When I moved into my apartment a little over a year ago, I started off with very little. In my possession was one plate, one bowl, a few utensils, eight boxes full of stuff, a kitchen table and a small dresser. Given my limited budget, I relied on hand-me-downs, give-aways, garage sales and the occasional garbage find to furnish my place. Needless to say, I became rather addicted to “the scavenge” during the summer of 2009. My favourite find, by far, was a couch being given away on Craig’s list. It was perfect in every way. Retro meets chic, reupholstered with green velour, large and cozy with a mid-70′s flair. I coined it the olive ottoman, the dandy divan, the funky non-futon, the colossal couch, the queen of chesterfields. It was a single girl’s dream sofa.
With this couch also came the compulsive need to know its origins. How many things were lost between the soft folds of its cushions? How many bodies had sunk into it and what dreams were dreamed on it? Were there any pillow fights? Did it overhear heated discussions, was it witness to kisses? Did it see many cocktail parties and was it wiped clean of spilled martinis? How many pennies and remote controls and socks did it swallow?
That summer of garage sale gallivanting got me wondering about the secret lives of objects. The scarves, the keys, that single glove (the one you often see propped up and lonely on someone’s fence waiting for its twin to return), the teddy bear dropped on the side of the road, the ring in the drain, the letters your grand-mother wrote to you as a child, which were lost in the move. Who cooked with those dishes, who sipped from those cups, who played those records and maybe even danced to them, who read their kids to sleep with those books, who watered those African violets, who wore that jewellery and what was the occasion?
It’s apparent to me now, that I’ve often assigned stories to objects (some from fact, some from my imagination). Case in point, in the Spring of 2009, I embarked on a 5-week trip across England, Spain and Italy. Just me, a back pack and a whole lot of courage. During that trip, I carried a blue water bottle. During that trip, I also met a boy. Upon returning home, I sent said bottle to said boy along with this letter.
“This bottle’s journey began in a shop on Ste-Catherine Street in Montreal, was filled with water in my Mile End apartment, traveled by plane, train and bus to your flat in London, where, as you know, it was the catalyst to our first kiss. It was with me as I wandered the streets of your city and snapped photos in Bath. It chilled with me on an old boat in Bristol after I’d had one too many pints and swans barked in the night (how can such lovely birds make such a grotesque noise?). It didn’t see any of the water in Malaga (due to contamination) but it accompanied me in Granada’s gypsy caves and down incense scented alleyways. I filled it from a fountain in Alhambra and it sat at my feet during my sunny road trip to Cordoba, where I set it on the table while I ate the best paella I’ve ever had. Its journey continued in the cockpit of the airplane as I landed in Barcelona. I filled it in Gaudi park and it fell from my backpack on the roof of Gaudi’s house. It was my constant companion after many beer-filled nights along La Rambla. It stood at the computer desk as I read the news that you would be meeting me in Rome (it met my smiling lips at that point). It quenched my thirst after many-a tapa. I filled it in a hotel room in Venice where everything was powder blue (curtains, bed spread, tapestry, chairs, writing desk) and then I strolled across Piazza San Marco one foggy morning, with the blue bottle in my backpack. It was with me on the train to Florence, at Zaza’s restaurant where I had my first Italian pasta orgasm, in countless piazzas where I sipped wine and savoured pizza and further filled from the beautiful fountains in Boboli Gardens at Pitti Palace. I hiked up to Piazzale Michelangelo with this bottle at the crack of dawn to see the fake David’s ass and sipped from it after penne with prosciutto and mushrooms at a little trattoria in Siena (my coldest day yet). It sat by the bed as I woke to the sound of church bells in Cortona and opened the shutters to the most stunning view of Tuscany’s rolling hills. I replenished its contents as I entered the walls of Lucca and strolled the city by sunset then took it on each of my hikes in Cinque Terre where I got lost in the woods (thank heaven for a trusty water bottle at such moments). I filled it at a fountain from each of the 5 villages and plopped it in the sand on the beach in Monterosso al Mare where I at the best focaccia known to man.
and then there was Rome…
This bottle was there during one of the most memorable weekends of my life; in the Coliseum, at Foro Romano, filled with holy water in Vatican City and with us that evening we hung out at the edge of Trevi fountain. It quenched our thirst after days of walking down cobblestone streets and nights of passion and whiskey drinking. I tried to give it to you through the window of a moving train as we said goodbye. I ran a distance and then you had to let go. You headed back to London and I thought I would never see you again. The bottle may have collected some of my tears at that point. I suppose I was meant to carry it through to the end of my journey before sending it to you. And so, I drank from it after running on the beach in Salerno and filled it up from a fountain in Pompeii, where I strolled in awe of the ancient ruins. Then we took to the winding roads of the Amalfi coast, sat on the beach under the rain in Positano and stopped briefly at the train station in Naples before flying home. I filled it in a bathroom at the Munich airport during a layover and, finally, once more in Montreal before giving it a quick rinse and laying it out to dry.
This bottle has seen 30 sunrises and sunsets all over England, Spain and Italy. Every place, every day was different but there was one constant. It made me think of you each time I drank from it. It carried the taste of your lips (from the first kiss to the last), so it seems only fitting that you should have it. May it be a reminder for you to drink more water, dear English man, especially after whiskey.
I do hope our paths cross again someday.
With love,
J.”
If anyone were to see that scratched up blue bottle now, they would think nothing of it, but if this bottle could talk, it would have quite the tale to tell. I like to believe that the objects around us carry stories (especially used books – no pun intended). And when facts can’t deliver, I turn on the old imagination and let it go wild.
P.S. I have traced down the origins of the couch, which has been through countless owners. A wonderful story for another day, perhaps.
P.P.S. The above letter must have had an effect on the English boy, for we are still together to this day (albeit long distance… for now).
Jeanine Caron is a Canadian blogger who currently resides in Montreal, where she spends her weekends taking photographs and her weekdays saving up for her next travel destination. She is a regular contributor at Gypsy Girl’s Guide.
