This Story Should Be A Movie
This is a true story. In March 2020, as New York City fell silent and the world seemingly came to an end, I had no idea that the most extraordinary chapter of my life was about to begin. What follows is a glimpse into the real-life events told in my novel, Roses, a story of love, loss, fate, and a series of unexpected encounters so extraordinary they could have been written for the screen. But they weren't. They actually happened.
Midnight on my rooftop. The city was shrouded in silence, except for the blare of ambulance sirens in the distance. New York City! The city that never sleeps! Until it does.
I had just published my first poetry book and was desperate for inspiration to write another. I needed something to distract my mind from the silent chaos of the world below. Thousands of stars were strewn across the sky. Less people inhabiting the city meant less building lights and without the light pollution shielding the sky, the stars finally had a chance to visibly sparkle over the labyrinth of steel and concrete. It was a very small, good thing that came from the empty city. There was nothing to do but gaze at the sparkling sky and pray. I prayed for the hundreds of lives lost and the millions of lives in fear. For my family and friends. For the world. And then, I prayed for what to do. I wanted a sign that writing a second book was worth it during a global pandemic.
“God, please send me a sign!” I shouted at the sky. The ambulance sirens now rose from the street directly below me, finally defeating the silence, and me, all at once. Whatever.
We were not allowed outside except for brief walks. That never stopped me from wandering aimlessly around the city. The next day, on my routine stroll, I found a rose resting on the sidewalk. I thought nothing of it, other than that I had stumbled upon an unexpected treasure in a very dreary reality. ( It’s the little things in life!)
As the days passed, I began finding roses all around the city in unexpected places. I know what you’re thinking, “If you get something stuck in your head, you’ll find it everywhere.” Not in this case. There were a million thoughts running through my mind at all times, and being that we were in a pandemic, I was transfixed on writing my way out of my anxieties. Yet…the roses continued to show up in peculiar and unplanned situations.
The mystery of it all became a mild obsession. Were they were showing up for a reason? Could they be the sign I prayed for? If so, what do they mean? Is it coincidence? Serendipity? Am I crazy? Are they leading me somewhere? WHAT DO THEY MEAN? The questions were endlessly traipsing through my mind, and I felt insane. There was only one person I could share this phenomenon with to know for sure. My therapist, Dr. Edward Black. Our weekly sessions had become spontaneous Facetime phone calls, as I scattered myself around the empty city.
Much to my surprise, he was wildly amused by the great rose mystery. I was expecting him to tell me I was crazy, but instead he chuckled, “I think its extra…ordinary.” When I asked, “Why do you think they’re showing up?” he replied, “There are simply things in life we cannot explain.” And, when I continually asked what they might mean, he would repeat, “Keep following them and see what happens.”
There was never any actual therapy going on in our sessions, it was mostly random conversation and discussions surrounding the great rose mystery. Throughout the adventure, he continued to serve as a sensible conscious voice, rowdy cheerleader, and silent observer. It made me feel a whole lot better that Dr. Black had expressed no concern about the events that were happening to me. This meant I wasn’t going crazy. To add fuel to the fire, there was one other sign I was chasing, architecture & architects. (For the sake of the story, I’ll leave the details of that one out, but just keep in mind for later in the story.) “Huh, architects and roses,” he mused, “Doesn’t sound that bad to me.”
The days rolled by slowly, and the roses continued to show up as I restlessly wandered around the barren city. Somehow along the way, I had mysteriously developed an odd affinity for The Hunchback of Notre Dame. THE HUNCHBACK OF NOTRE DAME. How in the fu…. I no idea where it came from. It was very strange and completely random, but the Broadway musical soundtrack was the only thing I could listen to. Whilst writing the poems and running into roses, my headphones were blasting the soundtrack.
One day, I found myself on Park Avenue, at the Seagram Building fountains. I thought back to all moments when roses had randomly entered my life. A few years earlier, I was on an evening stroll with a friend who was an artist. We had stumbled upon a sequestered rose garden behind the T.J Maxx on 57th street.
