Excerpted from Travels With My Lovers
by Erica Miner
1. Addio, Firenze
I was beside myself. Admittedly, I was hopeless at maps - this had always been my husband Eric's job - and suddenly found myself in my first European city without a clue as to where I was heading. Although I wasn't a single mom, it certainly felt that way, with my two tykes in tow and a husband bailing out at the last minute to stay in New York. Like a relentless mama sheepdog, I pushed and prodded my precious kids along the cracked cobblestone sidewalks. Where was the shopping cart when you needed it? Or the red wagon, for that matter? I think there comes a time in every mother's life, when you just want to say, what was I thinking?
Don't get me wrong, I loved being a mom. But much as I treasured my two adorable little cohorts, I was beginning to be desperate for some exploration time alone. Julian and Regina, thank God, were not hyper; but they were both up for adventure and kept me going, going, going.
By mid-afternoon Florence had become, to my overloaded senses, a bewildering maze of crisscrossing streets and piazzas choked with tourists. Then, when the kids and I had finally got our bearings, (I was feeling calm and we were on our way to a bar to reward ourselves with some gelati) the unimaginable happened. My son, who had insisted on chasing pigeons through the Piazza della Signoria, disappeared. Suddenly the phrase "sightseeing" took on a whole new - and frightening - meaning.
Julian was only eight - what made him think he could just take off, in the middle of an unfamiliar, foreign city? One minute he was alternately pursuing the ubiquitous birds and fidgeting impatiently while five-year-old Regina and I admired the imposing statues in the colonnade; and the next minute he was out of sight. Something was definitely going on with him.
He'd always seemed to be a mirrored image of his dad - "little Eric," we sometimes called him - and I'd always thought that his affection reflected the genuine admiration and supportiveness that Eric always demonstrated towards me. But lately, my husband had gotten less attentive; strangely, Julian had filled the gap, vacillating between annoying clinginess and fierce, unpredictable independence.
I tried to remember how I had felt at his age and suddenly rememberedhe exhilarating freedom I'd felt when I had put my own mother through a similar torment. Too impatient to wait for her, I walked home alone from my urban grade school, crossing a busy, dangerous thoroughfare by myself. When I reached home I found her, head bowed over the kitchen table, crying bitter tears of worry and grief. It was one of the few times I ever saw my mother cry. Now it was my turn to be fraught with anxiety over my own missing child.
I watched the bustling police activity all around me - a response to my impassioned plea to the Carabinieri in my hit-and-miss Italian to help me locate my son. I could barely describe Julian without bursting into tears. I was so flustered that I gave the Police Chief my maiden name by mistake and had to correct myself. This was very unlike me. After almost nine years of marriage, I was as wedded to my married name as I was to the hair-curling espressos Eric made for me every morning.
As the hours dragged on, my sunburned arms felt like they'd fall off from having to carry ill-tempered little Regina all around the Palazzo Vecchio. (I couldn't blame her - what kid her age wouldn't be grumpy, traipsing through the Uffizi Gallery for two hours with her fanatic art-lover mom?) And in the midst of all the Italian confusione, the poor kid's nose had started bleeding all over my shoulder and onto the sidewalk, annihilating a street-Michelangelo's masterpiece-in-progress. I handed him a five thousand lire note to start him off on his next one. He grumbled, "Grazie," and we fled before the crimson tide engulfed what was left of his endeavor.
Meanwhile, impressed as I was with how seriously Italians considered the disappearance of a child, no further progress had been made in the search for my little guy. In reality, Julian was a resourceful New York City kid and could probably hold his own on the streets of any city. But I was still fraught with anxiety and plagued with fears about what Eric would think if he knew about the situation. I loved my husband dearly and didn't want to worry him needlessly, but I had no desire to incur his wrath. Finally, in desperation, I asked the policeman in charge to phone our hotel, just in case my son had somehow managed to find his way back there.
The concierge answered my frenzied call from the cop's phone.
"Yes, my friend Julian, he is here." I could almost see the concierge's broad smile as he spoke. "I gave him the key to the room."
Relieved but embarrassed, I thanked the police chief and smiled at his squadra, who smiled back. Dragging a hungry and whiny Regina - who, being the bright-eyed early riser in the family, had been up since the crack of dawn - I hurried back to the hotel, ready to thoroughly chew out Julian - though I was secretly proud that he had negotiated the confusing streets successfully and without mishap. Thank God Florence was a lot smaller than New York.
My thoughts briefly drifted again to Eric, whom, I feared, would judge me harshly about the day's events. Within minutes, however, Regina and I entered the hotel lobby; and as we rushed to the elevator to rejoin my precious, mischievous son, I glanced for an instant at the lovely drawing of ancient Florence hanging on the lobby wall, labeled "Fiorenza" - very evocative. But I preferred the contemporary version: Firenze - the city of Puccini's Gianni Schicchi, the city with which I had fallen in love at first sight, the city whose heady atmosphere and burnished roofs embodied for me the phrase "Italia."
