There is a spot, a slightly shifting spot, as one walks along the marina towards the open sea, where suddenly a waft of fishiness, mixed with salty dense sea air, mists in and I beam through time and space to Honfleur. Every single time, Honfleur.
The mind steps in to play.
Try Sri Lanka, the causeway at dusk, when sun drenched dark skinned fishermen are hauling in their white nets.
Try the breakwater in Michigan, skipping and jumping over waves that wash up, with Dad’s voice calling “Be careful!”
Try the temple at Mahabalipuram, sitting on stone carved cows while voices sing in the distance.
Try the beach at Sullivan’s Island, while we polka through gullies and soft sand.
Nope. It’s always Honfleur. Our sensory organs, our souls, know what they know and do what they do. We must listen.
Honfleur is a village in France where we, as a family, were quarantined for several weeks, en route to India, before being allowed into Switzerland. My sister was sick and so we were stuck. Joy! Joy! Joy! For me, as a six year old. Free as a bird while the family hovered over Margaret, I joined a ‘gang’ of French children and danced a maypole by the sea, fed an old horse snuck sugar cubes every morning, and spoke French when I had no idea how.
And so, the soul says, with pelicans swooping and seagulls meditating together in the sand, ‘Remember and smile, you are in Honfleur again.’