We'll Always Have Paris (23 page)

“Where are you from?” I asked.

“Ah, Korea,” the taller woman said, nodding her head.

I nodded as if this was very meaningful to me. “Ah, Korea,” I said nodding back as I thought about what to say next.

Obviously
nothing
about
Kim
Jong
Il.

Sharing
that
I
survived
on
Korean
barbecue
in
college
seemed
ditsy.

While I groped for something to add about Korea, I could only think about the girl I met in 1976, new to our fifth grade class, fresh from Korea. Jimi Lieu did not speak a word of English yet somehow our teacher persuaded the soft-spoken newcomer to stand before the class and sing a Korean folk song. Since Jimi did not have the words to decline the invitation, she stood in front of the chalkboard in a brown corduroy skirt and oxford shirt. She smiled shyly and began singing. “Chap-pudda cha-anida, do-do-di-do-di-do,” she sang, moving her hands and swaying every time the song returned to the “do-do-di-do-di-do,” part, which was frequent.

Standing in the garden of the Alhambra, I nodded at my two new friends. “Ah, Korea,” I said and began singing Jimi Lieu’s song. The women’s eyes popped, and a man beside them was agape.

“How you know Chap-pudda song?” the man gasped.

The shorter woman barked at the rest of her group, and they rushed over. Although I don’t understand a word of Korean, I am sure she said something like, “Come listen. The giant yellow-haired woman knows the Chap-pudda song!”

Soon I was in a line with eight women singing the song, complete with hand motions. Men held cell phones over their heads recording this strange sight. After more than three decades, I could only remember the opening line and tune so I hummed most of it.

Katie’s attention returned to me with a laugh. “What’s going on?”

“We are rocking the Alhambra, that’s what’s going on.”

“Can you teach me?” Katie asked me, then looked to the Korean women.

“Yes, we sing song together,” she said.

I placed Katie next to me and whispered the first line for her. The group began again, now with Katie.

When we finished, the group applauded and someone asked, “How you know Chap-pudda? It very old song.”

“My classmate Jimi Lieu sang this song for our class, like every day in fifth grade,” I explained, wondering what the teacher had in mind, bringing this child up before us every day and forcing her to sing.

The short woman held my hands and she said that we were meant to meet to share this moment. She looked at Katie adoringly, then at me with a smile. “You are from America. We are from Korea, but here are we. Same garden at Spain at same minutes.”

“Yes, quite a coincidence, wasn’t it?”

She knit her brow, not understanding the word.

“Lucky, lucky,” I tried again.

“No lucky, lucky,” she said, nodding her head emphatically. She pointed to the sky. “We must meet and sing song together.”

“But why?” I asked.

“Mystery,” she chirped. “But meant to happen.”

After we said good-bye to our Korean friends, Katie laughed again. “One minute I was looking at the view and the next thing I see you singing with a bunch of Korean ladies.” I smiled. “Aren’t you glad you remembered that song?”

“I am,” I replied.

Katie tilted her head philosophically the same way my father used to before sharing a thought. “Now I know what you mean when you say music is one of the few things in life that can connect people no matter where they’re from.”

I smiled as I heard my father’s voice.
Music
is
about
universal
connection
, he told me hundreds of times.

“I think today has been my favorite one in Spain so far,” I said, grabbing Katie’s hands and continuing to walk down the path of the Alhambra gardens.

“Yeah, singing with those ladies was fun,” Katie said.

Years after my experience with the bogus medium, I still maintained very serious doubt about the existence of an afterlife. But that day at the Alhambra, I was certain that my father could be very much with me—and by extension, with Katie—long after his death.

Katie and I flew from Granada to Barcelona on my forty-fifth birthday and checked into a monolithic hotel with a marble and gold lobby designed to impress. A carpeted double staircase reached down like the arms of a welcoming hostess. Above us hung a sparkling chandelier the size of a Volkswagen. But the Avenida Palace was all style and no substance.

A bellboy showed us to our room as if he were being escorted to his own execution. His shoulders were slumped; each step he took was leaden. As the door to our room closed, Katie and I heard the sound of cannon fire. Within minutes, we heard another boom from down the hall. Then another.

After we unpacked, Katie noticed rumbling beneath us. “Are we having an earthquake?” I wondered aloud. We went downstairs and told the concierge, who shrugged and said I must be mistaken; there was no rattling, he insisted.

“Today is my birthday. Can you recommend a nice place to celebrate?” I asked.

“
Señora
, this is Barcelona,” he said with a heavy sigh. “Every place to eat is nice.”

The natives we met in flight and on our shuttle from the airport were quick to tell us that Barcelona was part of the Catalonia region of Spain, which was, in their estimation, far superior to the rest of the country. Their claim seemed like a promise while the hotel worker’s remark sounded dismissive.

As Katie and I made our way out the front door, a hotel clerk called out to us. “Hey, you leave your room key at front desk and pick up when you return,” he demanded. Many European hotels used this system, so the request didn’t bother me. But his delivery was so gruff it was as though he was accusing me of walking off with an armload of towels.

