Foreign memories

My step-sister visited from Brisbane a couple of weeks ago. We had dinner and after went back to my place. She had never been there before and wandered around exclaiming at one thing or another – the camel leather ottoman I had brought back from Morocco, the various knick-knacks I have collected on my travels, above all she spent time looking at the various prints and photos I have picked up travelling to different parts of the world.

All these things mean a lot to me. I make it a mission to bring back with me mementoes of my travels. Laden in them are memories, and in those memories meaning – this is what I have done, this is where I have been, this is what I experienced, and this is what I learned. They are far more than decorator items designed to make the place look homely, they are part of my personal history.

Still, it is both a little strange and quite gratifying to see another pause to appreciate these things. I am tempted often to pause with them, to look upon the object of interest and give some explanation and context of what they look upon.

In my present home they line the walls of the entry hall. To the right there are the very simple and elegant Vietnamese watercolours. With a few strokes of the brush there is represented tall and slim Vietnamese woman riding a bike. In another she is wearing a conical hat. I remember buying these, in the Russian market in Saigon from a smiling girl I laughed with. I rolled the parchment up carefully and stowed these prints in my pack as I continued my journies onward.

There are moody and evocative black and white prints of Prague, like something out of the The Third Man – early morning mornings and dark nights, light shining off cobbled lanes and misty dawns. I bought these from a man on the Charles Bridge. Prague is a great city.

There are prints of Paris of a similar nature, black and white showing gargoyles and Notre Dame and narrow laneways, these purchased on the bank of the Seine.

From Hong Kong there are pretty watercolours in marine colours, greens and blues, turquoises, moody paintings of Victoria Harbour with old junks scudding across it. Each of these are numbered, original prints I bought from the sun of the painter.

From HK I also have a red and gold emblem of the Dragon – which is what I am, and another symbol for good luck.

Then there are the Turkish illustrations, beautifully rendered shots of Ottoman emperors hunting, or of his harem, bright colours including gold leaf. Each of these is old, plates from antique books cut from them to sell. On most there is on the back Arabic script. I wandered around the grand bazaar in Istanbul for days, but bought these in a shop near the old cistern.

I have papyrus waiting to frame also, plus the little things around the place that speak of my travels – a Buddha from Hoi An, a ancient wooden block painting from Luxor. On the wall by the stairs is the panoramic photo I took of Istanbul, framed in dark beaten copper. In the hallway is the rug I bought in India, in the lounge the rug I bought in Istanbul.

All these are among my most treasured possessions. I look forward to adding to them, but figure I’m going to need a bigger place.