better in French than English? Maybe my awkwardness would be more acceptable to me and others in another language. I had to try. There were plenty of opportunities.

When we arrived in Paris. I took the subway to the hostel listed in my travel book. The metro was crowded with Parisians from all walks of life. Whether they were dressed in designer suits, dresses or in overalls, they all seemed so chique. The cuts of their suits, the bright colors of their ensembles were impressive, a contrast to my blue jeans and black tee shirt. I wondered how I could connect with any of these people. They seemed so out of my league.

I checked into the hostel, left my backpack and sleeping bag in a locker and consulted my travel book. The Impressionist museum, Jeu de Paume, caught my eye. I had read about Renoir, Monet, Manet and Degas but really hadn’t studied their art. I was a complete novice in the art world. It was the perfect opportunity to see what I had been missing. I took the metro to the gallery and purchased a headset and an audio guide for a tour. After an hour, I had walked through the whole gallery and was not impressed. I didn’t get it. Sure, the colors were beautiful, but the paintings had a psychedelic quality, I couldn’t appreciate. Pointillism was above my head and the landscapes and figures were just too surreal for me. What’s with all the swirling colors? The faces were distorted. Maybe I was too much of a linear one- or two-dimensional thinker.

As I was just about to hand in my headset and recorder, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to find a vison of beauty. Did these paintings have a hallucinogenic effect on me? It was the girl from Pamplona! I must have been beat red as she addressed me.

“Remember me?”

I was tongue tied but managed to blurt out: “I wasn’t that drunk.”

The girl laughed. “You were pretty wasted. How’s your butt?”

I blushed even more, looked at my feet and said: “Still pretty sore. Don’t ask me to sit.”

“So, are you just leaving? Isn’t the gallery wonderful? This is my third time here.”

I didn’t want to embarrass myself further or diminish her enthusiasm, so I answered honestly: “I guess I just don’t get it. My taste in art has always been Botticellian. These paintings seem too surreal for me.”

“Ah, you’re missing the magical splendor of Impressionism. The artists used lighting, bold brush strokes and brilliant colors side by side to create new masterpieces. They revolutionized art. Return your headset and recorder and join me if you have the time. I will give you a private tutorial.”

The knot in my stomach lifted and I became giddy with excitement. I handed my recorder and headset to the receptionist and turned to the Canadian with a smile. I could barely contain myself but managed to say calmly: “That would be great.”

As we walked back into the gallery, she turned to me and introduced herself. “By the way, I’m Tania. I know you’re Eric. I had to look at your passport before calling the doctor.”

“Great to meet you, Tania. I never got to properly thank you back in Pamplona. You were very kind.”

“We fellow travelers have to stick together and help each other. Besides, we have common interests. You were in no condition to look for your passport so when you gave me your backpack, I came across your journals. Sorry but I couldn’t resist looking through them while the doctor examined you. Your poetry is exquisite. I’m going to study modern poetry at Oxford this year and I bet I won’t find any better.”

I blushed even more and shook my head: “Thanks but I doubt that’s true. You must be a talented writer yourself. I understand you won a Rhodes scholarship. There was a lot of gossip at the hostel.”

Tania smiled. “I dabble a little. I’m afraid I’m a better connoisseur and critic than a writer. Lacrosse was my ticket to Oxford.”

“Let me be the judge of that. It’s only fair that you share some of your work with me.”

“We’ll see. Shall we start the tutorial?”

“Okay teach.” I was feeling surprisingly comfortable and confident.

We were standing in front of one of Monet’s landscapes. I saw waterlilies and a bridge, but Tania saw so much more. After pointing out the lighting, the nuanced shadowing, the bold brush strokes and complementary colors, she changed my perspective. A whole new world opened up for me. When we moved on to one of Degas’ ballerinas, she guided me through the melding of color, brush strokes and grace. I finally got it! We walked for what seemed like hours analyzing and appreciating each picture and its artist. I even got the point of pointillism. Impressionism became a newfound love and passion and my guide through its world was garnering similar feelings. Tania linked some of the paintings to classic poems. We discussed the similarities in styles. I got it immediately. She had this unique way of seeing and appreciating beauty in all art forms and finding their common threads. I found her exhilarating and stimulating. She had opened parts of my brain and heart that had never been touched before.

After our tour ended, we went to a café and ordered chocolate croissant and cappuccinos. We both had a weakness for chocolate and espresso. I wasn’t sure my heart needed any further stimulation, but it seemed the right thing to do. I was feeling more and more confident, and caffeine gave me a motor mouth.

“Okay, so you’ve seen an intimate part of my anatomy and read my personal journals. Now it’s your turn to share details of your life.”

Tania laughed and shook her head. “If you think there’s going to be a fair trade, you’re mistaken. I do not bare my butt to someone I just met.” She winked and continued: “What do you want to know? I’m part Inuit from Winnipeg Manitoba. I have two sisters, a passion for lacrosse and poetry and just graduated from the University of Alberta. My long-time boyfriend broke my heart four months ago, so I took this trip to Europe alone before starting at Oxford. The rest of the details are boring and mundane.”

 “I doubt that. When can I see your poetry?”

“Maybe when you visit Oxford. I leave early tomorrow morning. Classes start in a week.”

My heart sank.  I had accepted a scholarship offer to Columbia University and classes also started in a week. My return airline ticket was from Paris, but I guessed I could change it. Yet I didn’t want to seem pushy or too eager. She probably didn’t feel the same deep connection I did. Yet…

“You’ve got a date sometime next year if you want it. I start classes at Columbia in a week. Spring break may be a good time to reconnect in England or maybe even Paris. Am I being presumptuous?” I held my breath as she answered.

“I’d like that.”

My heart soared as we rose and hugged. To my surprise and great pleasure, she looked into my eyes and kissed me passionately. I walked on air back to my hostel. My world and heart had just opened infinitely. For the rest of the trip, I was relaxed and interactive. In the final week, I met and connected with several fellow travelers and quite a few Parisians.

***

Tania and I corresponded during the next few months, and I visited her in England during spring break. We traveled to Paris together and visited Jeu De Paume twice. During my visit, I did see her bare butt and read some of her poetry. Over the years, we’ve made several pilgrimages to the museum and accumulated a collection of Impressionistic art. We even visited Pamplona again and watched the running of the bulls from the sidelines. I developed many friendships over the years after shedding my shyness. However, no relationship has ever compared to the relationship I have with my wife, Tania.