The Purple Wallet

When I was seventeen, I worked as a cashier at a grocery store in my hometown. I was friendly, and efficient, and I took pride in my line moving faster than anyone else’s. I still made time to connect with as many customers as I could in a day. One day, a woman came through my till and when it was time to pay, she took out a beautiful, pink leather wallet. I gasped.

“Where did you get that?” I asked.
She smiled. “I got it in Paris,'“ she said.

I was in awe. As a teenager from a small Island on the West Coast of Canada, I had of course daydreamed of going abroad, having adventures in foreign places. Meeting colourful people and having life changing experiences. Europe was such a foreign place to me then. I had been to England once, which was fantastic. But Paris. Years of seeing the Eiffel Tower in movies, on posters, of hearing about French romance and daydreaming of walking in those historic places, of looking at the skyline from 300m above. Of the art, the language, the significance. They were all there, in that pink wallet.

The woman told me about where she had gotten the wallet, and how special it was to her. She carried with her this place, this experience, and it reminded her of travel and likely a myriad of other memories associated with her time in Paris. Plus, as she pointed out, she loved being able to say things like “I got it in Paris.” In that moment, I vowed that someday I would go to Paris, and I would buy myself a wallet, and bring it home and treat it with the same such reverence.

As you can probably guess, that is exactly what I did.

When I was twenty years old and in my fourth year of University, I was lucky enough to go on an international exchange for a semester. This was 100% made possible because of my Father. I remember attending the information session about it, and then telling him about the opportunity, with no expectations in my mind. He said he would like to make it happen for me. I did the application, interviewed for a spot, and got it. He booked my flights, sent me with his credit card, and did all he could to support me the whole time I was there, including being my international Skype counsellor when I was feeling upset or lonely. I never would have been there without him. I was, and I am, so, so, grateful.

It was only 4 months, but it was, as I’d hoped, life changing. I can’t go into all the details, because every second weekend there could be a short story in itself. I still remember arriving at the school, in Louvain la Neuve (LLN), Belgium. I had been visiting a friend in England the day before, and I was exhausted. I had very little idea where anything was, and I spoke almost no French. I found my way to someone who was expecting me, and got set up with my apartment, my class schedule, at least the basics of school. I sat in my bedroom, with it’s beige, vinyl covered mattress and thick blue metal frame. I had a plain grey desk and wardrobe, and a sink in my room, which I thought very odd, although convenient. That was it. I was one of four rooms, and none of the other occupants had arrived yet.

I had only packed a small suitcase of clothing, not wanting to haul household items across the Atlantic. I knew I needed to get at least items that would allow me to eat, shower, and sleep. I went to the mall, and to Hema, a store that was a little like a Homesense. I got all the basics for one person and hauled them back to my apartment. I remember lying down on in a pile of new sheets and a cheap duvet, and falling asleep without making the bed. I woke up a few hours later. I sat in my now dark room and thought about where I was. I felt exhilarated, and scared. I felt adventurous and alone. And it felt surreal. To be in this new place, on a different continent. Who was I to deserve this? I’m not sure I consciously thought that, but I know I was grateful, and excited, and had no idea what to expect.

The next day, I got a bank account and a cell phone. While I was figuring out the cheapest possible combination of phone and cell plan, Karen walked in. Karen was the other girl form my University assigned to Belgium. Thankfully I had introduced myself once before otherwise I wouldn’t have even known it was her. That day we were essentially strangers. My friendship with Karen now, is a whole lifetime of stories that I will save for another day. However, she does come up again, so now you know who she is.

Our first week, that day even, we met several other exchange students whom we would travel with in different combinations to many places over the course of the semester. Our first few trips we decided would be to Brussels (only a quick train ride away), London (“If anyone can understand me, please help us.”), and Paris. I decided quickly that I would go essentially anywhere the group wanted to visit. I had never been anywhere (except London, which I already loved), so I was happy to go anywhere. Paris was the big one though. It was iconic.

I had nothing to do with the planning of the trip. Many of you who are close with me now may be confused to learn that pretty much the entire time I was abroad, I had nothing to do with the planning of anything. Emilie (petit legumes), our American friend, kept our Visas and Passport numbers on file and we ‘let’ her book everything. I was grateful to be along for the ride. Plus, at that point I had never planned anything outside of my comfort zone, and I was and still am horrendous with maps, and we didn’t have smart phones. I am happy to have two European trips under my belt now 100% planned by me, so I would have confidence in planning a trip anywhere now (provided I could either have access to GPS or someone else to read a map along with me).

