The heater purrs at the beat of Edith Piaf. Outside, the sun palely shines in between the thick autumnal clouds and the light shuffle of the blue towels in the clothesline remind me of the long summer days, like every year, at this stage just a memory vanishing along the cold September breeze.
Summer of 2018 will not be remembered for the extensive travel of previous years. Indeed, there were not any unexpected Transatlantic journeys, nor drunk-riddled rides in Disney World, nor even morning commutes along Warringah. This summer instead was about hard work in the office, early morning swims, regular trips to the National Aquatic Centre and walks along Sandycove basking on one of the best summer in decades.

Flashes of sweet tasty Riesling come to mind when thinking about the weekend in Cologne. A long-awaited return after six years, my first visit a celebration of my recently granted Irish residence, now returning as a full Irish citizen.
I spend the weekend drinking wine and toasting to life changes under the hot and dry breeze of the Rhine Valley, once again my friends and I behaving like eager 20-year olds looking up to unknown paths, surrounded by the fleetness of travel friendships now forever embedded in the footprints of our own lives through social media.
It is with these friends that I indulge in schnitzel and awkwardly try to vocalise German words with the slur of ‘natural wine’. It is with these friends that once, at the top of the Monkey Bar, I decide to take the plunge and open a cafe, a life decision both as shady as the silhouettes of the distant TV tower and as dazzling as the lights of the Dom reflecting over the Rhine.

Cologne wasn’t about new sights. The Dom still imposes its dark Gothic lines over the steel arched bridge and the city still breathes that young air left by the college students now on summer break. The rolling of the red trams still reverberates across the flatness of the wide streets, and the apartment windows, wide open to the summer weather, still provide me with a whimsical glimpse of austere German life. I return home with new ideas, and a heavy hangover.

Only a few days after returning to Ireland, a Whatsapp message confirms plans for years delayed, and my mother excitedly confirms a trip to Europe. My hands immediately stop typing and my mind instantly switches to travel sites and airline bookings, within an hour securing flights for our very own European tour.

-‘I hope we don’t kill each other in two weeks traveling just the two of us’.

Plans for the operations of the cafe begin. A travel theme to be part of the coffee grinding, and the chocolatey tones of the best South American grains to softly condense with the breeze of the Irish Sea. As logos and branding are defined, I find myself at Dublin Airport about to catch my flight to Southern Europe, the fresh and cool end-of-summer Irish winds left behind and swapped by powerful thunderstorms flicking over the Mediterranean.

It does not matter how many years I have lived abroad -twelve if you are wondering-, family greetings are always an emotional roller coaster of draining waiting anxiety, followed by a comforting satisfaction of arrival and finally a heart-stopping sequence of physical contact, as intense at the arrivals hall of an international airport as it is in the sultry encasement of a hotel room in central Barcelona.

In the Catalonian capital we are joined by my Spanish aunt and my job as a tour guide/coordinator/porter officially begins. The city is still enjoying perfect-for-walking hot and long days and its immaculate public transport takes the three of us from Gràcia to the very core of the Gothic neighbourhood, where my mother and aunt slowly pace their steps along the maze of narrow streets lined by pale yellow apartment blocks. We dodge the waves of Chinese tourists by the main cathedral, taking a little rest to indulge in the sweetness of fresh fruit at La Boqueria, once again quenching the rising midday temperatures at the shade of palm trees at the Parc de la Ciutadella and, as a last walking sprint of the day, following the leafy streets of the Eixample to the Sagrada Familia, where two gobsmacked women have now been seen staring at the imposing sandcastle-like cathedral in complete and speechless amazement.
The day dies in Parc Guell, where I have now have had a picnic for the third time, the city below us heading into the night in a carpet of street lights climbing from the sea all the way to the Pyrenees.

Barcelona is a repetition of things I have done before, yet done differently.

The memories of my aunt silently climbing to the Montjuic despite rivers of sweat streaming through her forehead will forever amuse the three of us, while the views from the top once again prove worth of every piece of physical effort, worth of sharing this special family time.
The succulent taste of freshly made paella at Barceloneta followed by a dip in the Mediterranean, the fresh evenings sitting down in a random square in Gracia catching up with our current lives and dearly remember past amongst laughter. Adults meeting in a random place now rescuing years lost in translation, years lost in the depths of lives taking place in different parts of the world.