Wanting to conserve our spending to get the best experience possible, I suggested we save my birthday celebration until our final evening in Barcelona. “Let’s just walk around, explore, and grab a quick bite tonight,” I said.

“Sounds like a plan,” Katie said.

I handed in our key, and Katie and I headed out for our first evening in Barcelona. As my eyes moved from my map to the street sign, Katie checked out our new surroundings. We reached the street corner and noticed a subway station. “That’s why our room shakes, Mommy.” She turned her head quickly to check behind us. “Look down the street,” she said. I squinted to read the sign on the second subway station. Katie enlightened me. “It’s a different exit to the same station. Our hotel is over a subway line.”

Remembering the clerk who looked at me as though I was crazy when I complained about the room shaking, I shook my head with annoyance. Quickly, I reprimanded myself internally.

So
what
if
there’s a little shaking in our luxury hotel. You are forty-five years old today, in good health, and in Barcelona. These are First World problems, so shut up and enjoy life.

We approached the Plaça de Catalunya, and I stopped a man to ask where to find a supermarket. He pointed at a tower a few blocks away that looked like a hotel.

“
Eso
es
un
supermercado?
” I said, scrunching my face.

“
Si
,” he said, pointing down.

I asked again, incredulous. “
El
Corte
Inglés es un supermercado
?”

He nodded to affirm and continued pointing down emphatically.

We continued walking toward the plaza, a landmark that reflected the city’s seamless blending of the historic with the contemporary. Around its periphery were buildings ranging from old world confections to modern businesses. At the center of the plaza were fountains and sculptures, neoclassic to avant-garde. A large monument to Francesc Macià, former president of the Catalan government, punctuated the main fountain. The ruler was no more than a bust set on a stiff pedestal, but behind Macià was what looked like a misshapen pyramid topped with a fallen staircase.

“This looks like an earthquake hit Giza,” I said to Katie. “How is this a tribute to Francesc Macià?”

Katie gave me a Euro-shrug and said, “Spain.”

Macià stood guard over the fountain; a nude goddess hunched thoughtfully in green water. It was almost Rodinesque in its stature, but featured a doughy woman rather than the buff Thinker.

Students and couples dotted the plaza while clusters of demonstrators marched with cardboard signs and set up tents and shanties to protest Spain’s economic crisis. A papier-mâché corpse in a coffin lay with the word “
España
” on its forehead.

Katie and I walked a block to El Corte Inglés. I gasped when I saw the man sitting beside the entrance. The accordion player we had seen in Segovia—the one who looked like my father—was sitting on the sidewalk playing for tips. He sported the same white straw hat he wore when we first spotted him two weeks ago, 325 miles away. Katie squealed, “Segovia!” She pointed at him and said, “We saw you in Segovia.” He smiled and nodded as he continued playing “Lady of Spain.”

At the end of his song, I dropped a coin in his tip jar and asked, “How did you get here?” It took me a moment to realize that was the same phrase I always used when I dreamt my father returned for a visit.

He replied, “My car.”

Thankfully, Katie spoke because I could not. I had been desperately hoping for a cryptic message, one I could interpret as a wink from the other side.

“That’s so cool,” Katie said. “So you just drive all over Spain and play music?”

“Yes, I drive wherever I wish. Barcelona, Paris, whatever look nice.”

“Awesome,” Katie said.

I looked at him a moment longer, hoping he would whip out a lemon. Instead, he pressed out another song on his grinder and looked away.

“Come on, Mommy,” Katie said, grabbing my hand. “I’m hungry.”

I waited another moment, taking in the image of the street musician. “Okay,” I said. “Let’s move on.”

***

Katie and I walked into the lobby of El Corte Inglés, which looked a lot like Macy’s. The main floor was packed with mannequins, handbags, perfumes, and shoes. “My Spanish must be really bad. This isn’t a supermarket,” I said to Katie. She pointed to an escalator heading down.

This subterranean grocery store was probably nothing special for the locals, but for us it was a culinary playground with its colorful packaging and new and familiar products. We saw Mr. Clean on a bottle of
Don
Limpio
Baño
. And Tony the Spanish Tiger was pitching
Zucaritas
, growling that they’re
Grrriquisimas!

The canned fish aisle was like nothing I’d ever seen before. I am accustomed to a humble American selection of tuna, sardines, salmon, and clams, but El Corte Inglés devoted an entire double-sided aisle to canned octopus, squid, cockles, oysters, mussels, and sea urchin. Shoppers could select from up to a dozen brands of octopus, each offering a variety of seasonings ranging from salted olive oil to spicy tomato.

I purchased a can of octopus and a thick roll of bread. Katie grabbed a cheese sandwich at the deli, and we headed to the Cathedral Plaza for our five-euro picnic dinner.

