I was reminiscing today about a childhood memory of mine. But, I wonder if this memory has warped over time without me knowing it? Or, are childhood perceptions skewed and remain skewed until you conjure them up again? Are my memories really what happened or just some version of what really happened? I don't know, but I like to think that this memory has remained intact -- innocently, through the eyes of a child.
At the time I was living in England, and for a summer vacation my family and I took a driving holiday through parts of Europe. There were no car seats or seat belt laws and my brother and I were free to romp around in what little room there was in the back seat of our Fiat. It was a metallic, baby-blue Fiat that my brother had named Snooky. My parents challenged themselves by driving on the left-hand side of the road with a left-handed-steering car. Maybe that is why my dad had trouble manoeuvring through all those roundabouts...
My fondest memory of Paris should have been viewing the Eiffel Tower or the Arc de Triomphe. Sadly, I fell asleep on the tour bus and missed those attractions. I do remember buying paintings of ballerinas, getting my portrait sketched by a street artist, and the billboards of girls in pasties. However, what brings a smile to my face is the memory I have of my brother and I in the back seat of the Fiat, while my dad drove through the streets of Paris. I was six years old, and my brother was four. We were turned around and looking out the rear window. Behind us was a young fellow on a motorcycle. He had a scruffy beard and wavy brown hair that stuck out of his helmet in a few tufts. We made up a story about him, and decided to call him Harry. We giggled and laughed and waved maniacally at the man on the motorcycle. He smiled back and waved at us. We kept on laughing and waving. He humoured us, and kept waving right on back at us. Perhaps he was cursing in French behind gritted teeth, but to us he was our new Parisian friend. He had such a warm smile. I wish we had actually met him. My brother and I talked about him for days.
What would that be like to go back to Paris and meet the man on the motorcycle? He probably wouldn't remember the two foreign faces plastered against the rear window that day so long ago. Heck, he must be close to sixty years old now. Well, at least the memory lives on. Hello Harry, if you are still out there.
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