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The doorbell jingled brightly as I entered
the store, my feet feeling the instant change as I stepped from the cobble
stoned lane onto the ancient hardwood floor.
The air seemed different inside the store, as the
wonderfully aromatic bouquet and brightness combined to rise up and greet me as I entered.
It was if as if I’d stepped back in time through
some magical door, back into the heart of the Florentine renaissance. My eyes slowly circled the shelves taking it
all in as I surveyed the thousands of leather bound books that lined the walls,
and was momentarily mesmerized by the dust particles as they danced and floated
in the sunlight of my wake.
The ageless owner of the bookstore looked
up from behind the counter smiled a resigned and knowing smile, then nodded
almost imperceptibly. I returned his
smile but felt guilty for interrupting his peaceful sanctuary. It was obvious that the same pantomime had
been played out thousands of times and he was accustom to the browsers that
stopped by his store, more out of curiosity than anything else.
I moved slowly along the shelves, the
soundtrack for the experience provided by the faint and muffled sounds of the
alley outside, although the conscious thought that ran through my mind was that
it needed some piano and violin to get the mood just right, like you’d
hear in a movie...
Smiling to myself, I reached for a book on
a shelf just over my head. At first the
book seemed uncooperative and not interested in being pulled from it’s familial
home. Clearly it had been many years since
it had been released from the confines of its cohort; perhaps it was the ink or
maybe the leather that held it momentarily, but it gave way with a stronger tug
on the leather binding.
Placing it carefully in my left hand, I
opened the cover to find that the edges of the pages were discolored, clearly
an old book. As is my common practice I searched
for year the book was published and found to my surprise that it was 1922.
As like many of us, I make associations
with the little things in life and this just so happened to be the year my mother was born. So strange that in a bookstore
half way around the world, I pull a book from the shelf, and I can associate it
with something so familiar to me. As I
thumbed through the pages I realized that my Italian is so poor that there was
little that I could actually read or relate to…just the word or two to get the
general drift of the passage but no more.
I replaced the book and continued on my
quest along the shelves, still marveling and shaking my head at the
coincidence. For an instant my stream of
consciousness was interrupted by the jingle of the bell as another patron
entered the store. Turning toward the
owner to observe if his ritual for greeting was the same, however before he could
engage with customer the door jingled again as the interloper made a hasty
retreat, back into the tide of traffic of the alley.
He looked toward me momentarily and caught my
gaze, we quickly went back to our respective activities, him reading his book
that was perched on top of two others that were stacked on the counter and me to
exploring the treasures that adorned the walls of his store.
As I made my way toward his counter, I
noted that he also sold blank, leather bound notebooks and old-fashioned pens,
the type that you need to refill with real ink. The type that I used as a boy during
my primary school days in rural Australia…
So many little reminders, triggers and
connections to my life, yet here I was in a store half a world away. As I neared the counter, he turned and we
greeted each other “buongiorno” in unison.
Now both smiling he asked in Italian if I required any assistance, I
sheepishly replied “parlez englise” to which responded in excellent English
“how may I help you?”
There’s nothing like feeling inadequate but
at that moment it washed over me like a tidal wave, here I was standing in an
ancient store, filled with antiquities, being served by a linguist…
To minimize my embarrassment I enquired
about the pens, explaining to him that the last time I had used an ink pen had
been during my early school years. He
explained that the ink pen had been making a recent resurgence, at least in his
circles. Taking one from his case he
held it out to me, I took it and turned it slowly in my fingers, the thick
black pen weighed heavily in my palm.
Strangely, and this is the part that even surprised me I raised the pen
to my nose to smell. I’m sure at this
point the owner thought I was completely crazy, but his face didn’t give
anything away.
I guess I was looking for a connection to
my days as a child to see if brought back any other memories. As I reflect on that moment, its not
surprising as my sense of smell has always been my strongest sense. Smells always take me back; they’re
like little gateways into my memory bank.
I offered the pen back to him, which he
took and replaced back into its case.
I was itching to ask him about the history
of the store, and so I posed the question to him. He said that he was the third generation of his family to own and
run the store and that the building itself had been built in the late 12th
century, but had little else to offer prior to his family taking over the
store.
The short time that I spent in the store
triggered something in me; something deep that encouraged me to stop and consider every
other conscious thought and concentrate on each moment. Some might
say a bit of an out of body experience, or perhaps I was just being in the moment.
All I
know is that I felt rejuvenated and alive as I stepped back into the
sunlit alley, the wonderfully rich experience had invigorated me and looked at the
scene before me with far different eyes that what I’d used when I first entered
the store.
Isn’t it funny the things you think about
when you slow down, observe and open your mind to being in the moment.
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“Hanoi Posting”
A series of micro-stories by Terence Wallis
Episode 16: Magnetic Pull
As a boy Bill had been lonely, growing up in a large boisterous family in rural New South Wales. Being the second youngest he was often outshone by the more athletic, the more academically inclined and the more loving of his siblings. He often felt overlooked and so craved attention from both his parents and anyone near enough to pay attention.
He constantly dreamed of leaving his familial home and making a name for himself in the city, "the further away from this shit hole the better" he often thought.
He was a dreamer!
Although relatively bright University was tougher than he thought. He had always been somewhat gifted as a writer and had a wonderful turn of phrase, everyone had said so but at University he was just one of the many and so had to apply himself far more than he had imagined, but due to his strong work ethic had graduated with honours and on the Dean's list.
What he'd always dreamed about was becoming a journalist and living a life close to the action. He got his first job at the Sydney Morning Herald as a cub reporter, however the big break came for Bill on January 18, 1977 when he was the first reporter on the scene at the Granville train disaster in Sydney's western suburbs.
As the "on the spot" reporter he reported live from the scene day and night during the rescue efforts and aftermath. His insightful and compassionate style of reporting coupled with his perseverance and doggedness received significant accolades from his peers and indeed the editor of the SMH.
His star was on the rise! However over the ensuing years he realized that he was a big fish in a little pond and decided that the best place to make a name for himself was London. Everyone in the newspaper game knew London was the epicentre of journalism especially now the cold war was winding down.
It was now or never he thought. With a sterling reference from his editor at the Sydney Morning Herald it only took a cursory interview to land a job with the Times. Bill wasn’t one to rest on his laurels and so set about making a name for himself much as he had in Australia. In fact, no story was too large or too small, he could be relied upon for something last minute and he would have moved heaven and earth to make the front page of the Times. His hunger was evident in everything that he did.
"I'm going to make them proud of me - one way or another" he often thought to himself.
Next week: Episode 17: Reeling
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