Talking to my Mother

 Every Sunday for the last twenty years of her life, until the week she died, I would call my mother to chat. It didn't matter if I was at home or on a journey, Sunday was my day to call Mom. Sometimes the calls were short, just a couple of minutes, but it was a kind of ritual for me (and probably for Mom as well) that I enjoyed. 

I didn't have a warm and fuzzy relationship with my mother growing up.  Indeed, there were times when I couldn't stand her and wouldn't talk to her for months. But once she was in her late 70's and I was in my late 40's, neither of us had any use for the old parent-child dynamic and so we could simply chat.  Like adults.

During the end of the 20th century and the first decade of this century I was fortunate to be able to travel a lot. I went to Europe every year, sometimes twice. Airlines were competitive and thus there was a lovely interlude when airfares were very cheap. Non-stop round-trip flights from San Francisco to Paris could be found for under $300.  Small hotels might set you back $35 - $50 per night, especially when each country had its own currency, before the arrival of the euro.  There was no reason not to travel and I loved every minute of it.

Mom always liked my Sunday calls but she loved it when I was out of the country. Many of those calls were made from phone booths, using a phone card purchased at a tobacco shop. I have a great memory of standing by the side of a small, local road in Lipari, an island off the coast of Sicily, having just finished hiking up the side of a dormant (but still alive) volcano, wreaking of sulphur smell from the plumes of  sulphur smoke coming out of the volcano.  It was a sunny day, I was hot and sweaty but eager to share my adventure with Mom.

When I traveled to Vietnam I would call Mom from my hotel phone at 6:00 a.m. because the 15 hour time difference meant I would catch her before she went to sleep for the night. She was amazed and a bit nervous that I was in Vietnam alone and my calls opened up a portal for her, a new way to look at a country that we all felt wary of and guilty about.

Istanbul, Tunisia, Paris, Rome, Berlin, Amsterdam, Bruges, Lisbon, the Azores Islands...... so many different  cities and countries and so many phone booths.  Every single time I would call, Mom's first question would be: "Where are you today?"

It is Sunday, today. Maybe it's because I haven't traveled anywhere in two years, longer than that for being in Europe, but memories of those calls are swirling around me today. Maybe it's because I wish I could still speak with her or maybe it's simply a good memory I have of my mother. Whatever the reason, it makes me wish there was a phone booth at the corner of my block. It makes me want to hear that question again: "Where are you today?"  It definitely makes me wish I was somewhere else.