Turning 37 in the South of France.

France is somewhere I’ve wanted to visit since I was a little girl. In my mind there has always been a fascination with its culture, fashion and design. I’m happy to report, France did not disappoint. There’s always been a little part of me who fantasizes about purchasing a rundown, historic rich villa or chalet and renovating it. Truth be told, I am intimidated by renovations and am pretty sure I am allergic to mold. Maybe I will just allow my fantasy to be what it is.

My late grandmother, whom I was close with growing up, believed we were of French descent. As a young twenty something, knowing nothing of my ancestors, I took on this identity, and tattooed French words on my body. As it would turn out, according to 23andMe, we aren’t French. But I still love the French script inscribed just below my collar bone which reads: Elle respire profondément (she breathes deeply).

My thirty-seventh birthday was approaching, and I thought now would be the perfect time to finally visit the much anticipated France. We chose Marseille, with plans to rent a car and visit Nice and Aix de Provence, as well. Since it is early Spring and off season in the French Rivera, we were able to secure a beautiful Airbnb for a great price.

Last year, on my thirty-sixth birthday, I wrote on Facebook: “This year I will travel more than I ever have.” A self prophesy, something I manifested in every action and thought. Of course at this particular point, I had no idea how I would travel. Nothing about our life in Nashville made it easy to travel. But I could feel a humming; an ache to explore different cultures, meet new people, and see sights I have only previously dreamt of.

My youngest daughter and I play this game while we are walking. We try to name all the places we have visited in the last year. It’s a game of recollection; to hold these memories close, and not allow time to erase them to a fuzzy echo.

In Italy: Positano, Rome, Naples, Polignano a Mare, Monopoli, Gorgeofreddo, Matera, Alberello. In Portugal: Lisbon, Nazaré, Lagos, Sintra, Cascais. Now France: Marseille, Aix de Provence, and Nice.

This past year, I have watched my physical body age into my late thirties. I’d be untruthful if I said it didn’t bother me at all, to be transforming into a new version of myself. Somedays I make an effort to slow it, others I abandon my age to the wind in the name of giving the middle finger to a western standard of beauty and youth.

Pushing onwards towards fourty used to scare me; not just afraid of how I am physically changing, but more afraid of a life un-lived and dreams unfulfilled. But last year I used every last bit of strength in me, and I changed the narrative. Promises were made to myself; swearing my descendants would have a wild story to tell about their grandmother.

Thinking about the exquisite books I’ve read by women, decades older than myself; I think about Ann Patchett’s wisdom to go live more life before you write. I think about Michelle Yeoh, and her Oscar. I think about these women in their 50’s, 60’s and 70’s in the prime of their lives. Youth is just to prelude, the opening act; it sets the stage for what is to come. Art, beauty and the climax, is what follows.

I am in the midst of my story.

Here I am: I’m thirty-seven. My hair has whispers of gray and white, time has left lines sketched gently around my eyes. Bearing two children has left my hips wider, and cellulite permanently on my thighs. A six pound tumor removal and a full thyroidectomy has left deep scars upon my body; memories of pain and resilience. Five tattoos are etched upon my skin; a narrative of an impulsive, carefree, self-learning youth.

Here I am. More powerful, more secure, more adventurous than I have ever been. Spontaneous, empathetic, irreverant, happily introverted. My preference is a book in hand to a night out, and I am not ashamed of this. To get lost in city streets, and hike up cliffs to breathtaking views is what moves me. Admittedly, I know less about much, and more about little. My life has been dedicated to understanding how colors work together, composition and capturing moments in time through my lens. Surrendering myself into a sea of words; I am learning to arrange and compose meanings to communicate through the page. Poetry is my bread. Stories, my revered texts. Watching light dance on horizons, a baptismal.

Gratitude fills me as I think about all the places I have had the privilege of visiting, and all the other lands I have yet to step foot on, but will. There’s people I haven’t met yet; people who will be a gift momentarily, and people who will become permanent pillars in my life. There are books to be written, stories to be told. Time to watch my daughters metamorphism into bold women: my eldest with her artistry and empathy, my youngest with her fire and fearless activism. Walking hand in hand with the love of my life; his steadiness, fingers intertwined with mine, always ready for what’s next.

Grief no longer is making me want to turn the hands of the clock. Rather, I want to embrace all the seconds tick-ticking inside of it.

France was a beautiful thirty-seventh birthday gift. We spent the mornings sitting on side street cafes drinking perfectly brewed coffee’s, earthy matcha’s, and delicious sweet and savory treats. In the afternoons we traveled to other towns and cities, my camera always in my hand. Per usual, we found a Tapa’s restaurant, and frequented it nightly. Patatas bravas, shishito peppers, cheese filled croquettes, mini sausages. We ate French cheese and bread until our fingers were swollen, and too bloated to twist our rings. It was glorious.

The town of Marseille is darling, with its waterfront fisherman vending fish, explosions of colorful flower markets and French blue everywhere. The locals were warm, inviting and fun to converse with. Unfortunately, the waters were a bit too choppy to venture out to the Calenques this time. But it is on our list to come back and hike.

On the Saturday we were there, France was (and still is) in the midst of some turmoil, protesting and marching in the streets at night. Stores had glass broken, and red paint splattered on their windows. During the day, there were smaller, peaceful protests in the square, protesting the war in Ukraine, Palestinians protesting colonization, and Turkish protesting dictatorship. As visitors, we just tried to listen and hopefully learn what was important not only to the French people, but the immigrants who live there, as well. Travel is always an education, and I have found it best to listen to the heartbeat of what is lying beneath; tucked in the corners of how the locals live and what matters to them.

France was the reminder of dreams awakening into life. The things I have visualized from such a young age; traveling, writing, creating art are beginning to manifest. Where I can touch, taste and feel them. The passage of time is a beautiful thing; watching auras of longings become palpable. Never will I take these moments for granted.

Love,

-Mandy In Lisbon

All photos are copyright of Mandy Hanson Reid, outside of the first photo of herself. Do not use without permission. Several of the photos featured are available for download or fine art physical prints on Etsy. Travel Manifesto x Mandy in Lisbon t-shirts will be returning to the shop soon.

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