Whenever I travel, I feel attacked. Questions and comments are fired my way, like a hail of bullets that hit me right in the head.
"Why Europe? Why America?'"
"Why not lose weight and find a man?"
"If you lose weight, you’ll start living."
The reason they want me to stay in Parramatta is the same reason that draws me to Paris. Or anywhere else in this world. To live!
I want to flânerie; promenade around streets named after philosophers. Taking a left and meeting Acis and Galatea in stone. Content lovers, with their white marble skin shining in the glimpses of sunlight, as a bronze Polyphemus, the cyclops, creeps upon them.
I want to feel the cobblestones beneath me as I float around Italy. On a passeggiata — a stroll — that inevitably leads me back to the Birth of Venus.
The way that mythology is captured by artists brings me peace.
Peace was a foreign concept to me until I traveled. At home, the shots are constant. Even if the weapons change, the wounds hurt just the same.
"You talk too much."
"You’re too confident."
"You’re lazy."
I was a lively and confident person; I was born outside of my shell.
They would shoot, and the words would bounce off me as though I was made of marble.
Eventually I was exhausted. It hits repeatedly and thins your skin. The words slowly extinguished me. I lost my oxygen. I lost my fire.
When I travel, the coals rekindle, Vesta smiles. I can be myself.
At home, I can no longer imagine being myself.
My family don’t hide their thoughts. Before having a ‘booty’ was trendy, I was given a nickname in Arabic: ‘emm tiz’ (‘mother of arse’).
I would love to introduce them to men I have met on my travels.
Like the man who approached me in San Francisco while I was waiting to cross the road.
"Excuse me," he said, "I don’t mean to be rude, but can I kiss your arse? DAMN THAT WOULD BE A WHOLE LOT OF KISSING! DAMNNNNNNNNNNN!!!"
I laughed. The light turned green. He watched as I walked away. Continuing his serenade, a rhythmic "damn" repeated until I was out of sight.
This was no damnation; it was appreciation. He was ready to worship me.
Whereas people I encounter at home jump at any opportunity to trim this pear down to her core.
When I travel, they delight in the full flavour and view a pear-shaped lady as a work of art.
In Italy I was likened to Venus. Twice.
In France, I met Jean the hotel concierge. We met on my last evening as I walked through the lobby.
"Bonsoir," he said.
I barely noticed him. I was determined to navigate the cobblestone streets of the old town in search of ravioli Niçoise and ice-cream. I could still taste the jasmine-flavoured gelato from the previous night.
The Fates would have it that I didn’t taste that jasmine again. At dinner, I befriended three American ladies seated at the table over from mine. They had similar hairstyles; short, grey. After dinner they insisted on walking me back safely.
I entered the cool air of the lobby from the humidity of the street and approached the desk to confirm my wake-up call.
"Would you like a drink?" Jean asked.
I politely declined. He persisted, counter offering tea.
"Jasmine?" I requested.
He invited me to sit with him in front of the hotel. I became distracted by his jawline and big, brown eyes. His pouty lips enveloped his second then third cigarette. He had been in the sun, I thought as I admired his tan.
The desk closed at midnight, and he had other tasks to complete until his shift ended at 6am. It seemed that I was the only task on his mind.
He took my hand and suddenly led me away.
No bullets, just terry cloth firing in all directions. If you haven’t hooked up in the towel room of a hotel, I highly recommend it.
Before we said a passionate goodbye, he leaned in close to my ear and whispered, "me like your arses." He must really like pears, I mused.
Suddenly he was with me in Paris. Then he was gone. He left his luggage and was uncontactable.
So, I opened his bag.
I found his passport. He wasn’t French. He wasn’t 30 years old — nor was his name Jean.
He returned, greeting me enthusiastically.
I demanded he get his arses out of my hotel room.
It was a while before I felt comfortable to date again, so I started locally. Casting the net to Parramatta and its surrounds.
Then the superficial hits came from the local men. Especially when I didn’t agree to give them what they wanted. I couldn’t feel less like a goddess.
So, I limited myself to men I would meet on my travels. It is in their cities that I feel most alive, and in their presence that my beauty is appreciated.
After a failed tryst in Seville and another in Trieste, I was yearning for a poetic entanglement.
Venus asks, the universe delivers.
Enter Giacomo.
We went to a bar and discovered that our banter was stronger than the free-poured alcohol. He told me he would prefer heaven for the view and hell for the company.
At the end of the night, we were the content lovers, atop the bed with our marble white skin glistening in the moonlight.
Yet, the cyclops, time, crept upon us.
Shortly after, a plague hit the world. I haven’t travelled since.
The bullets hit again.
Travel may be a distant memory, and the love affairs may have failed. Yet, if I had to choose between the sea of French Frauds and Raging Romeos who embrace me for who I am — or a dull river of insults and judgement in Parramatta, I know what I’d choose.
At least Venus has all her older lady friends, the Fates, watching out for her.
Madeline Sauvage is an avid traveller and writer. Madeline is currently writing a book on her love affairs while travelling.
This article is an edited extract of an entry in the 2021 SBS Emerging Writers' Competition.
Madeline Sauvage is a pseudonym.
