Springtime bloomed around me, pink and bright. Soft white petals were adrift on the warm afternoon breeze, slanted April sunlight glanced off my cheek. The city, too, was magnificent. Looming buildings decorated with artifice and care, streets paved with stone – the greenery only added to the majesty. The botanical gardens unfurled before me, rolling with colour and life. A man was humming quietly to himself on a nearby bench. It sounded romantic, sort of high and yellow like those sweet, bright tulips. I lost myself in the sprawl of Paris for a time, eyes permanently glued upwards. My latte was perfectly rich and sweet, the air was warm and clear. It was an idyllic day.
Still, there was something missing. Even amidst all its splendorous sights, the city held no memory. The echoes of a previous trip came to me in moments: that distinctive intersection, a particular building, or the crêpe shop on Île Saint-Louis. But mostly the streets felt empty. They didn’t evoke much feeling at all. It took me time to understand the vacant feeling in my chest. I was awestruck, certainly. Yet the lack of memory felt striking. I began to think, how can I feel nothing for a city as beautiful as Paris? What is it that really makes a place?
At some point, I wandered into a ceramics shop, packed with a zorn palette of creatures large and small: frogs with gazes turned towards the sky, cats in raincoats standing in terrified anticipation. Reds, yellows, whites, and greens; they clinked and rattled as my steps shook the floor. There was something warm and deep about this room – I felt their eyes upon me as I ran my hand across their glazed and sculpted forms. Cluttered and cramped, it felt a bit like home. The shopkeeper told me that they made the pieces just upstairs, and that it had been her passion project for the past decade. There was character to that room. The bright colours and careless arrangement; everything was exactly where it should have been.
I think that places are made. Natural beauty, grand architecture – they’re all important, but they only go so far. Places are formed from memories etched into streets, from ghosts which dwell in between moments. They’re shaped by the dreams and aspirations which have been poured into quiet, hidden hollows, like that shop in Paris. I think of cities I’ve called home: Philadelphia, Providence, Oxford. Each holds a different version of myself.
In Philadelphia, passing through the square by the fountain conjures our laughing voices in the dark – eyes straining towards the starry sky, trying to catch a glimpse of Jupiter. I remember lying down in the early dawn light, laughing at Perry’s blue van, and the telescope he could never seem to place just right. I feel full and warm, lingering in that park where I had my first date. For me, that was the essence of springtime: eating iced treats, just nervous enough to be unsure of where to put our hands. The eventual clasp of his fingers in mine, his shining brown eyes and the cherry blossoms which were just beginning to flower.
In Providence, the walk to our café was always carefree; sunlit pilgrimages to warm pastries full of flashcards and gossip. The main green usually ripples in the autumn light – full of familiar faces, music, and games. I picture lying on a blanket among people I care for deeply, and watching the afternoon slip by. The pool holds my highest highs and the depths of my sadness: each emotion picked through relentlessly in between sets. His apartment – learning one esoteric ancient language or another, in between trips to the pizza shop next door. We must have talked until the store closed. Each building holds a different subject I studied in the early hours of the morning, a different coffee which carried me through the term.
Even Oxford holds memories, now. Walks from Lincoln, Brasenose, or Balliol accommodation at 3 a.m. after a particularly spirited afters, tracing the well-worn path to my room down by the river. Drawing ridiculous caricatures on menus, somehow turning a Wetherspoons into a site of great sacredness. Debriefs in our coffee shop, sipping lavender-infused drinks and refusing to get any revision done. Then there’s the late nights in the Schwarzmann, spinning on stools underneath that unblinking eye, and telling secrets in the dark.
It hit me when I walked down Cornmarket for the first time since the vac: the weight of all of these memories. Oxford has always had grand architecture, peaceful paths down by the river, and whispering meadows. But in the beginning, it had not been made yet. Not for me, at least. It felt empty. Full of possibility, sure, but vacant. Now, going into Trinity, I feel the strength of each emotion, each recollection. To be made is to be remembered, filled with personhood and character. That shop in Paris was made, shaped from the weight of passion and care. Philadelphia and Providence were made by the people and places which matter to me. Oxford has been made by all of these things, good and bad. I feel every moment as if I am living it again. Perhaps that is what it means to make a place.
