A Rose Amongst Thorns

Experienced during my lengthy travels round the world on Rosie, my beloved bicycle, in 1992.

I am an island child. Born under a water sun sign, raised in the spray of the surf. I love the mountains…and the jungles and deserts. But over the passage of time I am always called back to the ocean. As I left the alpine foothills behind me and approached the coast, I was yearning to see the sea. To feel it. Smell it. Taste it.

Cycling through the crowded chaos that personifies Genoa I realised I had painted myself a rose-tinted picture of this harbour city that was extremely inaccurate. In the fantasy world I had created as I climbed over the Alps I had imagined Genoa to be a typical Italian seaside resort of coloured umbrellas, pavement cafes, luxurious yachts and elegant people. In reality it was a heaving, dirty city of run-down warehouses, mouldering concrete, dockside cranes, rusting container ships and swaggering merchant seamen. Of course, my recall could be very unfair but when I close my eyes and walk through my memory palace, this is what I see.

I can feel the grime on my skin, not sea salt. I can hear the roar of the traffic, not the crashing of surf. I can sense the leering stares of the sailors. I can see the road ahead... an elevated, multi-laned expressway. Pantechnicons lumbering by, Rosie wobbling dangerously in their slipstream. I can remember thinking, despondently, “This is what I hauled myself over two mountain ranges for?”

I decided to head off the highway. Take the next exit. Where to? Didn’t matter. I didn’t care. I had no idea where the road would take me but one thing was for sure. It couldn’t be any worse than where I was.

I found myself in a rundown suburb. Ghetto-like overtones. Graffiti on the walls. Litter blowing idly in the wind. Mangy stray dogs barking, hungrily eying up my calves as I cycled by. Potential dinner. Old men in berets sitting outside a bar, dark, rheumy eyes following me territorially. An outsider. An intruder on their turf.

When I should have been looking for a way out of this menacing labyrinth, I intuitively turned right down a small street. I found myself getting deeper and deeper within a maze of little lanes, turning, this way and that, until I found the reason why. Hidden from view, down a dead-end road, was a tiny shop. Turquoise awning and glittering glass amidst shattered concrete and abandoned cars. A rose amongst thorns. I was intrigued.

I cycled towards it, feeling just a little excited about what I might find. I could not have been more surprised. For there, in the ghetto, was a chocolate shop. Its window filled with tray upon tray of lovingly crafted, handmade chocolates. Black and bitter. White and sweet. Milky and creamy. Square ones and round. Flat ones and domed. Smooth silky ones. Rough nutty ones. All carrying within them the promise of heaven. In that moment I was transported into a different world, one far apart from where I stood.

I leant Rosie up against the wall, removed my hat and gloves and re-tied my pony tail; this was a very handsome-looking establishment after all. With a frisson of anticipation running through my body, I put my hand on the shiny silver handle and opened the door.

My arrival was greeted by the gentle tinkling of a bell. As my eyes adjusted to the soft golden light they widened in disbelief. There was not a surface of the shop that wasn’t covered in chocolate, the foil-covered ones sparkling like a treasure trove of semi-precious gems. Behind a gleaming glass counter stood a stooped, elderly lady, dressed in widow’s black with salt and pepper hair pulled back in a tight bun from a wrinkled, weather-beaten countenance. Unforgettable eyes. Brilliant emerald green, out of which shone the wisdom of her years.

“Greetings, pretty lady.” Heavily accented English riding on a gravelly age-worn voice. “Welcome. I saw you coming.”

We chatted, that lady and I. We discussed the merits of dark chocolate over white. Of praline versus truffle. Of macadamias and pistachios. We crushed cocoa beans and inhaled their heavenly aroma. She guided me through each and every one of her chocolates. Beautifully made and imbued with love by her and her son.

I said that I wanted to buy some. She suggested that I take only four. More than that and I would lose my taste for them. Less and I wouldn’t get complete fulfillment. So four it was. She asked me if she could choose them. And would I mind shutting my eyes whilst she did so. So there I was, on an overcast Genoan afternoon, in a chocolate shop in the depths of a ghetto. Eyes shut, eagerly waiting while a little old lady decided which of her precious chocolates I would delight in the most.

After what seemed like the longest of times she told me I could open my eyes. There on the counter was a square turquoise box tied with a silver ribbon. A perfect bow, threaded by her arthritic fingers. She handed it to me. She wouldn’t accept any money.

“A gift for you, pretty lady. For bringing light to my day.”

I looked at her, tears in my eyes. No one had ever said anything so lovely to me.

I thanked her and turned to leave. As I did so I left a piece of my heart behind with that little old lady in the chocolate shop in the ghetto.

I pedaled Rosie to the end of the street and stopped. I had to see what she had chosen for me. I sat on the kerb amongst broken glass and yellowed newspapers. I slowly undid the bow and lifted the lid. There, nestled in the midst of snow white tissue paper, were my four chocolates.

I ate them. All of them. Right there. Sitting in the street. Slivers of pistachio draped in the sweetest of white chocolate. A solid square of the blackest, most bitter chocolate I have ever eaten. A smooth milk chocolate praline that melted on my tongue. And lastly, a coffee truffle, espresso strong and covered in a thick shell of milk chocolate. For those few moments that ghetto in Genoa was transformed into heaven.

Over the many years that have passed since that day, I have thought often of that old lady and her chocolate shop.

Of how beauty can be found in the most unexpected of places.

Of the power of non-conditional generosity and openness.

Of how, if we allow it to, destiny delivers us the most wondrous gifts.

© Jacqueline Le Sueur 2009