I've recently found myself the recipient of many suggestions for attractions to see while I'm in Paris for a few months.
It's been hard to succinctly articulate why I probably won't travel to other European cities, to other French towns, or even to the Palace of Versailles. It's not a constraint of time or money. It's more that I'm looking to let the life and essence of Paris seep into my being.
When I think back on the places I've lived, the memories that I remember most vividly are not the ones I expected to think about. The building blocks of a place's impression, at the time, were ordinary moments, some a singular instance, others repetitions of routine.
Hong Kong memories consisted of sitting cross legged on stone ledges, looking out at the Pacific. Washington D.C. was late afternoons at the National Gallery of Art, to pass a few moments with the Impressionists, in particular Monet and his Japanese Footbridge. Life in Toronto was not necessarily the downtown core and it certainly was not the CN Tower. It was late night crepes and tea on Church Street, it was Saturday morning walks down Palmerston Street in little Italy where the little houses had neat gardens and gates and the only other people out were middle aged pet owners with their dogs.
When I think of Korea I do not remember the temples or the festivals; I remember the thick honey bread and the large glass mugs of ginger peach tea from Cafe Bene, and my strongest memory is that of autumn winds carrying the fragrance of osmanthus blossoms. Smell is a powerful memory trigger; this particular sense is wired directly to our brain's memory centre and it evokes memories in a way that none of our other senses can. When I walk down city streets and into elevators, I can tell if Chanel's Coco Mademoiselle, Chloe's Love, or Giorgio Armani's Acqua di Gio has made an appearance. I have never again come across the fresh fragrance of osmanthus blossoms since those days in Korea, but I do hope to one day.
There are places I have not yet been to, but of these places, my mind has created such strong slivers of what they seem to be, that they appear already as memories. California and its light beneath ancient redwoods, Arizona with its dry desert heat and its sunsets creeping over rocks and sand and cacti. Japan with its winter of Hokkaido's quiet, deep snows, and its spring of falling Japanese cherry blossoms. My friend told me she was overcome by the beauty and history of St. Petersburg the first time she went there, and watching her tell me this, I too wanted to go to St. Petersburg to see for myself.
It is these ordinary moments that create an individual's relationship with a place. Home moves with me wherever I go, and it is these small moments, perhaps unnoticed by anyone but me, that become the memories of the places I lived, the places I called home.