From El Prat, my aunt returns inland to Valladolid and my mother and I fly across the Mediterranean to a foggy morning start in Fiumicino.
Rome is again a familiar sight and the announcements at Termini flash memories of my first visit to the city as cabin crew, back then only barely twenty-two.

It is in Rome where past and present merge aggressively. Where ancient architecture refuses to be swallowed by the overcoming swerving of cars clogging up the streets of this three-million-people city. On my second visit inside the Colosseum, I can still feel the tingly energy of its past, yet this time I find more time to contemplate the grandeur of its pillars through the awe-struck eyes of mother, while my second visit to St. Peter’s Square feels somewhat bland under the mid-morning sunshine and my recurrence to the Fontana Di Trevi feels like a version of hell featuring countless tourists poking around with their selfie sticks.

Rome might be dotted with architectural gems, but Florence is an architectural gem on its own. The narrow cobblestone streets almost untouched by modernity, shining at the delicate touch of timid rays of sunshine and polished by years of walking pedestrians. It is a feast to the eyes and a nice break from the hustle of Rome, with a lunch of paninis and wine at Santo Spirito, late afternoon walks along the banks of the murky Arno contemplating the time passing by in synch with the strokes of rowers skimming through the cold stream. And it is just that in Florence is never about hitting and dazzle at certain landmarks, but rather see the city as the living museum that it is, as the most beautiful of Italian cities.

Despite the sultry evening, a waiter stands next to his restaurant in an impeccable white uniform. He nods and, with one of his heavy arms, leads us into one of the tables laid on the wet cobblestones.

– ‘You must try the Fiorentina, it is must in Florence’
– ‘I shall indeed. I didn’t the last time I was in the city. It was winter and it was freezing cold’.
– ‘Have this sharp knife then, you will need it’

The rest of the only evening we have in Florence is a twister of succulent steaks, house wine and tipsy walks to the tram station, sobering just in time for an overnight session of remote work, whenever the Wi-Fi decides to let me do my job.

To leave Tuscany, I decide once again for La Direttissima, a train journey across the Apennines now forgotten deeply under the mountains and across the tunnels bore for the high speed trains that can now cover the distance between Florence and Bologna in half the time.
At every passing village, houses perched along the soft mountains later cling onto steep cliffs. Streams of water violently skip through the rocky terrain and the train enters tunnels that once marvelled European engineers, back when modernity had finally conquered the elements and had created the ‘most direct route’ between North and Southern Italy. We change trains in Bologna and the terrain turns flat in the heat of the afternoon, at times the endless fields of sunflower and vineyards transforming into a maze of golden crops awaiting idle for the long winter.

Across the country, the Adriatic meet us right at the U-shaped lagoon enclosing Venice and, to celebrate a day of traveling, we indulge in the pleasure of losing ourselves in the fantasy-worthy streets of the main island, while the smell of salt, sewage and damp bricks impregnate the air as the one powerful entity binding city and soul.
Venice is the place that everyone loves to hate, or hates to love, or hates to hate. A second visit to the city proves enough to confirm my fears at boiling point. The crowded streets sinking in a sea of stinky water and tourists, the inability to take a decent picture in St. Mark’s Square, the multitudinous visitors providing a constant structural test at the Rialto in a crowding that can only resembles pigeons ready to attack a bag of dirty corn.

Nonetheless, Venice is a place that must be seen in life. The brutality of its uniqueness, the splendour oozing right outside of Santa Lucia station, the gondolas flirting with the tides, the narrow corridors of constant darkness. The trip would not have been the same without the long walks in the sun trying to find a cold beer, the pushing through crowds of selfie sticks, the waiter speaking in a mix of Italian/Spanish/English about an apartment strangely owned in Peru, the taste of seafood pasta quenched with pinot grigio at supper, the cynicism of a second visit mixed with the enthusiasm of a first.