Within the garden, there was a fountain-statue of a woman. Her granite frame extended down into a large, stone-faced bill with flaring nostrils and pointed horns. It protruded from underneath her feet, two ears of corn rested on either side of the bull’s stagnant head, draped around its shoulders like a wreath. The water slowly escaped from its mouth, trickling into the trough below it. On the base of the granite trough, “The Municipal Art Society” was etched into the stone. The entire statue was surrounded by rose bushes and shrubs.
Maybe…the roses were leading me back to that rose park…
When I arrived, I stared up at the statue. I inched closer to the base of the trough and peered my head over to look inside. Pennies of wishes passed, stick, twigs and bugs floated around in the murky water. My foot caught the tiled ground and I stumbled sideways into a bush covering the edge of the fountain. The leaves of the bush were pushed aside, revealing a corner of the statue I’d never been able to see–– a hidden detail that was screaming to be uncovered.
It was a name, engraved in the stone, fading, and lonely. It must’ve gone unseen for years, hidden behind the thick of the rose leaves. Evangeline Wilbour Blashfield. As hastily as I could, I googled her biography:
“……Evangeline Wilbour Blashfeild was a famous author, intellectual, and woman’s rights activist from the 1800’s…. she authored dozens of books, articles, and speeches on art, art history, urban planning, theatre, literature, and the history of women….” My eyes scanned through the profile, “She was originally born in Rhode Island…”
Funny, I’m from Rhode Island too…
“….She was fluent in French and Italian, capable in German, Arabic, and Latin; and a world-class expert on history, art history, literature, architecture and theatre... Her husband, whom she met at dance in Paris, was the famed painter….Edwin Howland Blashfeild. Evangeline and her husband are most notably known for the countless books they authored together. One of their more prominent works, titled Italian Cities. Evangeline was passionate about preserving architecture throughout the city and advocated for the arts. Her and Edwin worked closely with architects, artists, actresses and socialites in New York City. They continued to write books, articles, and speeches centered on the topics…in every joint project, Evangeline had the words and Edwin had the pictures…”
I thought about the artist whom I had visited the park with years before. My poetry and his paintings were so closely aligned around the time we had met, and maybe, this was a sign to collaborate. The similarities in her biography were mind-boggling. It was a distorted window into the past, one that reflected history almost identical to my present. Hmm…
Was this coincidence? Or was it evidently clear that following the roses was supposed to lead me back to the statue? Maybe… I was supposed to discover her story. Noooo, that’s crazy, it MUST be coincidence. I kept reading….
“…Evangeline’s father was also an esteemed man of his time, known for translating screen plays. He worked closely with Victor Hugo…….” My jaw dropped. “… and two of most notable translated works include: Les Misérables and…The Hunchback of Notre Dame.” No way. My eyes trailed up to the statue, horrified and dumfounded. Of course, I called Dr. Black immediately, and his response was simply, “Extraordinary. Everything connects.”
After calling Dr. Black, I decided to go to the St. Patrick’s Cathedral to clear my mind. As I sat in the pew, I couldn’t help but ask God for one more sign, just to sure. The iron door swung open and slammed shut. I glanced up, my eyes landing on the silhouette of a man walking down the aisle. The lighting was mostly dim, aside from the cascade of light that escaped through the intricate stain-glass windows. His silhouette was back lit by the glowing blue and pink rays showering through the multi-colored glass. Everything about him was unidentifiable, except for the slow-moving outline of his body, which provided minimal detail. I could only make out his broad shoulders, short hair, strong, defined arms. He made his way down the aisle, elusive and unaware of my suspicious gaze. I felt oddly compelled to observe his every step. I kept my eyes glued to the moving figure, as it moved in and out of the shadows, in and out of the dancing-colored light, down the aisle toward my row of pews. When he finally passed, I caught a glimpse of his black shorts, splattered in rose patterned fabric. My stunned eyes trailed up his shorts and landed on a big, red rose on the back of his shirt.
Yes. I made him stop so I could take a picture. So, this was real. Now what?
