Lizzie Writes Getting Lost in Europe

By Liz Alley

We lay in bed with the window open, those European windows that make our American windows look sad and cookie-cutter. The night was cool, like early October in Georgia, though it was August in Germany. The sounds were soothing: the rustle of the apple tree limbs, the light rain, and the soft cackle of the neighbor’s chickens. However, my favorite sound, one of my favorite things about the whole trip, was the soft purr of the moped in the early morning as our bread was being delivered. Each night, Annet, our host, would ask what kind of bread we wanted for breakfast, and we always said, “Croissants.” It became part of my morning routine to start with coffee, fumbling with the buttons of the coffeemaker whose language I didn’t understand, and bring in the bread that was left hanging on the front door in a canvas bag. I’d sit at the table on the terrace, enjoying my coffee and croissant with raspberry jam. I suppose this is how I am; the memories of my trip abroad are more of what I felt than what I saw.

I wasn’t expecting to fall in love with Paris. I am not one to be easily impressed, a quality that sometimes irritates me and others. However, Paris was not having any part of the “see if you can make me love you” attitude. Paris wooed me; she stunned me with her beauty and boundless offerings. The first place we went to was Shakespeare and Company. I sat on a velvet bench in the back of the bookstore, sure that the ghosts of Ernest Hemingway and F. Scott Fitzgerald sat beside me until a woman with a stack of books sat down and squished them. No matter; there were plenty of ghosts in Paris. They looked out at me from the Louve and swirled around me at the Place de la Revolution, where Marie Antoinette and many others were beheaded. I imagined her ghost restless, sulking through the streets of Paris at night, declaring, “Let them eat cake!” At the statue of Joan of Arc, a gentle breeze whispered, “I am not afraid…” And all too soon, it was time to leave the city of love and our rooftop terrace, where we had coffee in the morning and champagne at night.

And who are we, you ask? My friend from high school, Caroline English, our friend Annet, an exchange student who lived with her family, and her twin sister, Esther. Though Caroline had kept in touch, I met both girls again for the first time in 40 years in Paris, and from Paris, we went to Annet’s house in Germany. Annet’s village reminded me of a 19th-century painting; the fields are rich with layers of green set amongst charming brick houses with impressive craftsmanship despite or perhaps because of their age, and a few still covered by a thatch roof. I can report that the German cows are just like American cows. As they meandered around the countryside, they reminded me of the cows at the foot of Tiger Mountain. I imagined, but did not confirm, that German cows moo with a hard roll of the tongue, while the cows in Tiger are more like “Moo Y’all.”

Liz Alley was born and raised in Rabun County in the city of Tiger. She loves to write. She is an interior designer specializing in repurposing the broken, tarnished, chipped, faded, worn and weathered into pieces that are precious again. She is the mother of two daughters and has three grandchildren. She divides her time between her home in Newnan and Rabun County. Liz would love to hear from you, drop her a line at Lizziewrites0715@gmail.com

Caroline and I went on a day trip to Berlin by train. The first feeling I had about Berlin was “energetic.” We took a tour on a “Hop On, Hop Off” bus, and I have to admit, my heart kicked up a notch when we approached the famous Berlin Wall area. Much to my surprise, all that’s left of this infamous wall is a double row of cobblestones that runs throughout the city. Still, this faint reminder speaks volumes about the struggle for freedom and the oppression of divided souls. Check Point Charlie felt a little kitschy rather than somber; however, it still feels like Berlin has managed to reunify itself from past wounds. Berlin felt vibrant and alert, while Paris felt seductive and wintery even in the middle of August.

Next stop, Switzerland. This Alpine nation had me at “Hello” or perhaps “Gruess-Gott.” When I flung the doors open from our hotel, I had to resist the urge to sing in my loudest voice, “The Hills Are Alive With The Sound of Music!” Switzerland was stunningly beautiful, not to mention all that Swiss chocolate and cheese. We visited Esther’s home in Switzerland, where we had a beautiful view of the mountain scenery. The Swiss mountains, at least the ones I saw, were not as imposing as our North Georgia mountains but fainter and bluer, which surprised me. The terraced vineyards and charming villages demanded a response from the viewer, thus my urge to sing. And what do the ghosts of Switzerland sound like? It was hard to say as I’m sure I heard both French and German languages there. Still, through the muddle of my nonbilingual ear, I heard in the distance a raspy voice, but definitely English, and when I turned my face toward the sky, I realized it was the ghost of Tina Turner singing Proud Mary.

Enjoy more of Liz’s writing at Lizzie-writes.blog