Milan is an anti-climax in every Italian trip, despite being the first city I ever visited in Italy, product of a dodgy crew stand-by.
Industrial and modern, the city does not have the hype vibe of Rome, the beauty of Florence or the uniqueness of Venice. In fact, Milan proves to be the perfect spot to unwind, review and do a bit of mental housekeeping. To savour good cheap pesto in one of its galleries, to indulge in gelato at the shade of trees in Castelo Sforzesco and to play model at Galleria Emannuelle. The perfect final stop for our Italian tour, before switching our brains for an unknown language right when we are allowed to board the aircraft at Malpensa, Eastbound over the Alps.

– ‘Look at the horizon! Is that… is that the Eiffel Tower?’
– ‘Yes mum, next to that big tower, the Montparnasse, that’s it. Welcome to Paris’

Vastness. Neighbourhoods sprawling over kilometres of streets that vanish as far as the naked eye can see. We land at Orly and take the train, then a nice metro, then an ugly metro. We run through the long corridor of Montparnasse, past scenery of one of my longest runs to Gare du Nord. We sit and see how the commuters change. How tourists vacate at Clemenceau and how locals carry shopping bags at Mirosmenil. Over at Clichy, we emerge from the underground world in the most pleasant autumnal sunshine and we have our first overpriced omelette at the sound of a distant accordion played by a beggar next to the metro station gate.

On my eight time in the French capital, the stroll at Park Monceau has now taken a local tone, while following the leafy Avenue Haussmann as it is now my habit, we meet the Arc do Triomph from its right flank, away from the tourists of Champs Elysees.
Down Avenue Kleber, the streets turn busy as we approach Trocadero, where the view of the Eiffel Tower reflect on its tiles as vividly on this eight time as the first, back when I was barely an adult. Down at the base of the iconic tower, tall glass walls surround the area that once was free to roam, and police men constantly surveil for suspicious activities at the distant stare of street souvenir vendors.

The city might have changed, but traditions will never do. We sit down by the dry grassland of Champs de Mars and wait, and eat bread with cheese and ham, and drink wine in plastic cups until the sky turns Trocadero into flames and the night hourly surprise dazzles everyone with a show of lights across the naked steel frame of the majestic tower.

My mother might have been pick pocketed on the way back to the hotel, but this never stops us from enjoying the rest of our time in the city, either walking down St. Lazare to the glassed pyramids of the Louvre, or experiencing a bit of rain at Notre Dame for the first time in nearly two weeks, or enjoying the magic of Ile-de-St. Michel at the aroma of an espresso, or inhale on the pure pleasure of a late evening at my favourite view of Paris in Montmartre.

 

‘Oh Paris, I do love to hate you. I hate your overpriced food and your bad waiters, but I love to hate your cafes, all of their tables turned to the street for best people watching. I hate your sultry metro, but I love to hate the convenience of it. I hate that you are so busy and I love to hate that you are so iconic. I hate that I have seen you eight times, but I love to hate that I still find you magical.’

On our last day of travelling, the sadness of an inevitable goodbye already looms. We check out of the hotel and spend the day on a suspended state of snapshot-induced numbness, of last visits to the Eiffel Tower and walks along the Seine as far as Pont de Bin Harkeim.
Late in the evening, when the commuters return home and from the Port de Clichy Parisians emerge with groceries for dinner, we sip on our last espressos and take the train to Orly Airport, at night slowly dying with the last arrivals of the day, and the last of the travellers bound for the French overseas territories waving goodbye.

We watch Amelie on the laptop and the terminal is locked from the inside. Two dozens of travellers join us at the cold and dark corridor of the arrivals hall and the last three hours of family time are spent in between sleep and memories of an eventful trip.

Early in the morning , my heart slowly begins to shrinks and my eyes water. Like every family visit, there is a sadness about once again taking separate paths, but there is also happiness about the days spent together.
Today at Orly though, there is also gratitude. There is now a precious spot in my memory that will never forget the joy of secretly staring at my mother contemplating her surroundings with her mouth wide open, speechlessly observing details I had always overlooked as a traveller. There are stories forever to be kept until our last days, there is laughter, fatigue, there is sweet happiness through the bitter goodbye hug, for I am privileged to have fulfilled one of mother’s life dreams, and there is no better joy than seeing one mother’s happy.

Back in Ireland, it is time for coffee. And many more to come.