I looked out the window as the plane descended toward Istanbul airport, mesmerized by the lights glittering like a basin of jewels floating on the midnight ocean below.
Ten days ago, I was at the San Francisco International airport bound for Italy for a writing retreat in Tuscany. While in line at security, I looked at my recently renewed passport with my maiden name on it, and realized that this would be my first time traveling as “single again”.
Instantly, I am reminded of my college diploma, the vellum paper that has my name written in heavy, black calligraphy of which the commencement speaker referred to as “a passport to the opportunities before you as you embark on a new beginning.” I remember his handshake as he handed me the rolled white paper tied with a blue ribbon, and how thrilled I was marching out of the auditorium tossing the cap into the air with one hand, and holding on to the diploma with the other.
There was no handshake when the immigration official in Rome stamped my passport with the date of my entry. After asking for directions, I walked to another building across the terminal, and waited for the shuttle to bring me to my hotel. I was excited and tense, just how I felt amidst the black-robed graduating students outside the auditorium marching in to “Pomp and Circumstance” played on the organ, and just as excited to march out of there, and sailed to an island a week later for my first job as a music teacher.
My hotel was not impressive, but a good enough place to sleep after I asked for a blanket. Complimentary breakfast was served the next day, and I dropped a pastry and an orange into my traveling bag. I shuttled back to the airport, and hopped on a bus that drove about sixty women aged 50 and over, to a winery villa, five hours outside Rome.
After a few minutes of pleasantries with my seatmate, the lady across the aisle introduced herself to me. “I’m Mary,’ she said with a smile that made her eyes squint as if dazzled by the sun.
“Nice meeting you Mary,” I said. “My name is Ruth”.
“You have a beautiful name!” she exclaimed, “It’s a biblical name, and I’ve always loved that name because it rhymes with truth.” The compliment caught me by surprise for nobody ever said to me that my name is beautiful, and her delight over my name made me feel as if she had just discovered the pearl of great price on the bus to Tuscany.
I didn’t meet Mary again during the retreat, but her remark on the bus was like a “commencement address” for a new beginning of life after divorce. A declaration of having a beautiful name would be a nice start. But, unlike the new graduate excited with the prospect of “conquering the world,” I just wanted to have a good time watching the sunset after an Italian dinner. As for the graduation motto, “Make a Difference” I decided, that, on this trip, the only one that should make a difference for myself is me. Mary equated my name with truth and I was inspired to live with authenticity in the days that followed. So, I declined the wine. I took walks along moss covered trails. I bought a necklace of turquoise beads from the local craft store. My eyes feasted on Tuscany’s rolling hills of grapevine, and marveled at the sunrise and sunset that looked the same in the Tuscan sky.
The workshop was not so much about writing, but rather listening and critiquing someone else’s story prepared and submitted to the “editors” assigned to a group. I didn’t learn a new tool on how to write, except write.
On the last night of the workshop, I joined the “read-aloud-an-excerpt” event, and after I did my piece, the host asked: “Do you act on stage?”
Shocked to hear something I’ve never heard before, I blurted, “No! I’m a music teacher.”
My diploma flashed in my mind again with the title Bachelors Degree in Music Education under my name, and I quickly added, “Thanks! But I have no acting training.”
As I took to my seat, the lady beside me whispered, “Acting is your missed calling. Not too late to start.” She winked and patted my hand. What? I just read two paragraphs from my memoir. I turned my head in search of Mary. I thought she would tell me the truth. But she wasn’t there.
It was close to midnight when I got done packing my luggage for the early morning bus ride back to Rome. But before I slept, I wrote in my journal that the highlights of my trip were the compliments about having a beautiful name, and how others saw something that I never thought I am capable of. Acting!? I shook my head, laughed, but I paused for a moment with delight at the thought, like one who smells the scent of perfume from a stranger who just passed by.
My traveling solo was an experience made up of unexpected small things, moments of truth and whimsy, and random thoughts of passport, diploma, and divorce papers that have one thing in common: my name. I loved how these thoughts glimmered in my mind like the shimmering city lights over Istanbul.
I already knew that there will be no flowers of welcome on the coffee table when I get home. No card will say that I was missed. I unpacked and put my passport in the drawer where my college diploma has been kept untouched. I was glad to see that everything I expected in my home were still present just the way I left it.
Photo: Pienza, Italy April 2023