We were only in Paris for 4 days. We hit the highlights. The Louvre, the Arc de Triomphe, the Champs-Élysées, the Effiel Tower, The Musée d’Orsay, Notre Dame, the Opera House. We moved accommodations to Monmantre and saw the Moulin Rouge and Sacré-Coeur. We ate a lot of heavy food, and drank cheap wine and good coffee. We went to a night club that was underground, and I French-kissed a French boy.

One day, several of us wanted to do different things. So we split up and agreed to meet for dinner in a few hours. Karen and I wanted to shop. I don’t know where we were, except that is it was close to the Opera House. I was on a mission to get my wallet. I don’t know how we found a leather shop, because none of us had smart phones, but we found Frederic T. They had bags and wallets and belts. I figured this was the place. If you look it up now, you learn the passion for leather making was passed down, father to son, for three generations, so it’s nice to know it has a family history.

Now, at the time, I didn’t have any particular sense of style. I’d like to think I’ve matured a little from then, but when I was younger, whatever I could afford and fit into, and was relatively stylish, I went for. Also, my favourite colour was purple. If I had to pick one now, I think I’d be back into the reds. The deep wine reds. However, that was not the case then. I thought of that pink wallet, and how noticeable it was, and I figured a colour was the way to go, that purple and I would never go our separate ways. I remember the way the leather felt in my hands as I held the wallet. It was so soft, and smooth, and big. I would never have had a use for a wallet with that many places for cards, cash, coins, and receipts at that point in my life. It came in a silver box, which I still have. I knew, this was going to be my adult wallet. It was going to be special.

After getting the wallet, we stumbled upon a perfume shop called Penhaligon’s. It was an ethereal place. Originally a London based company, they told us they had been making perfume for the royal family for many years back. Karen and I spent a long time admiring the bottles, and of course the scents. We both settled on a set with 5 tiny bottles that gave us a sampling of the different types of scents they had. It came in a small round box like a hat box, with a little round spot for each of the bottles to sit. Some were floral, some were heady and rich. They made me feel like I was taking home a little of the essence of Europe. They made me feel royal.

We returned to Belgium with our purchases and our memories, and went on many other splendid adventures, tackling the challenges that come with being away from home, learning a second language, and schooling abroad. I experienced real homesickness for the first time. Home, was never something I felt particularly attached to when I was that age, or so I thought. It was a place I had escaped from, not a place I visited often. Turns out, even if home in the traditional sense was not something I knew how to yearn for, I did miss familiarity. I remember being surprised, and lonely. I was still learning how to be secure on my own then. How to spend time with myself, how to love myself. I am glad that I didn’t then know how much work was ahead; I may have been overwhelmed. I am grateful for the lessons living abroad taught me, in self-love and in other areas. It was an invaluable time.

The town we lived in is still one of the strangest places I have ever been. Built around the University, it was a bizarre combination of everyday people running coffee shops and grocery stores, and working at regular jobs, and students who had seemingly no respect for the city or their bodies most of the time. I doubt I will ever go back there. I carry it with me everywhere though. The second tattoo I got was the longitude and latitude coordinates of the city square of LLN. They are in a single line along the outside of my right foot. Karen has a matching one. We got them together, in Vancouver, on one of her visits to me when she lived in Calgary. We now, and forever, will carry a piece of that place, that time, and each other with us always. Although even without it, we always do.

For some reason, when I did return home to Canada, I put the wallet away. For years, it stayed in it’s box, then I took it out and stored it on it’s own. I’m not sure when, but at some point, probably after the fifth or sixth time I had moved it without using it, I decided it was going to be the wallet I would use when I was 30. At that time, that probably felt like a significant, adult age, when I would have more cards and need all the spots in the wallet.  I am 30 now. So a few months ago, I got out the wallet, cleaned out the items I had stored in it over the years (except the pennies, those stayed), and transferred my cards into it’s slots.

Now, here is the thing. I have changed over the last 10 years. I have learned to love myself, I have discovered more about what I am good at, passionate about, and who I value spending my time with. My style has also changed. Only a few years ago even, I was still rocking brightly coloured spandex tank tops and lycra leggings everyday. They are still in my drawers, but they make less and less of an appearance, especially outside of summer time. I opt now for a neutral palette, and it is not uncommon for me to be dressed head to toe in black, with an accent of brown or white. My purse is black with brown accents. My laptop bag is dark grey with the same brown accents. All my outerwear is black. So, one would think it would only make sense to have a black wallet to match. But I don’t have a black wallet, I have a purple wallet. In my twenties, when I was rarely found without at least one vibrant colour in my outfit, having a purple wallet would have made sense. Now, it feels a little silly, juvenile even. The purple isn’t neon, and the wallet style is still simple and timeless. But pulling it out of my purse, or carrying it through the grocery store doesn’t have that same weight to it that I dreamt it would, a decade ago.

