3.37 Summer in Europe

Summer 1966 • Europe ~ Boarding a plane for two nights in New York and then a second flight to London, Laura and I, along with our classmate Patty Corb, were off to visit cathedrals, castles, and crypts. I loved Europe. I loved the art, the museums, and the stunning architecture. We were twenty-nine college students from all over the United States and we rode in a green and tan bus to eleven countries in Western Europe. For eight weeks we roomed, drove, ate, read, laughed, sang, napped, talked, hiked, shopped, and saw sites together. We went to the Coliseum, the Acropolis, and the Louvre. We cruised the Greek Islands. We tanned on the Riviera where I bought a French bikini. We had an audience with the Pope; he blessed my new gold St. Christopher medal when St. Chris was still a Saint.

Laura and Patty in London, July 1966

Arriving at our second stop in Amsterdam, a letter was awaiting me from Dave Sheldon. His dad recently died, and he wrote me saying how hard it was to lose him and what a comfort I was to him at that time. Dave saw something in me that I couldn’t; I didn’t think I could mean that much to anyone.

Postmarked La Habra, July 3, 1966
Cathy—
I’m sorry I couldn’t come to the airport to see you off. By now La Habra and its inhabitants must seem blessedly far away.

I don’t think you’ll ever realize just how much you meant, and still mean, to me. After my father’s death, I felt more alone than I’ve felt in my whole life. My time with you was my only salvation. I’m afraid I wasn’t very good company. I’m sure he knew he was dying because he said to tell you he was sorry he wouldn’t be here to meet you. Well that was my father—in part. The other part, something I remember more of, doesn’t seem to matter any more. In writing, he made me understand many of the things that had been bothering me. It affected me a great deal and by the time I see you again you’ll find I’ve changed a great deal­­—maybe even enough for you to decide you like me. You’re the only person I’ve told all this to and I’ll probably never tell it again. I hope you can achieve some sort of understanding of me in it all.

You’ve no doubt seen many interesting sights and met many people already. Remember them all, especially the people. You can only meet the people by actually going. That’s the only reason I didn’t go on a tour. I see it’s time to go.

All my love, Dave
P.S. That last kiss wasn’t long enough, I miss you already, and your air of sophistication and James Bond humor
P.S.S. Take care—but not too much.

St. Mark’s Square, Aug 16, 1966

I celebrated my 18th birthday in St. Mark’s Square where I smoked my first and last cigarette. And then I threw up all night. I scaled the cliffside of the Isle of Crete on my first and last donkey ride; on the way up it used the mountainside to try to scrape me off its back. I walked back down. I studied Rembrandts, Rodins, and Renoirs, and saw Manets, Monets, and Matisses. I peered at Michelangelo’s frescoes, sculptures, and paintings. I witnessed Egyptian, Greek, and Roman art, medieval, Romanesque, Renaissance, Gothic, and Baroque art. I saw more beauty than I ever suspected existed. I was in another world, and it was heaven. 

Until then, the sum total of my art experience were copies of Pinkie and Blue Boy hanging in our Sonora house, making a Father Junipero Serra hand puppet from burlap and papier-mâché in the fourth grade, and learning about perspective and watercolor in Mr. Powell’s fifth-grade class. I doubt making pictures with colored rocks and Elmer’s glue qualified.

In the afternoon of July 16 we arrived at the Hotel Schiller in Lucerne, and upon checking in, a second thin blue letter was waiting for me at the hotel desk. I recognized my mother’s careful handwriting. I was surprised. I couldn’t remember how long it had been since I’d heard from her, or how long it had been that I had even thought about her. I went to the room with Laura, unpacked my suitcase, took a shower, then wandered downstairs to read it in privacy. Sitting halfway down the staircase overlooking the doorway to the street, I carefully opened it:

Dear Cathy,
I haven’t heard from you in a long time. I don’t understand why, I haven’t ever done anything to you. How can you ignore me this way? How could you treat me like this? It’s not fair and it hurts me. Why don’t you love me anymore? Why don’t you care about me? None of you girls ever cared anything about me. I’ve been a good mother to all of you, and you at least I would have expected to behave differently… blah, blah-blah, blah-blah, her long sad tale followed by a litany of her health problems.

It sucked the air out of me. My mother had the ability to buckle my knees from 3,000 miles away. She must have been saving up as she covered every inch of the paper on both sides, writing more than she’d ever said to me in her life. I wanted to scratch my name off the top, write hers in, sign mine at the bottom, and send it back. How dare she. Tears brimmed as I folded it back up and tucked it in my breast pocket.

That night the group of us went to dinner; I had pommes frites, salad, and shrimp, my favorite. We went back to our hotel and Ed and Malcolm bought some gin and vodka. I had little experience with alcohol. When we played Pinochle, Carleen and Chuck let me drink a weak Cuba Libre: a Coke, a wedge of lime, and a teaspoon of rum. I’d been to a couple of parties in high school and drank beer, and I had beer a few times in Palm Springs for Easter break. That night I had a 7up and vodka and then I tried a gin and tonic. The next day I woke up sicker than a dog; I didn’t think I’d had that much to drink so it couldn’t have been alcohol poisoning. It must have been food poisoning, but I wasn’t the only one to have shrimp. I couldn’t stop throwing up and after three days I got so dehydrated I looked like a skeleton hanging in the corner of the science classroom. They helped me on and off the bus. When we got to Germany and into our hotel, Laura, Patty, and Mary put me in a tub of warm water to try to rehydrate me, got me into bed, and called a doctor. I could see the concern on their faces. When the doctor examined me (he didn’t speak English and I don’t speak German), I realized what he planned. What the hell is he doing? He’s putting a suppository UP MY BUM, like that’s going to help? It did. It stopped my vomiting.

I hadn’t been sick like that since I was nine years old, since that last summer I lived with Mother in Hawaii.

Years later, going through a box of cards and keepsakes, I came across that missive from Mom. I sat on the bed and unfolded it, hoping it didn’t sound as bad as when I’d read it on those red-carpeted steps in Switzerland. It did. I tore it into a hundred pieces and threw it away. I was finished being reminded.

to be continued…

© 2018. Catherine Sevenau.
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