Without hesitation, I called the artist and asked him to illustrate my poetry book. Along with pairing his paintings to my poetry, he ended up painting a portrait for the cover. A few months later, in November of 2020, we released “The Aftermath of Unrest.” A poetic novella that consisted of poems, painting and short stories all about New York City, the pandemic, and the story of roses.
Up until that point, my life had matched Evangeline’s almost perfectly, except for two details: Italy and Secret Art Societies. Both of which, weren’t in my peripheral view for my future. I had never even left the country before. Nonetheless, I decided to get my passport, just in case. Even though the world was riddled with travel restrictions and COVID was still ever present, I’d hoped that going to Europe would someday manifest itself into my reality.
Time ticked on, and the book did well. However, the magic of the matching biography slowly faded. Six months after publishing the book, I received an unexpected phone call from a musician that I had met at an open mic. He was calling to ask me to be the host of secret arts society. My ears perked up. Secret Art Society???? What?!?! He continued pitching the idea through the phone, “this isn’t going to be a normal art show, this one is going to be different”, he said. “This one is going to be designed by an architect.”
Once again, the biography of Evangeline had re-aligned with mine.
Without me even trying.
MAY 2021 – APRIL 2022
The next year was full of surprises, including a spontaneous month-long trip to Hawaii. By this point, I had forgotten all about Evangeline and the roses. My book sales had plummeted, and I was fully enthralled in the world of performance art. I hadn’t spoken to Dr. Black since leaving for Hawaii, and I knew a conversation with him was long over-due. The truth is, I didn’t have the guts to tell him I had forgotten about it. I had given up on all of it. I decided I would call him the moment I got back.
Sadly, that never happened. The week I returned from Hawaii, in December of 2021, I was greeted with a tragic phone call. Dr. Black had passed.
I was devastated. With no destination in mind, I ran up and down through the icy streets of Manhattan. I knew how disappointed he would have been. He never would have let me give up, let alone, run away to Hawaii. He would have told me that my craziness was the key to my success and that there are simply things in life we cannot explain. He wouldn’t have let me accept that the magic had left my life as quickly as it had came. He would have scolded me until I believed again. I failed him. I failed myself. I had gone against the one thing I stood for: Never giving up.
“Why!” I shouted to the sky. “What now!?” The stars twinkled. “What do I do?”
The moment was reminiscent of the night on my roof. The city was eerily silent. The moon was bright against the ebony streets, illuminating the sidewalk and casting a pathway of light for me follow. The streetlamp across from me flickered, redirecting my attention to the other side of the street. It was unnervingly quiet, aside from my muffled sniffles and heavy breathing. A lonely garbage can lay on its side, probably blown over from the icy winds. Stupid broken streetlight. Stupid stars. Stupid sidewalk. I kicked it as hard as I could. Stupid can. My eyes caught something red resting next to the fallen trashcan. I peeked over the open lid. It was the corner of a book. Instinctively, I reached for it. The back of the book cover was bright red with nothing but a black and white image of the author and short description. I turned it over to see the front. My heart stopped. In beautiful cursive script, the embossed title jumped off the cover of the book.
Rose.
The very next day, my company launched a new program, titled, Work Your World. It was the opportunity to work abroad for up to 6 weeks and I knew exactly where I wanted to go: Italy. Unfortunately, it wasn’t on the list of companies being offered. The first country to catch my eye? Portugal. I knew nothing about it, but it was a country that would let me easily jump anywhere in Europe. This was it. I was going to fly to Portugal first, do the program, and then travel to the Italian Cities in Evangeline’s book. With COVID travel restrictions mostly lifted, I was going to dive back into the world of roses. I was going to finish what I started.
