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20 A Herald of Change A herald of change came in the form of my former art teacher, Mrs. Klein, at a supermarket. She sensed my general dissatisfaction with life and said, “I have just the thing for you.” “What?” “A tour of Italy and France. Let’s have a talk.” She pulled out a pen and paper from her purse. “Here’s my phone number. Call me.” Mrs. Klein’s Georgian home was nestled in the shade of the Sacred Heart Cathedral whose steeple towers over the skyline of Bendigo. I nervously explained to her the importance of the day when she told that there is more to everything than appearance. “It was an awakening. I’ll never forget it,” I said. “You were much better than my other teachers. You believed in me.” She dismissed my praise with a graceful sweep of her hand. “Why were you so much better?” I persisted. Her expression was one that people reserve for someone worthy of knowing a secret. “I traveled before I was an art teacher,” she said. Her voice was rhythmic. “I made many mistakes. Fell in love and fell out of love. Had many wild times and sad times. Married and had a baby. My husband died. I remarried and divorced. Up and down and up again.” I understood then why she only wore black at school and why she told us that she would write when depressed. Curious, I asked what she did when traveling. With her hands, she gave quick gestures for drinking and smoking. We laughed before she stated, “Enough of me. Let me tell you about the tour.” I saw her ironic smile as she headed for the bookshelf. Out came a thick photo album. She sat beside me on an extravagantly upholstered couch. Inside were photographs of Italy and France. “If you go, this is 142 where you will be going,” she said, pointing to famous sites in Rome, Florence, Venice, and Paris. On her advice, I booked myself a three-week trip starting in early January 1998 thanks to an inheritance I gained from my grandfather. Because England was so close to France, I planned to travel farther and see my relatives who lived in Derbyshire. I pushed my luck by searching the Internet for work as a tutor at a school for the Deaf. Two of three schools didn’t reply, yet one, Court Grange College in Devon, asked for my résum é. The school subsequently accepted me as a tutor, exchanging services for my board. My poor signing skills were a problem, but they agreed that the Deaf environment provided an opportunity to learn. ❖ I had lunch with Dylan shortly before going overseas. We sipped beers on the patio of the student bistro on campus. A pergola covered with grapevine leaves provided us shelter from spotting rain. He said he could hear thunder in the distance. We had recently both handed in our theses and now sat on the edge of a large group of students whose empty beer glasses littered the length of the table. Dylan told me, after eavesdropping for a moment, that they had just completed their last exam. He expressed disappointment when I told him of my apprehension for traveling. “Tell me,” he said after we had drunk three stubbies each, “the Italian names for the following cities: Rome, Naples, Florence, and Venice.” Embarrassed, I told him I only knew Roma. He smiled, saying, “If I were you, I’d be finding out as much as I possibly could about Italy and France. They are beautiful countries.” He leaned toward me. I pulled back, thinking I had offended him somehow. “You’re not listening! Paul,” he implored. “I don’t think you know how lucky you are. Think of all the history, all the churches.” His hands emphasized the message. “You will be walking on the streets Oscar Wilde once walked in. You’re going to Italy! I’d kill to go there.” I began to think I should give him my ticket because he was a devout Catholic, and that I was unworthy of traveling because I was too busy sorting the miasma of my emotions. Dylan cheered me up over the course of our conversation. As he left, he delivered his most poignant message. “I want you to promise me a h e r a l d o f c h a n g e 143 [3.146.105.137] Project MUSE (2024-04...

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