On the Aroma of a Garden

               Today was a great day. It was the first real kiss of a golden summer promised but that has yet to arrive. Walking my dog down an old country lane, rutted beyond vehicular access, the red winged black birds sang loudly, echoed by distant frogs in the grips of spring’s amorous fervour. A friend had just departed my house. Her presence is always a welcomed edition to my day. On a spring day as full of summer’s promise as this, her green eyes sparkled in the afternoon light.

                Grilled meat and bird song, flowers awakening and yearning for the sun, these are portents of lazy dog days soon to arrive. I found myself wishing for the re-emergence of the catalpa, whose scent overpowers the late spring nights. It always makes me remember Greece, which is in itself an oddity. There were no catalpas in Greece that I can recall. Their distinctive scent played no role in the tapestry that was woven into my memory. Perhaps it is simply a floral scent at night, potent and vigorous, that triggers this memory. That is certainly possible. Greece, dry though it was in high summer, exploded with blooms. And so, the presence of a garden’s heady perfume awakens my mind. It is a good working hypothesis. So much of Greece can sear the soul, so this does not surprise me.

                I recall lying out, under a canopy of bougainvillea, the star’s wheeling overhead. Brad and I were in Olympia, the locale of the ancient Olympic Games, and the birthplace of the modern. In the distance, mighty thunder clouds massed, preparing to assault the Peloponnese like a legion Athenian hoplites. Later that same night the storm would break over us, forcing a retreat to the safety of Camping Diana’s covered patio, as our terraced tenting space filled with an overabundance of water, the ground too beaten and dry to absorb the torrent. But at that moment, the storm was a rumour, nothing more than a whisper of chilled air hidden in a chorus of floral breezes. The pink blossoms that crowded the pergola above my head were alive in the night air, their aroma more than a match for our worn out boots, and drying socks, freshly laundered in a campground sink.

                Earlier in the day we had wandered the site of Olympia. I had a minor advantage over Brad, as I had studied sport in the ancient world. For me, walking amongst the faded glory, past leaning pillars and collapsed plinths, it was a near religious experience. I knew that the great ivory statue of Zeus, stolen from the temple to the same god, was one of the seven Wonders of the Ancient World. I knew that Milo of Kroton had bent his head to pass under the victory arch in six straight Olympiads, head bedecked in laurels, hair dripping olive oil; a man whose exploits were never to be paralleled in either the ancient nor modern Games.  Philip of Macedon, an empire builder, and father to the great Alexander, captured non-martial glory with his horses, his quadriga winning him an athlete’s immortality at the Games.

                We ran the stade, feet kicking up dust, the only spectators a stand of straight backed cypress trees, and a collection assorted tourists fresh off of their bus. Wandering away from the ancient site, we rounded a bend, and saw a lone pillar in a quiet stand of trees. Baron du Coubertin, the father of the Modern Olympics, in memorial here amongst the cypress needles, a solemn place not made for pomp or celebration. I wondered then what the Baron would think if he were to see his dream now, what his amateur ideal had morphed into as the years rolled on by; a circus of money and politics, ideals as faded as the fallen temples and little remembered athletes who graced this place with their blood and sweat.

                Luke and Carmen, an Australian couple who shared their time with us as we wandered Olympia, took us for supper in town. A taverna, where grilled meat filled the air with charred aromas. A spirited game of Uno and a few bottles of retsina, that acrid and potent wine found only in Hellas, were to follow on the patio of the campground (the same patio where Brad and I were to seek shelter later that night as the storm broke over us with a violence unfamiliar in the Peloponnese).

                Always, acting as an undercurrent, was the scent of flowers. Oleander, bougainvillea, blossoms bursting, nights filled with their song. As summer awakens now, still with the faint whiff of cold in the air, and flowers peek out from their long rests, I think of Greece. I always do, which is a glad thing. So much of Greece can sear your soul, but not all burns need be feared.

The blossom breathes its

Kiss unto the night; alive
With wild promise, sing

On a Grecian plain,
Beneath stars aflame with life,
Shrouded in bloom, breathe.
(“On the Aroma of a Garden”, G. Ludkin 2007)

What is in a Name?

               CBC Radio Two Drive featured a new song by Canadian singer/songwriter Raine Maida recently. The song is entitled Montreal. During the refrain, Raine sings about the “cold winds of Montreal”.  No doubt Mr. Maida had something very specific in mind when he penned the lyrics, something personal and beyond the scope of my experience. And so, my mind did what everyone’s does – it took those words and applied its own meaning.  It didn’t matter what Raine himself felt or envisioned; I saw a canoe, laden with furs, straining up the river, hard men sun burnt, smeared in bear grease, returning home after a trading season deep in the Canadian interior.

