Finding Memories

Our minds are so weird. When I arrived here in Neuchatel I had no memory of where we had lived, what our house looked like, etc. But I am finding as I explore the town that my brain did, in fact, hold some of Neuchatel in it, and all it needs is a trigger to surface into my conscious thought.

Today my classes ended at 11:50, because they were nice enough to cut me out of German. So, after a lovely picnic with Hans Peter and Elisabeth, I had the afternoon to myself to explore and get to know the town. I decided to walk downtown and see the castle. As I walked through the narrow cobblestone streets bustling with busy activity, I noticed a watch shop, near this stunning fountain. I found myself on a snowy December evening, waiting as my incredibly thoughtful and precise father mused over his options of watches to purchase, while my childish patience waned. I, of course, have heard the story of our family promenading around the town that night singing Christmas carols and carrying on, but that specific scene has never been described to me, not from my point of view.

Sometimes the memories I've been finding are simply emotions, the color of my thoughts all those years ago. Also on the way to the Chateau, there is a specific chocolate shop. At this window I just stopped and let the emotions of longing, hope, and joy wash over me. I wanted a hand to tug on, to beg the owner of it to take me inside.

The street leading to the castle is on a very steep hill, and there are steps you can take that duck behind a row of apartments, becoming a shortcut that, by the third or fourth landing, feels like it was still the way harder option. When I finally reached the top, I realized that this was the castle my imagination has used for every Shakespeare play I've ever read. (Which, okay, is only two, but the point still stands.) The steps near the entrance to the courtyard became the platform Macbeth used to mount his horse, and upon entering the courtyard I saw the tower Juliet called to her Romeo from. Until today, I could never have told you where that castle had come from, I would have probably claimed that the great architectural prowess of my subconscious had simply conjured it up.  

One final thing: On the hill of the castle, where a wall and towers sort of cut off the land and make the whole thing rise from the town, some Swiss men were playing Bocce Ball. I knew our family was cultured.