A Letter to Pop Pop

Pop Pop, you went away too damn soon. We could have had so much more to talk about. Here in Europe though, I feel that you are still quite near.

I can so easily see you in your Renault Le Car, Citroen or Peugot, rag-top down, or sunroof open, wind blowing all around. I can remember you making sure my seatbelt was buckled, and telling me to hold on tight, so you could show me a little bit more of what that good foreign-powered engine could do. Now, I can better understand why you chose to drove those kinds of cars back home. I feel a similar draw. Something special to stay connected to the amazing experiences you must have had here. Something built into your daily life, something experiential, something that brings the thrilling memories back every time you turned the key.

I can smell the mix of gasoline, the leather seats and the warm rubber from the tires of your exotic cars inside the garage where you kept them. I remember being so curious, sneaking into the garage to steal a peak, being so careful around them because we all knew how important they were to you. Probably not even big enough to touch the pedals, I pretended to work the gears and turn the wheel, hoping you wouldn't come in and catch me. But, also, a little, hoping you would. I was reminded of this each time I walked by one of the small auto repair shops tucked into the side streets of Lisbon, and Malaga, where the smells brought it all back again.

I can see you in your driving cap, the one you kept in the foyer closet in the house on Mitchell Rd. It is the same one I saw a group of gentlemen wearing in Nazereh, standing on the sidewalk in a group of 5 or 6, chatting away, with the string of waterfront shops and seafood restaurants in front of them, and the huge ocean at their backs.

I can hear your Big Band music blaring in my mind. I must have felt that same electricity you felt when you listened to it, when Vee and I were in Cafe Central, in Madrid, listening to an amazing live, late night jazz band performance.

I can see you reading your newspaper, sitting at a cafe, with your 5 o´clock cocktail, just like so many of the gentlemen I see here, reading, while keeping an eye on all the wondrous activity around them.

I can see you in the warming sun, looking upwards, eyes closed, impossibly trying to take it all in, before a cloud could get in the way. I did the same, sitting on an old wall next to Fisherman's Bay in Cascais, wondering if maybe you had been there too.

I can remember how each time you returned from a trip, you'd bring me back something special, a wood carving, or something else that would connect me to you, and the times you had abroad.

And now, I think I feel more connected to you than ever before. I feel like maybe you are keeping tabs on my whereabouts, checking off the places where you had been, and those where you still wanted to go, but ran out of time. Maybe you're the one in the back of my mind, encouraging me to keep going, exploring, trying new things, seeing new places, seeing different kinds of people, their wonderfully interesting cultures, and their amazing histories.

I would like so much to share all of this with you. Maybe now I am. I miss you.