The Geography of longing

Chapter 2:The Guide

The Guide For Monaco was an escape, but for a good reason. It wasn't until she was on the tarmac at Nice Côte d'Azur Airport, the Mediterranean's bluest horizon stretching before her, an air of promise not known to her, that she realized how much she needed it.

The weather was just different here. They were thick and syrupy and had a salty and sun-kissed smell. She had come out from inside the terminal, and there was a relaxation that had been there for a long time, but she hadn't thought about it.

The hotel was outrageously pricey and it was an indulgence she'd deserved for her thirtieth birthday. She'd watched for one hour on the balcony overlooking the harbor on her first night there, trying to make the memory of those yachts bobbing in the moonlight and recalling the last time she had felt free of her inhibitions.

The next morning she was a tourist with a guidebook and map, searching out the soul of a city that apparently was set against the ways of authenticity. The casino was a dazzling place. There couldn't be any more than the shops were impenetrable. People walked with an aloof class she found disconcerting, American-looking.

She had found herself in the old town, Le Rocher, with its steep staircases which led between old building blocks. The guidebook had referred to the Prince's Palace, the cathedral in which Grace Kelly was laid to rest, and the Oceanographic Museum. Not a word about the garden.

It's a secret spot of green she had discovered by chance between two stone walls. There was a bench, some lavender, and there was a view of the sea that made her breath catch. She had been sitting down, leaning forward to take pictures for Mark, but she'd stopped.

Why give him a picture? He wouldn't like it. He would gaze at it and say "nice" and go back to what spreadsheets he was creating. He would not grasp how this perspective upset her, brought a sense of longing to her heart that she could not name.

She'd handed over the cell phone and had switched to her guidebook.

It was then that he came out.

There you won't find that garden, he said.

She had her eyes skyward, but she had been startled. He was standing a few feet off, a man who moved rather unhurriedly, gracefully, in ways that were somewhat unusual in this modern day and age. He wore linen trousers and a white shirt with sleeves rolled to the elbow. No watch. No phone. He was carrying a book in leather-bound, worn pages that were like a book from another time.

For example, "Excuse me?," she had said.

He indicated the guidebook with a nod. This book will tell you where you can spend your money; it will not tell you where you can find the soul of Monaco.

His accent was refined, that of an old-school Englishman, one who had studied it from the tutors and movies. His eyes were a grey-blue and had the color of the sea at dusk, when he looked at her.

She ought to have been on her guard. She was all alone in an unknown land, and a stranger approached her. There was an old-fashioned courtesy, a patient stillness, about him, that put her at ease.

She had asked him, "Can you? She had asked, "Can you? "Show me, I mean?"

A slow smile crinkled around his eyes; he'd smiled then. "Of course, it would be my pleasure.

That's how she came to know Luca.

He first went to the bakery with her. A little old woman who had been baking the same lemon tarts for 50 years, in a small shop set in a narrow alley. She had come out with a pastry en parchment paper, and Luca was talking to her in a melodic French voice in a rapid pace.

I gave it to her, and she said, "This is perfection. O'no Menu, O'no reviews, just the tradition.

She had taken a bite and was about to cry. Tart, bright, and sweet as sunshine pressed into dough. "This is incredible."

Here," he had said, taking her hand, "let me show you more.

He had brought her to the Palace at the end of the day, but not for the changing of the guard. Rather, they had been at the Place du Palais, and he had recounted to her the story of Grace Kelly, the woman, the mother, the princess who had endeavored to save the soul of her adopted city.

He said that everyone still has a vivid memory of the glitz and glam. She sacrificed everything for this place, and in the end, this place gave her peace.

How did you get so much information about her? she had asked.

He said that he was an “archivist.” I "save the stories" – the telling ones.

They'd walked along the old streets; the guidebook had failed to mention anything about them, and he had pointed them out to them. A fresco concealed in a courtyard. The family who had occupied the same flat for 7 generations. The smooth worn stone that had been worn by the feet of the ages.

As he paused at a wrought iron gate, he said: “You see?” “It's not about the yachts, and it's not about the money; it's about the people who loved it enough to stay.”

She'd watched him in the dim light and seen how the shadows caressed his face and had felt something inside her. A recognition. A kinship.

Who is she that you are? she had asked.

He had laughed, his laughter like wind chimes. A man who is passionate about his home. And you?"

It's just a woman who is trying to find her.

The look on his face had altered; he was serious. "And have you? Found it?"

She had her mouth open to reply, but did not know what to say.

She had left, and the letters had begun.

On the final night in Monaco, Luca had taken her to an observatory, a place which tourists never visited, located above the City. They had been in the darkness, the stars like diamonds bright above them,

It was a place where my grandfather would take me when he was a kid. He would tell me that the stars would be the same as those that his ancestors had witnessed. The same ones his grandkids would get to see. It made him feel like he belonged. Anchored."

She'd asked, "Anchored to what?".

“To something greater than him.” His face had been expressionless in the starlight, and he had turned his gaze to her. That's what we all desire, right? To become a part of something beyond our time.

Then she had felt the tears make their way into her, uninvited and unwelcome. She'd been carrying it for a long time, and his words had penetrated the cover of her armor.

She had whispered, "I can't go back. But I can't be me from before.

He hadn't touched her. All he had done was wait, still and patient, and told him, "Then don't.

The next morning, he'd come to her hotel with an envelope. His handwriting was elegant on the front; it is cream coloured paper.

He had written to me, "Write to me. Tell me who you want to be, and I'll write back.

She had been looking at an envelope she was holding. "Why?"

“Some stories are worth telling and can't be left hanging.” He'd smiled, that slow smile that made her heart ache. "I believe that's just the beginning of your story," he said.