In southern Spain, the dramatic spring-evening light gilded everything. Long shadows stretched across the cobblestone streets, elongating our silhouettes. My mom and I walked through the historic centre of Seville and across the Guadalquivir River.
After our red-eye flight from 海角社区官网to Madrid, and three-hour high-speed train ride into Andalusia, our senses were overstimulated, suffused with the warmth of the sun on our skin and the sweet fragrance of azahar (orange blossoms). 鈥淏arco, look!鈥 exclaimed Mom, using her Czech nickname for me (pronounced Barch-o). Ochre orbs adorned the trees lining every street. Gleaming like Christmas ornaments, they were Seville oranges.
We stopped to capture the golden-hour beauty in photos, going from tree to tree for better angles, and stepping into the street 鈥 narrowly avoiding darting mopeds 鈥 for a wider perspective. 鈥淭here鈥檚 so many!鈥 Mom said. Our orange interlude may have lasted a few minutes or 15. It鈥檚 a common occurrence on our travels: time pauses with her revelations. As a painter and sculptor, my 80-year-old mother delights in detail. Seeing the world with her is a cue to look closer.
Writer Barb Sligl with her mother,聽Tanya, in C贸rdoba. Her mom, a painter and sculptor, delights in observing detail, inspiring Barb to do the same.
Courtesy of Barb SliglBut we hadn鈥檛 immersed ourselves in such a moment for a long time. When my father鈥檚 chronic illness worsened, Mom stopped travelling with me to stay by his side. Then the pandemic stopped travel for everyone. My dad died. And my mom seemed to lose that bold and blithe side of herself. She had been sheltered at home for so long, she was shattered to be without my dad and afraid to venture anywhere again.
Growing up, I always thought of my mom as adventurous.聽In 1968, when she was just 24, she escaped the communist regime of then-Czechoslovakia, emigrating to Canada 鈥 a country she had never visited. She met my dad, another Czech refugee, in English class in Toronto. Even while living under communism, Mom travelled behind the Iron Curtain, from rock climbing in the mountains of her Moravian homeland to hitchhiking on the Dalmatian coast in the former Yugoslavia.
Later, she coaxed my dad into a trip back to Europe, bringing him, me and my younger sister on a tour of the masterpieces she鈥檇 studied in art school: Michelangelo鈥檚 鈥淒avid,鈥 the Sistine Chapel, Notre-Dame de Paris, the Gates of Paradise by Ghiberti. She instilled curiosity in me. Her spiritedness is a large part of why I鈥檝e travelled to 54 countries and taken her to 12 of them as my companion.
We鈥檝e sailed through the Northwest Passage to Greenland and seen the , where Mom fell in love with the sculptural beauty of icebergs. We鈥檝e stayed in a castle in Ireland and donned gauntlets to fly hawks at falconry school. We鈥檝e walked amid thrombolites, 650-million-year-old mega-fossils that resemble huge hamburger buns, in northwestern Newfoundland.
I was the travel partner Mom didn鈥檛 get in Dad. A mechanical engineer, he wasn鈥檛 interested in architecture and museums and natural phenomena. Dad was happiest in a beer garden, sitting beneath a chestnut tree with a half-litre of Pilsner. Together, their world was more insular. This trip to Spain marked my mother鈥檚 first time travelling anywhere since we lost him.
It was an emotional journey, the moments reigniting Mom鈥檚 curiosity along the way: taking the high-speed train, seeing rows and rows of ancient olive trees, sampling churros and Jerez wine, standing under thousand-year-old arches in the , sipping Spanish-style gin-and-tonic in a copa de bal贸n (鈥淏arco, why is the glass so big?鈥). Her reactions reminded me to never take travel for granted.
Founded in the early Middle Ages, the Royal Alc谩zar of Seville is the oldest royal palace in Europe that remains in use today.
Sean Pavone / iStockI watched her scrutinize the intricate tile work of the (鈥淚t鈥檚 too much!鈥), admire the remnants of Roman ruins in C贸rdoba (鈥淭hey鈥檙e everywhere!鈥), and question why there鈥檚 pan con tomate by the bread at the breakfast buffet (鈥淏arco, where鈥檚 the butter?!鈥).
Late one night, in a dark and atmospheric space that was once the 1930s-era headquarters of an anti-fascist women鈥檚 committee, Mom was enchanted by a flamenco dancer. Without taking her eyes off the bailaor, she swayed to his impassioned movements and the pulse of palmas (hand clapping), pitos (finger snapping) and cante (singing). 鈥淚 feel it in my bones!鈥 she declared.
My mom reclaimed her sense of wonder. After smelling that azahar, the fragrance of the 40,000-some orange trees blossoming in Seville, Mom said we should taste the bitter citrus. We鈥檇 been warned about the sourness of the fresh fruit, usually used only for marmalade, but to amuse my mom, I awkwardly jumped to grab an orange off a branch.
As I peeled the thick skin, my fingers sticky with juice, Mom got impatient: 鈥淚鈥檒l do it, Barco!鈥 She popped an orange segment into each of our mouths, and we both puckered our lips and stuck out our tongues, making the same funny face. The tartness lingered as we laughed and wandered the maze of medieval streets together. And the memory still lingers, another idiosyncratic detail of travels with my mom.
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