 So what now? I have saved this wallet for 10 years. I’m not going to give it up. But it doesn’t match my style. What is more important to me: the coordination of every outfit I am wearing, or the prospect of carrying around the memories associated with this precious item? Jury is still out. For now, I am using the wallet. And you know what – I do use all the card slots and compartments. I have room for change, cash, all my ID and credit cards, membership cards, receipts of various types. It is nice to have them organized instead of stuffed into something too small.

I have learned multiple lessons from this wallet. One, is don’t be too precious with things. Well, I’ve sort of learned it anyways. I remember when we got our perfume, Karen wore some that night, and several times after that while we were still abroad. She had already learned this lesson. I, I am obviously still learning it. I still have the perfume, all 5 bottles. None of them are even halfway used. I imagine in my new house, the one we are planning to build over the next few years, that I will have a special shelf that I can line them up along, so that I will wear them more. Still waiting, still being precious. The wallet plan, yes, sort of backfired. If I had just started using the wallet ten years ago, it’s not like It would have been worn out by now, but I would have had nearly a decade of enjoyment out of something I loved when I chose it, and I would have avoided the disappointment in it’s colour I felt when I started using the purple wallet. I am happy to have it now. It still smells like leather, and reminds me vividly of that day I bought it, with such intention. But it is now also a reminder to live your life in the moment. It is happening now. I used to see people with those shirts that said “Life is not a dress rehearsal” (because I was a theatre kid). And it’s true. Burn that special candle, eat the fancy chocolate, wear the expensive dress you are saving because if you wait for the ‘right time’ it may slip by you altogether.

I also learned - something nearly to the opposite – that it’s ok to be nostalgic. Colour aside, I love the memories that this wallet brings me. It is a little part of me, of my development as a human.

I am the keeper of concert tickets, letters, cards, the writer of stories and maker of photo albums. Who am I doing this all for? Who is it I think will be fascinated by the tales and trinkets of my life? Well, my future children maybe, but more honestly I do it for my future self. Every once in awhile, either when I come across things in a frenzy of organizing or when I just feel like opening up a box, you can find me surrounded by piles of the items of my past, absorbed in their contents. I will spend hours reliving things. I love stories, even if they are my own. One of my biggest wishes is that I had more of them, better ones. That’s perhaps why I write. I don’t spend nearly enough time with the creative, fictional characters that live in my brain. I feel like they are a part of my nostalgia – ideas that I have been saving, that I spend time with on occasion. Not really the definition of being nostalgic, but in my own way, a part of it. Just reminiscing now makes me feel that familiar warmth of nostalgia.

I still feel like if you are visiting an amazing place away from home and that you wish to have a memento from, you should feel comfortable getting something significant. I have purchased things like a leather belt from Florence, Italy, a city that smelled of leather for blocks, a Swiss army knife from Switzerland, perfume from Paris, a wooden vase made from the giant redwoods of California, and books of European authorship from several cities. There are lots of other significant places I have been that I don’t have an item from, which is ok too. I don’t want to live beyond my needs or become a (total) pack-rat. My husband and I started collecting postcards from everywhere we visit, which is less encumber-some than a collection of objects, and not as tacky as magnets. We also started collecting small, handmade bowls from specific places, sort of by accident. And only if we find one we really like, and only if transporting it home isn’t going to be too logistically challenging.

(I can tell you now – if you buy something that is good quality, leather especially, and you take care with it, it will last a very, very long time. I know because instead of using the purple wallet for the last decade, I used a small black leather Coach coin purse that I bought consignment in a small shop in Vancouver the first few weeks I lived there. And it has stood the test of a decade or so of use very well. I love it still.)

I have been to Paris again, visited most if not all of the same places, walked the same streets. This time with my now husband. It was on our first big trip together. It was also one of the first big European cities I was visiting for the second time, and observing someone else experience the awe of being in a new, historic, and dream-like place.

In the broad sense of the world, I haven’t travelled much. Europe has been where I have flown to most. I look forward to someday making it to Asia, Africa, and South America, and hopefully finding the magic of visiting somewhere totally different than my home again. And bringing a little piece of it back with me, even if just in a memory and a post-card.

 Thanks for joining me on this trip down memory lane. I hope someday, to hear your stories in return.