Non-fiction / Travel
This is a guest post by Daria. Please see the author’s links if you enjoyed this piece.
Italy sounds so tasteful on my tongue when I say it; even better when the travel agent across from me does.
He waits for the answer for just a few seconds. I nod. One flight, no return.
We land what feels like a few steps from…
…the shore — a blue stripe stretching out to kiss the sky at the horizon line. It look so intimate between the two of them, but I can’t look away. What a shame I’m heading to the central part of the country where that beautiful deep blue will be long out of sight. What if I could grab the edge of that sea and tie it up to my bus? It would elongate in tow until I reach my destination. Would that be such a crazy thing to do?
I love these tiny towns tucked into folds and creases of Italian mountains. It’s a perfect design. Despite their size, to an outsider, they feel so grand and full of life; like nothing these metropolises I’m used to have to offer will ever come close to the quiet beauty of this.
I can see one of the infinite branches of my life making a turn here — bringing me to one of these old houses with a lush olive and lemon garden. I settle down, having married a fair Italian man, and while we entertain the idea of starting a family, I get to know all ins and outs of an Italian housewife life — planting tomatoes, homemaking pasta and doing all the laundry in the world. tempting. I wake up with the sun and curse through half a day of unbearable humidity, ending it with a serene sunset walk. would that be such an insane life to live?
The bus drops me off at the ancient house with a giant umbrella-like pine hovering over it. With its shabby exterior, the plaster peeling off on all sides, the house looks well-loved and soulful. The garden is even bigger than I imagined, only the flowers have already withered from the heat before they got a chance at meeting me.
I walk in circles, wonderstruck, and memorize the shapes, the cracks, the indentations. This will be my home for the nearest however long.
Italy has an undeniable effect on me. Despite the sharp dewy heat, I can breathe all the way down to my belly for the first time in months. The sun is intense, but so am I; we get along by intimidating each other. I have focaccia mortadella for breakfast with a cup coffee and finish it in the early afternoon on the patio with a glass of wine.
At no point throughout the day do I know precisely what time it is, and I cannot imagine a more liberating experience. Away from spreadsheets, reports and people who cannot even meet my eyes while taking to me. This is different. I’m convinced this is the kind of life everyone secretly craves but excuses themselves with well-accepted rationalities.
Somewhere at the bottom of my duffel bag is the book that I packed with me on this trip, marked at page three. I think it’s called “how to live a glorious life”, and each day spent here gets me wondering whether I could now write it myself.
Late at night I take a stroll downhill alongside dried lavender bushes and look out for the lights of those distant others who share my experience. I wonder if they feel the same. does their heart overflow with peace and bliss as much as mine does, or did they just get used to all of this? I can see myself gazing over the same mountain three or five years down the line and not losing even a little piece of my current wonder.
I am a forever searching type. but what does one do when it seems as though they have found something? Is it even allowed to admit that this might be the destination? If I had anyone to speak to in this town, I would ruthlessly shove every thought down before it could find a way to escape. Who would I even be if I suddenly had nowhere else to run? Satisfied? That feels like an awfully foreign word.
Down at the tavern a sturdy Italian man with a gentle look in his eyes approaches me in my dim corner. An intrusive thought informs me that the stain of my scarlet lipstick would look so appropriate on the side of his white collar. He sets his glass next to mine on the table so they click, and that’s when my heart blares: “This. Is. It.”
With each day, the truth becomes harder to ignore.
Anywhere else, I am a shell of me,
except for here.
The agency emails me inquiring whether I’m going to need a return ticket anytime soon.
Daria is a writer with several works and articles that you can read online at her substack here. Please be sure to check out her other work there if you enjoyed this piece.
Leave a Reply