I was five or six when my mum took on the tube to London to spend some time with my dad — alone. Like all children at that age I seemed to have unlimited amount of energy, especially when it came to bed time. The thought of spending time with my dad without my mum made me giddy; on the way to the tube station I was bouncing everywhere, clambering over the low walls of houses we walked past despite my mother’s protests, but she was happy and I was happy so it didn’t really matter to anyone in the moment.
It was a different world on the other end on the tube journey, I was a different person. All of I sudden I was content with just holding hands with my father as we weaved in and out of streets to reach or destination. This day was my first proper memory of the city, of the never ending stream of cars who in unison let out full throttled growls when the lights blinked green. Of course I had seen car in masses, for goodness sake we drove down the motorway every other weekend but I had never really observed the traffic, I had always been in the traffic. So sitting here nearly a decade later I’m not really sure what was so fascinating about the traffic.
We walked slowly through the streets, my dad, the ever so understanding dad waited patiently for me to absorb the streets made of shops with their luminous signs inviting you in various stores and the traffic. Our leisurely steps contrasted with the steady tramp of passerby’s feet echoing like a muffle drum. The noise was an unconscious reminder to my younger self that life would only go faster and get louder and get harder, not like that did or should have mattered at the time. But there is just something funny knowing that years later I would be running through the traffic onto the streets into one of the inviting luminous sign shops not giving a second thought about anything I just saw instead focusing on cramming my weekend plans in. Becoming everything I only saw, as I child gives me a sense of oldness and I’m still deciding whether I like it or not.
As I pushed open the door I was immediately greeted with what appeared to be the end of the production line of Santa’s workshop. Inside even the saddest shades of blues and grey and blacks were allowed to be happy, something I can appreciate more now. Momentarily my world was filled with the songs of birds, but the songs come from little black speakers camouflaged all around. Through the doors you leave the London and enter the lands of Mickey Mouse stuff toys and the land of Disney princesses dolls and the land of Toy Story figurines. Assisting you between the worlds were the people who work in the world of Disney - young, attractive, invariably blond, ever‐smiling and totally accommodating. How all good things come to end, we had to leave. It gave me peace of mind knowing it would never be too soon to return and definitely never too late. At the tender age of five and six I could already imagine older me coming back and still finding everything to make my heart swell.
The adventures of young Aria didn’t stop there, our next stop was a cream parlour. I vividly remember standing with my hands spread over the chilled glass like dark sea stars. If there had been three choices I would have picked one long ago, but the array put my mind into a happy tingle of possibilities. There wasn't just all the flavours, but all the possible combinations. At least the choice of cone was simple enough, a simple waffle cone. I ended up settling with the classic of the classic flavours - chocolate. I even remembering standing on my tiptoes as the server handed my treat to me, the rich brown goo delicately places into a thin, crispy waffle cone, the flavour was decadent and slightly bittersweet in the best way possible. The bittersweet taste however I cannot distinguish if it was from the memory or the taste.
And as I closed my eyes, head leaning on the hard chairs of Bourg St Maurice hospital, a town nearby Val-d’Isère I could have sworn I could felt my father’s hand in mine. How all good things come to end, we had to leave. Slightly subdued, I waked down the stairs and I clutched my dad’s hand tightly, conveying my appreciation to him. Me, holding his hand or him holding my hand perfectly described the relationship we had. His wiser eyes teaching my younger eyes the ways of the world. His older hands encompassing my younger hands with the silent promise of eternal patience and forever guidance and hugs. Naturally I grew up, I became to-cool-for-school teenager (not that I would ever admit it out loud) who obviously was to cool to hold her dads hands anymore. It was still reassuring to know that even though my father didn’t have my hand he still had my back.
And as I closed my eyes, head leaning on the hard chairs of Bourg St Maurice hospital, a town nearby Val-d’Isère I could have sworn I could felt my father’s hand in mine.
