72 hours for the self: a solo birthday travel story
an alternate Mediterranean birthday dive (sept 20th, 2020)
Someone once told me: Your best self is yourself, do what you need to do because of how you think about you. Simple words. Anyone could’ve written them at any time. But If I’d read them at any time, maybe they would’ve just been words. Luckily, someone wrote them to me at the right one.
Mid-September. My birthday dinner with friends was scheduled. Good music, laughs, games, wine and beer, and a planned menu that I would be preparing. Homemade lasagna with courgette, and an Oreo-raspberry cheesecake. But those words were in my head, and deep down, a calling to get out. So I made the decision to cancel the party, decline a friend’s invitation to go on a celebratory weekend road trip, refuse my parents’ plane ticket offer to go meet them in Luxembourg, and buy myself a last-minute flight to Cagliari, Sardegna.
I’d be an imposter if I said it was easy. You see, birthdays never really mattered much to me — until this year. I knew my favourite person in the world wouldn’t call to tell the same story of how she was the second person to hold me when I was born, that she wishes me “muita saúde e que sejas muito feliz”, and hang up with a very loud and spirited “Je t’aime Jêniféré”.
I wouldn’t hear her loving voice making me feel like home. This date would be a reminder of the one thing I haven’t been able to be at peace with since last October. So on account of it, I knew what I needed to do. Leave home, and embark on a quick discomfort zone mission with no itinerary, and 800 Italian XP on Duolingo.
self-portrait in Cagliari, Sardegna (sept 19th, 2020)
People talk a lot about the out of sight, out of mind deal — which to me equals utter bullshit. I believe running away never truly works because eventually, things have a way of catching up. What we can do, is temporarily avoid. But I wasn’t travelling to avoid, I was travelling to face. So when the airplane took off, that’s exactly what happened. All that had built up inside hit me hard and reminded me of how unforgivably painful and relentless grief can be.
Although I am very skeptical about pretty much everything, coincidences have always intrigued me. Likewise — and probably because subconsciously I was on the look — I found some pieces of the puzzle along the way when:
(1) as I was crossing the plaza by the Bastione di St. Remy, the Disney happy, happy birthday song started playing from Antico Caffè, on my birthday
(2) after an emotional night and stressful morning, I found a random 1970 book sitting at the Orto Botanico di Cagliari called La scienza dell’essere e l’arte di vivere
(3) I went to the Museo Archeologico Nazionale di Cagliari and an unforgettable episode took place.
They did not accept cards as ticket payment, so after 3 minutes of awkward dialoguing in my completely nonexistent, aphonic Italian to explain I’d go to a bank and come back later, the woman at the biglietteria very warmly offered me a free pass.
That’s nice. Maybe it’s a sign. Maybe it’s why I ended up here. To be moved by kindness. No, stop. It’s a coincidence. Your grandma isn’t sending you signs to let you know she’s with you although she won’t call. Don’t be an idiot, you’re more rational than that. I thought as I walked down the first aisle of the museum.
Two minutes later, I turned to see the main exhibition description, and:
“A Tabacaria” by Portuguese poet, Fernando Pessoa (1928)
“I am nothing. I will never be nothing. I cannot want to be nothing. Apart from that, I have in me all the dreams of the world”.
My all-time favourite four lines of poetry.
And so, inside an island surrounded by a picturesque body of water, immersed in Italian beauty, and with all the dreams of the world, I remembered that sentence again: do what you need to do because of how you think about you.
I had spoonfuls of delicious gelato di pistaccio while gazing at the towering colourful balconies. I spoke with my hands in a non-classic Italian way, like a heavily drunken person doing the robot dance at a really bad nightclub. I hit a record on “Dov’è il bagno?”, “hai un tavolo per uno?”, and “comprendo ma no parlo” phrase usage. I dived into the warmest and calmest sea I had ever seen in life as the sun funnily set behind me. I felt frustration creep up, as transport issues left me stuck in the city centre, turning my whole trip ambition — to bask in the sun and float on that ethereal sea on my birthday — into nothing but a fantasy. I danced to 50 cent’s in da club, and shamelessly jumped on the bed. I made a menu order faux pas and learned that “cotoletta” is nothing like French côtelette or Portuguese costoleta. I appreciated a fresh Sardinian red lager ambrata on my balcony as I listened to carefree Italians jam to their car radio. I got lost on a train in rural Italy, 17km from the city, 30 minutes before the gate closing time of my flight back home and as I ran towards the airport, I probably surpassed my 800m run personal best. I experienced true human kindness. And passione.
The Spanish have ganas de vivir, Italians have passione. The façades reflect it. The people express it. It’s on the passing smiles of the women on the narrow streets. In the warming “ciao, buonasera” in shops, biglietterias, small caffès. The upbeat “arriverdechi” when you leave. The carefully hung clothes on the window fronts. The nicely organised books in the countless librerias. The nonnas’ expressions as they delicately touch the plants arranged on their tiny balconies. The perfectly composed gelato spheres in a picola coppetta. The elder barista pouring the foam on a freshly made cappuccino. The anarchist graffiti on the walls. The trembling old lady at the entrance of the necropolis, pointing at me and calling me bella. The imposing churches’ architecture. The street musicians’ fingertips, and eyes shut in the flow of playing the guitar, even in broken, rusty English.
Ah, the music… It takes over the streets, especially when it isn’t playing. There is rhythm on the strut of charming donnas and the footsteps of fast-paced businessmen. On the accelerating scooters when the traffic lights turn green. On the eyelid movement when crossing eyes with strangers. On the chanting of a cult preaching their faith across the alleys. On the oscillating sea in the crowded harbour. In the refreshing ichnusa birra bubbling inside a mug. On the the parmegiano reggiano pouring on freshly made culurgiones con ricotta al pomodoro. But most remarkably, it’s on the constant melody in the air from the locals’ parole.
To that rhythm I smiled, cried, doubted, feared, observed, appreciated, loved and allowed myself to be moved, sitting still on the stairs of Via Lodovico Baylle at 11pm on my birthday — songless, voluntarily alone, and waiting on the loving phone call that would never come.
Then and there I was absolutely certain that I did what I had to do because of how I think about me. To prove to myself that I am not the hesitant, self-doubting person I used to be — and that I am strong and able, even when I don’t believe that I am. I invested 72 hours to enrich a self-love quest, absorbed by a culture that perpetually sings. And although I am yet to know their lyrics, I’m sure my heart will forever return to that melody.
So skip traditions, put aside the idea that you must do more to avoid falling short of people’s expectations, say no when you want to say no, learn to be OK in solitude amidst a crowd, invest in yourself, make a spontaneous decision that can lead you somewhere beautiful. Do what you have to do because of how you think about you. Something, anything. Whether it be some hours or even a few days. You just might be surprised at the beauty that awaits. I’m sure that out there in this great big world, there is plenty to love.
nonna at the window in Cagliari, Sadegna (2020)
This piece was originally written in September 24th, 2020.
