my happy place

When I try to think of where I have felt the happiest in my life, my mind glides over so many possible places. 

 

Could it be the palace in Rome where I spent four of my earliest years?  The marble winding stairway, the echoing hallways, the magnificent paintings on the ceilings, and statues decorating the entire palace?  

 

Was it the cliffs and caves in Chong Qing where I went to play my imaginary games when I wanted to be alone? 

 

Was it high up on the mulberry tree that overlooked the Franciscan Monastery in DC when I sat eating the ripe fruit and surveying the landscape?  

 

Or maybe it was on the stage, dancing with the Broadway cast of “The King and I”, and earning real money so I could afford to attend college.

 

Perhaps it was in Salzburg, wandering in the woods with my husband, Ray, where Mozart wrote his Magic Flute, and the fragrance of the spring blossoms filled the air while English robins sang their morning songs. 

 

It could be that it was riding my champion barrel racing horse over the expansive prairie in North Dakota, galloping over the wildflowers of varied hues. 

 

Another alternative is climbing up and down the staircases in The Alhambra in Granada, taking in the intricate architecture and gardens of the Arab world, while holding my second husband Bob’s hand. 

 

In theory, it should be my classroom, where every single day of my 44 years of teaching, I was astounded by the unique ideas and questions of my beloved students. I marveled at how their minds worked.

 

The reality is, though, that none of these make me so thoroughly and completely happy as soaking in scalding hot water in my bathtub.

 

The first baths I can remember were in Shanghai. Our house had running cold water, and once a week my parents paid dearly for men carrying heavy large metal canisters of hot water hanging from bamboo poles on their shoulders. Three or four men marched into our bathroom to fill the tub. First, my dad bathed, then my mother. Next my brother, the youngest, but because he was a boy, he ranked next. Then, my older sister washed. I was the last. But by then, the water was cold and soapy and scummy.

 

When I arrived in America at the age of 11 and had my first bath in HOT, CLEAN water, I thought I was in heaven. Ever since then, bathing in hot water filled to the very top of the tub, leaning back and just lying there, has brought me true happiness. I can rest there and relax. Nowhere else do I feel so luxurious, so privileged, so lucky as in the warm water.  My mind is startlingly clear, and I find that my best ideas come to me while I’m there. The bathroom is steamy and quiet, and sometimes, I wind up my little bath toys to splash around me or float the rubber duckies that flash little lights as they skim across the water. I realize that maybe I’m too old at age 83 to play with windup toys in the tub, but no one is there to judge or make fun of me.

 

A hot bath is truly my happy place.