Indelible Adventures: The Stream

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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 12^th 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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This week's selection of photos is a retrospective of a recent visit to New York, and one of my favourites - the Brooklyn Bridge. Enjoy!