“It’s the old joke about the magic carpet or the broomstick. That’s how poor people used to make journeys, because they couldn’t afford to make them literally.”
Jeanette Winterson, The Art of Fiction Interview No. 150, The Paris Review
Until the world can fly again,
Until the Colosseum, the Great Wall, the Golden Bridge, Versailles, the Acropolis, Taj Mahal, Sagrada Familia, the pyramids, the Eiffel Tower – of course –, the statues, parks and squares, museums, souvenir shops,
Until the snow melts and longer, warmer days, until vaccines and someone presses play and masks become extinct,
Until we all wake up – we will, even Rip Van Winkle did – let’s go on trips that are allowed. Hold on to your armchairs.
Ready?
to the northernmost part of the northernmost inhabited British Isle of Unst – population: 650 residents. Alight at the only bus stop. Wait patiently…
on the sofa. There is also a wicker table; some art; a cabinet; a carpet for those wet, squally school day mornings; toys, books for entertainment. Rumour has it there was once a hot snack dispenser, even – anything is possible –, a soft serve ice cream machine.
Bobby’s Shelter was named after a brave little boy who wrote his local paper when the original bus stop was removed. He wrote about the cold and rain: going to school was bad enough, Shetland weather was always bad. The two together were just… not nice.
The paper wrote the town council. A new shelter appeared, but then, magically, since 1996… anonymous flowers, curtains, stuffed animals, board games, a puffin, a Christmas tree. There is a committee now, and an annual theme.
Anyone can do it. A bus stop can be anything. In 2009, Bobby’s was even a two-person cinema. Speaking of which…
in Paris’s 20ème arrondissement, someone projected Lost in Translation on a wall, last spring.
The whole neighbourhood watched. Corn was popped and munched. Slurps and communal sighs and at the end: applause. In the 5th, on a wall in rue Daubenton, it was La Dolce Vita. Under the Pont Neuf, the legendary final kiss of Cinema Paradiso.
Anyone can do it. Any wall can be a screen. And while you are at it,
dance the Macarena, as whole streets did in Turin and Naples. Rome, Milan, Salerno, Verona, Florence. Pull out a chair, guitar, accordion. Pots and pans. Start a cross-street chamber quartet, a choir, a band. Sing the national anthem, any anthem. O Sole Mio! Bridge balconies with strings of garlic, flowers, baguettes.
And on a bridge,
in Shelburne Falls, Massachusetts, there are no cars, buses, trucks, or trolleys. There are no pedestrians. The bridge is closed, but not empty; there are flowers, many,
many, many. 500 varieties of blooms and vines, and shrubs, a good number of which rare or historical. The bridge overflows with them. It was shut down in 1929, but a local couple on their daily walk – she pushing his wheelchair – wondered: “If weeds can grow on that bridge, why not flowers?”
Anyone can do it. It took donations, volunteers, some fertilizer, seeds. It gave Mr. Burnham a dream of a view, bedridden, from his window, until he died. Now, it enchants others.
A hundred-meter bridge… is not essential, not the point. Plant strawberries in old stockings. Hang them at the window. Travel on an armchair, an aquarelle, a book. Deviate from the story line. Insert a flying carpet. A magic broomstick. A vacuum cleaner will do. Ready? Let’s go…
Until the world can fly again. Until Paris, Beirut, London.