Switzerland in California
When I was 20, with a one-way ticket and $160 U.S. dollars in my pocket, I left Brazil headed to Switzerland on my first trip abroad. I come from a family of simple means, and this was the first of a few unlikely feats that I have accomplished throughout my life. The 97-day Inward Ride journey/road-trip/sabbatical was the latest.
After a couple of months working in the kitchen at a restaurant in a ski-resort town – still in the French-speaking region of Switzerland – I got a job as a kind of nurse-assistant in a place that was a blend of a hospice and a mental institution, where I ended up staying for nearly a year. There they provided all the training that I needed to perform such a job. “Residence Victoria,” as it was called, housed about thirty residents/patients with different stories and conditions, but they all shared the fact that their lives were probably going to end there. And for two of them they did, during my shifts, right before me.
One of the residents was a minuscule old lady who had the energy, playfulness and the giggle of a toddler. She seemed to be about a third of my size, and that relationship between the physical space that each one of us occupied seemed to further fan her mischievous nature. She was all heart and kindness and was adorable to be around. Everything was an excuse for a joke: while bathing her, dressing her, taking her downstairs for breakfast with all the other residents. She was always immersed in her magical present, never aloof, never checked out.
After shopping for groceries last week, I had an experience that made me think of that minuscule Swiss lady of 30 years prior. It also brought back the sense of magic that pervaded the 97 days of my solo motorcycle travels, between August and November of 2019.
A lady in her 80's laboriously pushed a supermarket cart in my direction at the Trade Joe's parking lot in Ventura. I tracked her incremental progress until she pulled up to my left, nearly brushing the motorcycle with the cart, and that is when I saw how small she was. Standing a little taller than my handlebar, she must have been a little over 4 feet (1.22 m) in height.
Softly but intently enunciating every word, she commented, "that's a big one," referring to my BMW R1200GS Adventure.
Her tempo slowed down my world. I smiled, and agree with her, "yes, it is!”
"Have you ever ridden a motorcycle?” I asked.
”Yes, when I was young.”
That must have been in the late fifties, early sixties, before the time when I was born.
Although apparently frail, and despite moving and speaking slowly, her stamina and piercing presence affected me, gently but firmly jolting me away from thoughts, landing me there, before her.
She started pushing the cart again, headed for the entrance of the supermarket. She let her left hand loose from her handlebar and grabbed my hand, and she said, "Ride safe. And have a good year."
The minimalistic tone with which she uttered her wishes for my future, rather than sounding bland, only seemed to emphasize the loving charge that they conveyed. Taken by her sweetness, by the sweetness of the exchange, I felt speechless as I watched her move away. I didn’t want her to leave just yet…
From behind the invisible curtains of my future she had walked through the stage of my life, and was already leaving toward my past.
I wanted to expand the pleasure and the sense of connection that I was feeling. I wanted to memorialize it. I thought of going after her and asking to take her picture. Instead, I chose to let the moment dissolve on the outside while it continued evolving inside of me. And as it did, still in the parking lot, this essay that I’m now writing started taking shape.
It wasn’t playfulness that reminded me of the minuscule Swiss lady, but the quality of presence of my newly-met American little old lady, this invisibly felt impact that another human can have on me, after entering my awareness, unannounced, and disappearing in the same way.
My Inward Ride travels were filled with such moments. Perhaps, while living my daily life in the town and state that I call home, I can still cultivate such magic and delight of fortuitously encountering other humans, if only I can keep away the jaded bubble of protection that the “home” gestalt seems to grant my daily life.
West Camino Cielo. Santa Barbara, California. January 2020. ©Ciro Coelho/InwardRide.com