                As this is almost certainly something that Raine Maida was not thinking of when he wrote Montreal, it made me think about how people can hear something – a song, a place name, a poem – and apply their own meaning to that one thing. Paris is such a place. Almost every person can hear that name, and think of something unique, something that Paris means to them, much as the winds of Montreal made me think of a band of voyageurs. Paris might call to mind thoughts of the Eiffel Tower, the Arc du Triumph, Notre Dame, a Left Bank café. It may even make you think of a hunchback, or a bereted mime. For me, it calls to mind a bookshop, a place of wonder and good will.

                I did not think much of the City of Love when Brad and I first arrived. It was big, noisy, and busy. We made our way past a variety of posh shops that dotted the Champs Elysees, and came out to Napoleon’s triumphant arch. Crossing the river, we nosed our way past African street hawkers who peddled cheap trinkets at the foot of the Eiffel Tower. Stopping in a café, we drank lukewarm coffee, breathing in the fumes of diesel Citroen’s and Peugeot’s as they drove past. It was a bustling modern city, whose iconic landmarks were so over advertised that they seemed to lack all nostalgic appeal.

                More than a little disheartened, Brad and I decided to let our feet wander, and we stowed the tourist map in our packsack.  Our feet, of their own accord, led us into the Latin Quarter, saving Paris, casting it in a new light. The quiet lanes lazed in the hot summer sun. People drifted, not without purpose, but without the frenzy found elsewhere in the sprawl. It was relaxed. Brad stopped to watch a gaggle of octogenarian’s battle it out in a heated game of bocce that dominated a small park lawn. We wound up along the Seine, and saw Notre Dame, with its statue of Charlemagne across the river. More impressive even than that, we walked into Shakespeare and Co., and found Paris.

                Shakespeare and Co. is an English language bookshop, run by the elderly George Whitman. He was a one time traveller, and had once attempted to walk around the world. Although he did not make the circumnavigation, he did find untold kindnesses along the way. Knowing that he could never really pay back the people for their generosity, George decided to pay it forward, opening his bookshop on the Seine, and letting backpackers stay free of charge. The shop is a ragtag place, piled high with books, every spare cubby crammed with paper, but also cots and beds; these makeshift book shelves are cleared nightly, and George allows new generations of world-walkers to rest weary heads free of charge. In return, these thankful people work a shift in the shop, helping George in the running of his dream. Literary giants the likes of Henry Miller have graced the shop, shoulder to shoulder with other, less celebrated peoples.

                That system of kindness was a breath of fresh air. After hours of browsing, we emerged renewed into the street, laden with copies of Joseph Conrad. Sadly, the relative fame of the bookstore meant that it was beyond capacity with occupants, Brad and I forced to stay where we were at the camping ground in the Bois du Boulogne, but that was a minor detail. We began to retrace our steps, and saw the city in a whole new way. We noticed the pace of life beyond the automobiles. Dusk was falling, and we stopped to buy some provisions. Parisian staples of bread, cheese, meat and wine filled our arms, as we crossed over the river, to sit at the very tip of the Isle of Cite, Notre Dame and Charlemagne staring down at us over our shoulders. We watched the sun hover above the apartment blocks as we ate and drank. People from all over the city appeared, finding their own quiet spots along the river, also laden with food and drink. Friends clasped hands, lovers embraced. Time seemed to slow with the descent of the sun. People picnicked, enjoying the gloaming in the company of those they loved. On a foot bridge, we watched a group of Africans start a drum circle, taking turns to dance. Further down the bank, a young man serenaded his girl with a guitar.

                Our meal finished we walked on, hugging the Left Bank. We found our way back to the Eiffel Tower, which we had viewed so cynically earlier in the day. It was lit up in the falling dark. Just as along the Seine, people congregated here as well, to watch the sunset, and enjoy the comforts of wine and friendship. A whole city slowing at days end to enjoy life. It was more than an impression; it was a vibe that we could feel tangibly hanging in the air. As it was an unremarkable weekday evening, we knew that this must be a daily occurrence, this time taking exercise to squeeze the joy from life. How very remarkable it was, how very French, this priority paid to friends and wine, and the combination of the two.

                I like to sit on my own deck as the gloaming falls, and reflect with some vin du pays. I think of Paris, that slowing of modern bustle, and the awakening of Old World values. Whenever I hear the name, my mind whirls away across an ocean, placing me in the midst of a cluttered dusty bookshop, where kindness to strangers is the order of the day. I see old men in a park, laughing and cursing in equal measure as metal bocce balls clank like artillery rounds. I see a radio tower once slated for demolition, now lit up in the night as lovers embrace at its feet, the symbol of a city famed for love. I hear African rhythms and the flashing of smiles as men dance away the frustrations of a day selling knickknacks to tourists. I taste cheap wine, and value good friends. That is what Paris calls to my mind. But that is not at all important. What is important is what Paris calls to your own.