Rivers and Roads

Rivers and Roads

We've been here a moment, in this city for a few more. We started the day with shops and beautiful buildings, the Calanques mountains just beyond, and the Marina of the Vieux Port right at our toes. The food has been tested, seafood fresh from the sea and gelato worth the stomach ache. Architecture here has held up for years beyond what I'm used to.

The country I'm from has been colonised for only half the life of the youngest buildings here. Designs scratched in stone structures that will forever surpass glass and steel buildings that compete in height. I'm trying to think of a comparison but this is only the beginning of our exploration, I'm not sure anything I know so far could do this justice.

It's hard to write, to focus, narrow your mind when you're here. Even when you've memorised the scenery you can't seem to look away. Trying to drown in every little detail, every movement of those who are lucky enough to live here, even those visiting just a heartbeat longer than you.

A boat is pulling in, a tiny sail and wine bottles docking. Another follows, a successful day of fishing to the men that climb out. There is a family running away from the rain and a couple walking and enjoying it. The sky doesn't show the sun but all the buildings seem to shine the same as a sunny day, the spirit of the city beaming through.

My sister is beside me now, had been a German and an Aussie before that. Their names are lost, but their faces will always be familiar, forever joining us in dreams and stories of the coast. We started the day with the sun but sit here a bit ripe, savouring the hike in every sense, wishing the rain hadn't cut us short. The rain tries to pay us back, tries to clean us. The small balcony pushes us toward the water and heat of the midday. No one minds us though, people spilled about the hostel's living area enjoying each other by themselves. There doesn't seem to be the need for conversation, an agreed contentment with the sounds of the city.

My sister's found a guitar, to no surprise, plucking mindlessly at the strings. Her rusty French has been cleaning itself up a bit throughout our days here. The hostel volunteers don't mind and are pleased with her trying, digging through bins and storage to find the instrument for her.

"This is a Spanish guitar," she hums, I'd barely been paying any attention to her "It's meant for fingerpicking." I hadn't known, but watch as she tries to adjust to the string distance. There's nothing else said, my pen taps against a new notebook I didn't need as we just sit with one another. Just sit.

A breeze comes and the rain stops, just like that. As quickly as it had come it's gone and the sun is smiling at us. The smell of asphalt is strong, mixed with whatever is being cooked in the kitchen over my shoulder. It's a home away from home. All of us family, already missing those that left this morning but ready to welcome new faces that will fill the empty beds. It's happiness here, and the city opens for dinner below us.

More boats pull in, my sister starts to sing. I believe she gets ill when music is absent from her life for too long. Fingers itchy and throat sore until she can play for a moment, any song to get her feeling a bit better. She starts with a song I used to be sick of, a piece she used to practice around the clock until our house was humming about rivers and roads, but today it sounds nice.

Others scoot in closer, her mind unaware as I watch the crowd move toward the glass sliding doors behind us. I pull the door open a bit more, but she doesn't mind, always the child that thrived on attention. She takes song requests next, leaning into the wall to face me, allowing the sound to better reach her audience but doesn't turn her back to the view we aren't stupid enough to ignore.

A girl from Portugal asks for something by Paramore, a Spaniard lining up a song by The Beatles. My sister's a jukebox for the evening, it's a career she chose to study and a life she dreams to live.

Others ask me about her, about my own—nonexistent—musical abilities, if there are any songs I love or hate, and where we are coming from. Where are we coming from?

It's been three years of fast paced bonding. We, as a family, don't like wasting time and we have plenty to catch up on. After 7 years of radio silence, there was the sound of static. Sisters finally allow personal narratives to mingle, pushing out external affairs that blur and contradict our stories.

We've thrown words at each other our whole lives but now we are handing them over with care. We think through what we are saying and actually open our ears to the other. We aren't attacking each other anymore, but trying hard to explain.

She's older, knows more—paid attention more—but had less patience. I've lived with blinders on and a lack of will to take them off. We find our rhythm though. Her tone changing from condescending to informing, while I try to find my truth and word it for her. It's a memory game, a matchmaking puzzle.

We are coming from the same house but two different homes. We are coming from typical sister fights to verbal and physical battles. We came from Chicago, Nashville, and Saint Louis. We came from hate and buried love.

"We started in London, but we were just in Paris."