From a shoe box of old postcards I lift one out -- a view of the Hotel de l'Universite, a small Left Bank hotel where I often stay -- and read the following message:
At breakfast today in a cafe near the rue du Bac I saw Colette. She was drinking coffee and smoking a cigarette, her wild, curly hair and knowing eyes enveloped in smoke. I almost said hello but then remembered Colette is dead. Still I decided to visit her in the flesh, so to speak, at Pere Lachaise cemetery. When I arrived, she was there waiting for me. It pleased me to see that someone had placed a dozen red roses on the marble stone that says simply: Ici Repose Colette 1873-1954.
The postcard, dated 20 May 1993, is signed: Love, Alice.
Reading it, I see once again the beauty of this famous Paris cemetery, the final resting place for such luminaries as Proust and Chopin, Maria Callas and Edith Piaf. Green as an emerald, the park-like cemetery tumbles down a hillside planted with centuries-old trees. And I remember the wind blowing down the hill, setting the trees and long grass into motion -- how it created small shadows that danced in patterns across the graves of Corot and Daumier and Balzac.
I have no photograph to record the sweep of the wind down the hillside or the dappled sunlight on the tombs of Pere Lachaise, but even if one existed it could not return to me, as the postcard in my own handwriting does, the immediacy of what I felt that day.
I first began sending postcards to myself about 15 years ago on a trip to Bornholm, a small island in the Baltic Sea known for its picturesque towns and beautiful ceramics. Traveling alone, I suddenly succumbed to acute feelings of homesickness. By the second day of my stay I found myself searching, like a sailor at sea, for something familiar.
Then one day, while walking along a road lined with fir trees, my search ended. There before me, bowing to the wind, was a vast field of purple heather. Something inside me lifted, and suddenly I was seeing the heather my Scottish grandmother so lovingly wove into the bedtime stories of her life in Kirriemuir. Standing there, I watched as the unfamiliar slipped off its strangeness and took on the guise of an old friend.
That night I wrote my first postcard to myself, describing what I had felt. When I returned to Baltimore the postcard was waiting for me. I turned it over, read through it and came to the last line: Try to remember this day -- the heather, the wind, the pleasure that comes with knowing the familiar is everywhere.
Over the years, these postcards have become a form of travel memoir, telegraphing instantly to me the feeling of certain moments during a trip. And when such a postcard arrives -- the handwriting so familiar it never fails to startle me -- it has the power, like Proust's madeleine, to return me immediately to the past.
Here, for example, is a postcard from London dated 10 July 1993. The words are written in black ink on a card that pictures Sloane Square:
Do you remember the Englishwoman you shared a table with at the cafe in the General Trading Company on Sloane Street? Charming and chatty, she insisted you visit a place called the Museum of Garden History. And do you recall how she advised you of the correct pronunciation of Gertrude Jekyll's last name? "Gee-kul," she said, in her impeccable accent, "not Jeck-ul." The ladies at the Museum get quite cross when you mispronounce the name of their gardening heroine.
Reading it, I experience again exactly what I felt three years ago when I first visited this quaint, delightful museum on Lambeth Palace Road: my excitement at discovering not only the museum but Gertrude Jekyll, the great British garden designer, as well.
"Gee-kul" or "Jeck-ul," I absolutely fell in love with the woman and her work. But then, who would not fall under the spell of a woman, herself wealthy and single, who designed for no fee the gardens and house for the Home of Rest for Ladies of Small Means.I left with an armful of books and a head full of new ideas.
How different in mood is this card from Oxford, England. Written while I was studying the history of English village life at Brasenose College, it releases memories, like a genie from a bottle, of a certain night at Oxford:
I think what I will remember long after I've forgotten rural England's economic history and patterns of settlement may be the lesson taught by Barry, an instructor in ballroom dancing. Not only did I learn the quick step and cha-cha from Barry but more important I relearned something I had forgotten: The pure joy of letting go and just having fun. Try not to forget this again. In time, further down the road, you may need such knowledge much more than English history.