The Cathedral of Santa Eulalia was the focal point of the plaza, surrounded by cafés, small shops, and hotels. Across from the enormous Victorian and Gothic cathedral stood an architectural college. Across its lower roofline was a whimsical Picasso frieze of primitive-looking stick figures.

While Katie and I sat on the steps of the cathedral eating our dinner, the sky grew darker and the college switched on a set of purple lights to illuminate the Picasso wall painting.

A man appeared on the roof, about two stories high, and began walking toward the edge.

Oh
no, he’s going to jump!
I cried internally.

Then he removed a violin from a small case and began playing. “Look, a fiddler on the roof!” Katie said. The man began playing slowly then grew more intense. Minutes later, he was playing classical music so furiously and passionately, his bow arm blurred.

“Wanna get dessert?” Katie nodded her head toward the small waffle shop about thirty yards away where we could have ice cream, chocolate, sprinkles, butterscotch—or all of the above—atop a doughy grid, fresh from the waffle iron. Katie placed an imaginary candle at the center and pretended to light a match and connect it with the wick. As I blew out my invisible birthday candle, Katie asked what I wished for.

“You know the rules,” I told her. “It’s a secret.”

The truth was that I never made birthday wishes. Twelve years earlier, I had spent the night with Katie in an oversized hospital crib with my eyes squeezed shut and promised that if my one wish were granted and she was okay, I would never ask for anything again.

***

Katie was thirteen months old when she had her first seizure. At a
Sesame
Street
Live
show, I noticed her holding out her arms and shaking. “Look how excited she is,” I said to William. “Seeing all of these characters must be really intense.”

Then she did it again during intermission.

“That’s weird, she keeps shaking,” I said to William, who turned to look at our daughter in better light. He watched her and furrowed his brow. “Let’s call her doctor,” he said.

We answered a flurry of questions, shot rapid-fire, and ten minutes later, were racing from the arena toward the hospital. From the corner of my eye, I saw Big Bird return to the stage as the
Sesame
Street
theme song piped in for the second act.

That night, a team of doctors watched Katie experience several series of brief seizures. Her arms splayed, her neck stiffened, and her jaw locked as her upper body shook.

She’s teething
, I assured myself silently.

“Is she running a fever?” one of the doctors asked us.

“Yes,” I blurted, then corrected myself. “No, sorry, she isn’t. I don’t know why I said that.” But we all knew exactly why I’d instinctively offered up this lie. I needed an answer, a reason this was happening.

The following day, we visited a pediatric neurologist in a pale blue office trimmed with wallpaper of baby ducks following their mother. His waiting room was filled with children who had a range of neurological conditions. A preteen boy sat at a table that had a roller coaster of wire and wooden beads attached to its top. The boy’s fingers were tense as he struggled to move a bead. Another child emptied a plastic crate of Legos onto the floor and howled with what could have been agony or delight. One sat in a wheelchair, staring ahead, devoid of expression.

The neurologist performed a series of tests, like watching Katie’s eyes follow a light from one end of the room to the other. He observed her walk, and as I watched him, my fists curled like a gambler’s, rooting for his racehorse. When the doctor tapped Katie’s knee, I cried with excitement when her reflexes were normal.

A half hour later, the doctor dispassionately informed us that there were three possible outcomes: Katie would outgrow her seizures, develop mental disabilities, or die. Only time would tell.

Did this man just tell us that only time would tell if our daughter would live or die?

There was a ride at Coney Island called the Hell Hole where people stood upright in a cylindrical chamber, then spun so fast that centrifugal force pinned them to the wall. I went on this ride exactly once. I remember feeling the skin from my face melting into my skull and my stomach threatening rebellion. Just as I thought the nausea could not get any worse, the floor dropped from the bottom of the Hell Hole and I was suspended in midair, stuck in a spinning wheel with the head of Satan cackling.

The pediatric neurology office was the Hell Hole without the promise that the ride would ever end.

On the drive home, William and I were silent for a half hour before I told him I was absolutely certain that Katie was going to be fine.

William’s fingers curled tensely around the steering wheel. “No offense, but you’re kind of the queen of denial,” he said.

“Maybe, but I have a very strong feeling about this. She’s going to be fine.”

“I hope you’re right,” he said, choking back tears.

“I am. I’m definitely right about this,” I insisted too loudly.

In the following weeks, William logged nearly a hundred hours at the medical library at the University of California San Diego. He recorded Katie’s episodes on video and graphed them on a chart. Every waking hour that he wasn’t at work was spent trying to make sense of Katie’s condition. I took Katie to the playground with missionary zeal, as if trying to appease the gods by showing how grateful she was for life. We both groped for control of a situation quickly spiraling out of our hands.

***

“Did I ever tell you I was born dead?” my father asked, his eyes closed as he soaked in the sunshine in my Aunt Rita’s backyard. He had, in fact, shared this with me many times, but now that he had cancer, it was one of his greatest hits. “Yom Kippur, 1936,” he began. “The doctors were walking me down to the morgue when I started crying. They looked down and I wasn’t blue anymore. Everyone said it was a miracle.”