Traveling with Mom

Mom in Venice

I am sitting by myself at a table in Le Rose bar at the Hôtel le Pigonnet in Aix-en-Provence, a beautiful space of rosy hues: in the flowered wallpaper, the window sashes and bookcases, the fabric covering the banquettes, and my wine glass.

The hotel is situated in a country villa built in the 18th century surrounded by gardens and fountains, chestnut trees and trellises, spread over four acres. Paul Cezanne painted in the gardens when it was a private residence. Today, writers, artists and celebrities like Brad Pitt frequent this oasis of good taste, for inspiration and seamless service.

Yet, I sit in this rosy splendor, feeling blue.

My brother Ben texts: “Just been thinking about Mom today. 6 years, seems like so long ago and just yesterday. I am glad that we had the time with her that we did. I feel very lucky with that.”

A light bulb finally goes off over my head. It is March 21, the anniversary of the day that Mom died.

I reply: “You know, I’ve been feeling kind of weepy today. Kept looking at the date and wondering, what’s wrong with me?”

Ben (“my beamish boy” Mom would say): “Well, don’t get yourself down. She wouldn’t have wanted that. She would be happy that you’re in France. Like she said to me before she passed away, are we in France? and I said, yes, Mom, we are. So, it’s only fitting that you are there. Raise a glass for the both of us.”

I start crying in Le Rose bar. Not just brushing away a tear or two, but stifled sobbing. No doubt at a total loss for what else to do, the bartender, armed with a bottle of rosé, comes to my table. “Would you like another glass of wine?”

“Merci, no, monsieur,” I choke out, and leave to go back to my petite chambre at Hôtel le Pigonnet.

I always travel with a journal. The one I brought on this trip was an old one. I had only written on a few pages. Back in my room, I open it up and am startled to find that the few pages are an account of the first days that mom and I spent in Milan and Venice during a trip to Italy and France in March of 2026. It was her first time visiting Europe.

“Mom’s excitement and and appreciation for Italy is a pure joy. We made the right decision coming to Europe first—her love and innate understanding of the beauty and mastery of its many charms is remakable yet not surprising. She revels at the exquisite fabrics yet somehow knew they always existed. She notices the subtle nuances of the flavors and presentation of the food yet always has had that knack herself.

With a rather auspicious 5-hour delay our trip began. The 5 hour delay cost us most of our time in Milan, but it was still fun. We had a great time absorbing the atmosphere and sleeping on linen sheets at the Hotel Regina. For a mere $35, we had an excellent yet simple supper at the Galladiere 50—spaghetti with meat sauce, risotto vin ross, salad, bread, gobs of chocolate (profiteroles) with fruit salad. The waiter was charming and the smiling face he drew with the froth from Mom’s cappuccino revealed his impish character, something that she has not stopped talking about.

The weather has been near perfect - a little crisp, but porcelain blue skies prevail.

Today, we shopped and walked with Woody Allen and Sun Yi Previn in Venice. He is here to do a benefit concert at Theatro Goldini for the Theatro Fenice which burned down a few weeks ago (Woody Allen and his New Orleans Jazz Band - hahaha). We were really just part of the paparazzi, but it was uncanny how he ended up in the same mask shop that we were returning to and how he was staying at the Gritti Palace Hotel, just across the piazza from our hotel (Hotel Ala). Mom faked goosing him as the photographers flashed on. Wouldn’t that make an interesting front page?”

Grief is funny, not haha funny, but peculiar. It can sneak up on you years later, when you think you have accepted the fact that you will never ever be able to talk to or see that person who you loved more than anyone, that person who when they left this world, made you feel like, to paraphrase a passage from Memoirs of a Geisha, a broken vase that even when the bottom is glued back together, will never stand quite right again.

This person for me was my mom.

To paraphrase Ben, I am glad that I had the time with her in Europe that I did. I feel very lucky with that.