On quiet Saturday mornings, when the angle of the sun is sharp, is usually the time I attack my weekend to-do list. Recently I finally came to terms with the unbearably large pile of books, papers, and household bric-a-brac choking off the usable workspace of my desk. Amongst the mélange were several ink pens of which I methodically assessed their usefulness before disposing of the deficient. One pen scratched the test paper with the unapologetic harshness of a desert stone. Upon closer inspection the words Hotel Astor Madeleine confirmed its esteemed provenance. 

In the closeness of the present it is possible to lose sight of the monumental as each day mimics the day prior. Just as the gradual tilt of the earth surreptitiously changes the seasons from year to year, so too does the scrum of daily living disguise the existence of momentous life events. At forty years old I can identify four key moments that changed the course of my life. First, when I joined the military. Second, moving overseas for the first time which put me on the path to meeting my wife. Third, the birth of my son. However, there is one event that precedes these other three. Without it the life I know and enjoy would not exist.  

Growing up in my parents house I was surrounded by information.  The family library was filled with books on science and natural history, atlases containing maps of countries long since disappeared, and histories of peoples and countries of yore. My mother had an incessant need to provide her children the complicated answer to any scientific question, not satisfied with oversimplifications and partial explanations. At one point in his life my father had wanted to become a history professor. Bedtime stories were a mix of the contemporary and the gruesome un-Disney-fied versions of the Grimm’s Fairy Tales. (You know, the ones where Hansel and Gretel push the witch into the oven to escape) Even the artwork on the wall beamed down the complicated history of Old Europe. It was inescapable and ever present.

For a young boy, not yet a teenager, the history seemed too remote. Kings and queens living in palaces, tens of thousands of muscat-wielding grenadiers waging war, the empires won on strength of wooden sailing ships were too long ago and too far away to be real to a kid from Michigan. That is until July 1994 when I accompanied my father on a business trip to Europe. It was my first trip outside of North America and the only time that I’d get to travel with him. Seeds were planted then that would have a profound influence on the rest of my life. 

The trip was only two weeks long, but it took me through Sweden, Germany, and France as my father conducted business in various offices. From the perspective of a twelve year old boy it was like being born again. The buildings looked different, the food was unrecognizable, the languages incomprehensible. It was the first time I ever drank Orangina and ate snails, became aware of European acceptance of nudity in the media, and walked through narrow medieval city streets on stones placed by men that died seven generations ago. 

It was also where I came face-to-face with the Swedish warship Vasa pulled from the mud and placed in a museum, artifacts of East Germany in a Bonn flea market, the Place de la Concorde in Paris, and where King Louis XVI lost his head to the guillotine. It would be too strong a statement to say that I lost my naivety on this trip; it would be more correct to say that the heroes and villains, triumphs and tragedies of the human experience came to life. The distant history instantly became close, tangible, and real.