As we sped down the hall and to our room, I looked down at the delicate cameo locket dangling between my breasts and vowed that I would someday give it to Regina for her unwitting bravery that day. "To remember our time in 'Fiorenza,' " I would say. She must have known I was thinking about her, because she turned to me and gave me the biggest, most grateful tired smile, as if saying, "I don't want to go anywhere ever again."
When we came in Julian was sitting on the bed, calmly occupying himself with his most cherished treasures, the Star Wars action figures that I had deftly snatched up the moment they had hit the stores. The embodiment of "night owl," Julian was always an absolute bear to get up in the morning; but by this late in the day, he was fully into gear - especially from the adrenaline stemming from his adventure. I scrutinized his face, searching for signs of trepidation, anxiety or excitement. I wanted to ask him what he had been feeling during those hours when he had been on his own: fear, or pride in his accomplishment? His response to my worried glance was a curious expression, as if to say, "I got here without a problem - where were you?"
Then my emotions took over. I raged at him, accusing him of foolhardiness, of having a false sense of confidence, of taking unnecessary risks - simultaneously wondering what had happened to my own sense of adventure. I thought again of the tribulations I had put my poor mother through in grade school. Had I graduated to the unexciting world of grownup-hood, where taking chances was unacceptable? Had I lost my perception of a world beyond safety and level-headed practicality?
After the tumult subsided, I took Julian into my arms and hugged him fiercely, extracting a promise from him never to do this to me again. All was forgiven. But I noticed afterwards that he was more forthcoming than usual in letting Regina play with the Star Wars figures.
Musing on the day's events as my cherished little ones played, I questioned my wisdom in thinking I could come to Italy on my own with them. Suddenly it occurred to me that some of the blame should fall on Eric's shoulders. Our utter devotion to each other was legendary, according to our friends and colleagues. But it was Eric, after all, who had done a complete about-face at the eleventh hour and insisted on my taking the Italy trip solo.
He had his reasons. It was I, he pointed out, who brimmed over with curiosity about the continent where my parents had been born; it was I who had given up a scholarship to study in Rome when I became pregnant with Julian; and it was I who couldn't wait to see Italy. And in the past year of dealing with the frenetic pace of balancing the care of two small children with a strenuous workload, it was my body and soul that ached for that infusion of life-affirming spirit, which the culture and history-steeped atmosphere of Italy would provide.
He also reminded me how much it had meant to me when my mother took me to my first opera (it was in downtown Detroit, but it was still the Met.) How magical it would be to bring my children to opera's birthplace, to help fulfill my yearning for that wonderful country whose essence I had been deprived of for so many years.
Being that both of us made our living as opera musicians - he as a conductor, I as a violinist - I felt that Eric should come with us to the country where opera was born. For opera was the source of one of our most compelling mutual affections.
But he won out finally, when he pointed out that he couldn't afford to take the time off. He needed to stay in New York for the entire summer and attend the various festivals taking place in and near the city, in order to pave the way for his eventual rise in the hierarchy of up-and-coming conductors. He had been adamant about this; I couldn’t argue with his rationale.
Thus we decided that I would take the kids abroad. Now I found myself brooding resentfully about bearing the sole responsibility for shepherding them around a foreign country. I wondered how Eric could be so unconcerned about being separated from all of us for six long weeks, even though he had left open the possibility that he would come and join us. I was left feeling confused, abandoned and alone - most of all, disconnected.
Suddenly I began to agonize all over again about what Eric would think of my losing Julian. Should I even call my husband and tell him what had happened? Would he be sympathetic and understanding? Or would he blast me with the recriminations of an outraged husband, accusing me of being irresponsible and neglectful? Oddly, I didn’t know for sure how he would react.
And what were my own feelings on the subject? Had I been a bad mother? Perhaps Julian's getting himself lost had been a cry for attention. But what was going on with him that made him need to cry out?
For a time, I tormented myself with these thoughts. After realizing that my own remorseful feelings were sufficient to keep me guilt-ridden for the foreseeable future, I decided it would be better not to call Eric after all. Instead, I thought about how fortunate I was to have been reunited with Julian; and about the Police Chief - with the impossibly cute face and dazzling smile - who had been so kind in helping me find my lost son.
"A volte queste cose succedono," he had said consolingly.
Indeed, I had mused, these things do happen - but do they happen to good mothers?
C 2005, Erica Miner
Former Metropolitan Opera violinist Erica Miner turned to writing as her creative outlet when injuries suffered in a car accident forced her to give up her musical career. She has since won awards for her screenplays, novels, and poetry, including the Fiction Prize in the Direct From The Author Book Awards for her novel, Travels With My Lovers. Over the past year, Erica has made a name for herself through radio and online interviews, book signings, and lectures, and has been named a 'top-rated lecturer' for Celebrity Cruise Lines. Contact Erica Miner.
