Is there such a thing as time travel? I think there is.
If you follow me on Instagram you know that I took a trip to Europe for my 54th birthday this summer. It turned out to be quite an adventure due to airline miscommunication, strikes, delays and anything-that-can-go-wrong kind of trip; however, we surrendered to what was and were led to experiences for which I am very grateful. Among them, the opportunity to once again visit Eze Village, not far from Nice, on the French Riviera, where we had last been 35 years ago, and where I had the most surreal experience. I traveled back in time.
I’m sure that upon entering this mountaintop village, with its uneven cobblestoned streets, narrow passageways and stone buildings, most people feel transported back to Medieval times. I was transported back to 1993.
But first, let me back up.
We first came here in 1993. We were young, newly married, with no kids, and no money —just impossibly hopeful of what lay ahead of us as a couple. We fell deeper in our young love at the same time that we fell in love with this magical little village. We didn’t know how, or when, but we knew we’d return.
Well, a million years later (or 35) we did – by chance…or human error. Let me explain…
We had our entire summer vacation planned; hotels booked, cars reserved, sightseeing destinations all carefully and methodically planned in great detail.
Then three things happened…
First: We arrived in Madrid to discover that our connecting flight had already departed. It had been rescheduled to earlier that morning by the airline but failed to be communicated to us – the passengers. Rude.
We were booked on a later flight.
Next: our new flight was canceled because of the French! Yes, the French…or the French air traffic controllers to be more specific, who conveniently decided to strike on the very day we were headed to France. Again, rude.
And finally: we were mistakenly put on a flight to Geneva, Switzerland by a very (again, I use the word) rude and unhelpful Spanish woman at Iberia Airlines.
How do you go to Geneva, Switzerland by mistake? You ask.
Because apparently, humans are in control of the airports. That rude Spanish woman at Iberia? She doesn’t know the difference between Genova – a city in Italy and where we requested to fly to because it was the closest city to our original destination – and Geneva – a city in Switzerland which we had no desire to visit on this trip and which is very far from our original destination. And, because after 30 hours of no sleep in which the brain is no longer functioning at full capacity, neither of you realize this error until your luggage is on the plane and you are about to board your flight.
Genova. Geneva.
Gen-Ova.
Gen-Eva.
And that’s how we ended up in Geneva Switzerland.
Back to Eze…
Like teenagers backpacking through Europe, we were now free to go wherever we pleased and to stay wherever we felt like staying for the night since our original plans had been blown. We were like college students backpacking through Europe, except with a car and better accommodations; I’m too damn old spoiled for hostels. Oh, and only my hubby had his travel backpack, but that doesn’t really count.
Once we made our way down Italy, we headed west along the Riviera, crossing over to the French side. We decided to visit Eze because it is on the way to Marseilles, where we will be meeting friends a few days later. And because I want to see this charming little town again after all these years.
I stopped to take in the view I had last seen 35 years ago. I fell into silence as waves of nostalgia hit me gently. It hasn’t changed, I thought. The thought that followed was, I have changed.
Or so I thought.
But something curious happened. I was transported back in time. In my mind, of course. Standing on the same spot I had stood so many years earlier, I experienced the feeling of then. That’s the only way I can describe it: then. You would have to experience this yourself to fully grasp the power of this time travel – the rarefied moments of youth-ness that accompanied me in this village.
I don’t’ know what it is exactly, about travel, the way it distorts time. But walking down these same cobblestoned streets, with the same person, I felt just like this village itself: untouched by time.
Have you ever had a deja vu? This feeling was similar to that but where a deja vu is fleeting, this feeling lingered deliciously for the entire time I was there. And I became aware that nothing — not the passage of time, not having grown children (almost, work in progress), not the wrinkles on my face — would alter my unwavering vision of myself as a young woman. It’s the best anti-aging trick. Just don’t give me a mirror.
I was here, live in real time, but I was back to a younger, more starry-eyed me.
Maybe we are always the same on the inside, young, oblivious to the fact that time steals our youth. Then one day you look back at a moment or a place and realize that your life, just like everyone’s, has moved swiftly forward —and your denial won’t halt it.
So much of our life is different than when we first discovered this beautiful place. We’ve lived an entire life together. We’ve not only had kids, but we’ve raised them already (again, almost). Yet there we were…same two people, a little older, with a lot more baggage, both figuratively and literally, but still —
It’s remarkable to look back on the places of our youth. Our minds have changed, we’ve evolved, and we’ve forgotten ourselves in the process. Maybe the secret to reclaiming the essence of who we were when we were young is to visit the places we visited when we were young.
There were more tourists that day than when we here last, due I’m sure, to the internet. The town itself, however, is oblivious to the modern day. As evening approached, the tourists trickled out and streets grew quiet — and I knew I wanted to stay the night. I wanted to retain my original vision of this place, without the crowds.
As luck, or flow, or whatever-angel-guided alignment would have it, a room had become available since we arrived. That night, we roamed the tiny streets and explored the town under the quiet of the moonlight. It was magical. We had dinner in a tiny restaurant hidden inside a cave and talked about our life. About the two young kids who had first come here. How we managed to travel to Europe with very little money and how we should have come back sooner. How we both felt like it had only been a few years, and not a lifetime since we were here.
And this is what we concluded: If we look at ourselves through the prism of travel, we are able to access our youth. That’s as close to time travel to which we humans can aspire. At the very least, travel could be said to be the denial of time.
For one entire day on the week of my 54th birthday, walking along the cobblestoned streets of a little town nestled in the hills of southern France, hand in hand with the love of my life, I was (wait, how old was I in 1993?) young…again….still.
I can’t help but wonder if I will ever return, years from now, to this idyllic spot. I know, however, that if I do come back years from now, I will walk these narrow paths that will no doubt remain unchanged, and feel a young 54 again. It’s all relative — including age.
But I’m not going to project myself into the future although the future will skip out in front of me regardless. Instead, I will try to harness the power of time travel in my everyday life.
How? You ask.
By thinking, breathing, living, and experiencing life, the ordinary moments of it, as if. I think some might call this denial.
Now you: have you ever experienced time travel? Or denial? Let me know in the comments.
xoxo,
V