Feet

 

I’m engulfed in a sea of feet. 

Thunderously, remorselessly, they're unstoppable and as continuous as the waves of an ocean.

 

From where I'm sitting, on a low stool at Gare St. Lazare in Paris, I'm transfixed by the hundreds of feet passing me.

 

Looking down, I can see sneakers of all sizes -  white, blue, scarlet, pea green, olive drab, jet black. It seems running shoes have become the shoe statement of the day.

Only occasionally do I hear the tap tap of dressy high heels 

as a dressed-up young lady walks past me.

 

Or I'll spot a pair of cherry red sandals accompanying a long silky summer dress swishing  by. She's as slinky as Garbo, a real “femme fatale”, unlike the work crowd around her dressed in leggings or tight-fitting pants.

 

While I wait for my husband to return from his walk-around, I'm mesmerized by the movement and dizzying speed of the crowd around me. I can’t move, guardian of our bags, and I'm lucky to have found this seat.

 

A fresh sweep of feet flow from the station, a wave rushing towards me, as they connect between metro stations. A relentless, steady surge of running shoes move rapidly. 

 

There are no accidents, all the bodies are angled in the same direction, in lock step with each other.

 

I sit, I stand, I try and peer over heads, between headless bodies.

How long has he been away. Ten, twelve, fifteen minutes?

Has he been mugged, dragged away, abducted?

Now I'm being absurd.

Suddenly he appears, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

 

I'm glad I invested in a good, comfortable pair of Nikes which fit my little feet perfectly. 

 

They’ll take me around Normandy, to visit the beaches where the Allies fought and were wounded, their muddy  boots strewn over the battlefields.

 

The war museum at Dunkerque has imprinted powerful and painful images on my mind. Stark, riveting images.

Men in uniform wearing heavy boots, tramping through gooey mud and slime, being shot, falling to the ground, their rifles slipping from their hands and landing at their feet.

 

At Malo Les Bains, the long, meandering beach where armies once fought, presents a very different picture today. 

A wavering sun peeks out of a grey sky, lighting up the pools of water that have seeped out of the sea. A few souls, heads bent, search for crabs or jelly fish. They’re too far away for me to see what they’ve found. 

 

I take my shoes off and squelch sand and water between my toes. I try not to think about soldiers, war and muddy boots.

 

Running barefoot on the beach, feeling like a child again, I'm carefree, footloose and fancy free.

​

Leonard Cohen in Hydra

I first spotted him sitting by the harbour, scribbling in a big
black notebook. Tall, dark, swarthy. A romantic figure.

Was it really the famous singer-songwriter Leonard Cohen, returning 
to his haunts in Hydra, Greece?
No, it wasn’t him. What would I have said? Something totally inane.
“Fancy meeting you here”? Or worse.
Flounder, being flippant while trying to be profound.

Later at home, I discovered that Leonard Cohen was on his deathbed while 
we were in Hydra. He passed away a few days later and tributes to the
iconic figure poured in.

Meanwhile, in Hydra, my mind meanders, filled with nostalgic images of 
Leonard arriving as a young man - an idealist, a bohemian, a free spirit.

Did he stride up to his blue and white villa, perched high above the cliffs, 
with a view of the azure Aegean Sea lapping below?

I wander up to the cafe where he spent many a raucous lunch hour, surrounded by a coterie of friends. Sitting under a canopy of leaves created by a big tree I recognized from a photo, I close my eyes and let the sounds wash over me.

Glasses clink. I hear laughter, the sound of wine being poured, the sizzle and pungent smell of souvlaki, the fragrance of ouzo after a meal. The conversation slows and gradually ends. I strain my ears to catch the whisper, “So long Marianne, we laugh and cry and cry and laugh all over again”.

The familiar words make me want to cry. I know he’ll never visit Hydra again. 
Or cry and laugh.

I remembered the lines he penned to Marianne during her final days, when he knew he didn’t have long to live.

“Well Marianne it’s come to this time when we are really so old and our bodies are falling apart and I think I will follow you very soon. Know that I am so close behind you that if you stretch out your hand, I think you can reach mine,” he wrote.

And you know that I’ve always loved you for your beauty and your wisdom, but I don’t need to say anything more about that because you know all about that. But now, I just want to wish you a very good journey. Goodbye old friend. Endless love, see you down the road.”

We’ll see you down the road too, Leonard, and we’ll never forget your music 
and your poetry.
Even if we never make it back to Hydra.