MAY 2022
Nothing ever goes as planned, though. The moment I landed in Portugal, everything changed. I fell in love with everything about Lisbon––the language, the people, the food, the energy. It was vibrant. Magnetic. Beautiful. For the first time in a long time, I felt like I was exactly where I was meant to be . This was a feeling I used to have in New York City, before the pandemic had begun. It was a buzzing certainty, a feeling of belonging, the odd and unshakeable sense of home. I was only supposed to spend three weeks there and my flight to Italy was already booked for the first week of June. But, after the first week, I already knew that I was going to return to Portugal. When the time to travel to Italy finally arrived, I was less and less invested in my original plan, and more invested in simply living. I was so happy. For the first time in my entire life, I was chasing nothing. The present was everything I wanted it to be. Still, I needed to see this through.
As I was on the plane to Rome, looking down at Lisbon, I reached into my bag for my copy of Italian Cities only to realize…I had left it in Portugal.
REALLY NATALIE? REALLY? THE WHOLE POINT OF GOING TO EUROPE…OF GOING TO ITALY….AND YOU LEFT THE BOOK? REALLY? All I could was laugh at myself. (If you’re wondering, “Why didn’t you just buy another one?” It’s an antique book! They’re not available online or for immediate order.)
The book was somewhere in Portugal and so was my mind. I gazed out the window and let my thoughts wander over the previous three weeks. So many wonderful people came and went. I thought about the guy I met, It was unexpected and effortless and though I’d probably never see him again…it was one of the best things that could have happened. I thought about Bacalhau, and how I’d probably never be able to pronounce it correctly. The beautiful beaches and beers at parks. Strangers who’d become life-long friends.The endless number of beds in which I slept (I’m talking about air bnb’s, not men, LOL). I reminisced on every damn time I had no idea what anyone was saying. I loved every little thing about Lisbon. There was no thought about where I was going. Italy wasn’t the focal point of my trip anymore. Much more than my mind, my heart was in Portugal, too.
I never would have had that experience if it wasn’t for chasing the roses to Italy! Portugal was only supposed to be the bridge to my true destination! AHHHHHHHH…lesson: Sometimes the catalyst becomes the cornerstone.
As Rome appeared below the window, it hit me...
Maybe, the roses weren’t leading me to Italy. They weren’t leading me anywhere at all. The whole point was the adventure itself. Ah, ladies and gents! Another lesson: IT’S NOT THE DESTINATION, IT’S THE JOURNEY. How cliche. How indefinitely true.
As the plane landed, it was evidently clear: the adventure of chasing roses had finally reached its end. God did answer. He gave me roses, but it was up to me to give them meaning. I created an entire adventure. One that was full of love and life, trials and tribulations, darkness and light, poetry, art, and travel. Lesson: You have the power to create your realty.
All the while, the best part wasn’t success or what I had gained for myself, it was everyone that I met along the way.
Once I landed, there was no reason for being in Italy at all, other than the fact that I was simply there to experience it. Since I had nothing to chase, no purpose to fulfill, no roses or book to follow– I ended up exploring and meeting my wonderful Italian relatives. They didn’t speak any English, and I spoke no Italian, so we relied on Google translate. They showed me Tivoli, a beautiful Italian village outside of Rome. It was an amazing evening, one that I will never forget. Even though we had never met before, family is family, no matter how distant the branches run from the tree or how opposite worlds may seem. Thank you to Elena and Orazio.
In the end, there was no magnificent full-circle ending. All I had was each and every beautiful and simple moment, and that was enough. Lesson: It is always enough to simply live and love.
Call my journey fate, madness, magic or destiny, but one thing is for certain: Nothing went as planned… and it was the greatest thing that ever happened.
Final lesson: Don’t stop if you think it’s not going according to plan. Never f*cking give up, no matter what. Even if things don’t seem to make sense…go with the flow and keep going, let the story unfold, and you’ll eventually end up exactly where you’re supposed to be, sometimes with an entirely new perspective and plan then when you began.
Thank you God for roses and for the adventure of a lifetime. The end is just the beginning, and now, a new adventure awaits.
Aloha nui loa,
Natalie
The Aftermath of Unrest is available worldwide online, in all bookstores online, and through my website shop.
Artist: Grant McGrath. You can view all of the artists work on his instagram @grantmcgrath, or his website.