Every vacation, as beautiful as it may be, is also laced with sadness. It’s not an “in your face”-sadness. Rather, it’s subliminal, lurking beneath the surface until it slowly but surely suffuses even the most picturesque and postcard worthy landscape with its slight grey haze of melancholy.
It doesn’t even have to be the sorrow of the moment. Often, what permeates in the paradisiacal vacation spot setting, be it Southern France, Italy, Greece, or Spain, is loss and hopelessness of times past, newly dredged up by too much time freed up from not having to work and elevated by the contrast to the natural beauty of one’s surroundings.
As I drive through the valleys of Tuscany, I see cypresses, rolling hills, scenic sunsets setting on charming medieval towns. I also see narrow streets strewn with potholes and treacherous corners behind which cars, driving a mind boggling 40 kilometres per hour past the speed limit, can shoot straight at you without a warning.
As I walk through towns like San Gimignano, Volterra, and Montepulciano, it is hard not to imagine public executions taking place on the town square1, and each scoop of gelato I relish brings up the memory of other scoops on another holiday, falling from the cone and adorning the cobblestoned streets like a chopped off head before melting in the sun and running down the hill like blood. I frantically search my pockets for a napkin, wanting to rid myself of the filthy stickiness. I find one and rub my fingers vigorously. They weren’t even sticky to begin with.
As I sit on the terrace, sparkling wine in hand, the tea bags from this morning shrivelling in the ash tray due to the midday sun, I think of all the tea I have bought on previous holidays. One in particular sticks out: “Thé des Poètes” from Het Brugs Theehuis in Bruges, Belgium. I have been back to Bruges several times since first buying this tea and it has always been on top of my to-do list to get more of it. I have resisted to stack up on it, though. I only always buy a 100g bag. It will last me a maximum of two months. Scarcity makes the tea more precious. The branding also plays a role. Whenever I drink a cup, I imagine myself a young Arthur Rimbaud, escaping to Paris in search of new books, or whatever my version of Paris is, only to end up in jail for not being able to pay for the ticket. Drinking a cup of “Thé des Poètes” makes me feel like I belong in a world I have long tentatively sought to be a part of, ashamed and uncertain of myself.
As I put the meat on the barbecue and I keep fanning the flames, embers fly up and fall on my ashen skin. The sun has not done its job yet. Either that or my skin is not receptive to it. Regardless, the fat keeps dripping onto the coal, producing new flames in what is supposed to be embers only. I am afraid I might burn the meat on the surface without it being done on the inside. That’s what happens, when you hasten things. The timing is off. Sweat pours down my forehead and onto the grill and another flame shoots up. Or is it tears? The level of saltiness will be the clue.
I used to want to find things on holiday to gift to other people. That desire has completely left me. Travelling is entirely for myself. Not for others. If I see something I think someone might genuinely like, I will get it, but it’s not really an important point on my to-do list anymore. Gone are the days of jewellery from the market, satchels of lavender, spices, gemstones, candy and the like. It all seems like a chore. I don’t want to do chores on my break.
And so I do chores, cutting my break short. As I clean out the fridge, which has to be emptied in a hurry because an emergency cuts my stay in Tuscany short, I mourn every piece of cheese not eaten, every olive and sun-dried tomato not enjoyed in the shade of the two olive trees just outside the living room. It’s like that at home too. There are always those things you buy with a view to enjoying them at some point. Then, they get buried at the back of the fridge and you forget about them. At some point you decide to clean the fridge, see that they are no longer good and throw them out. I mourn all of those things, all of those pleasures not enjoyed, all of those purposes not fulfilled. My mouth salivates even as I throw them in the garbage.
It’s a fifteen hour drive home. It’s tiring but also it’s a party. It was supposed to be two weeks. It ended up being 5 days. They were intense in their deceleration of pace of living. The drive is a chance to mourn the loss of the second week as well as celebrate the first. It’s also a chance to process the sudden change of reality. As we enter a tunnel, I see a sign above: “Rallentarsi la velocità”. As soon as I see the blue sky again, the speed limit is lifted and I continue towards whatever awaits me ahead, foot leaden on the gas pedal.
Though it is heartening to learn that on 30 November 1786, after 14 years of de facto moratorium, the Grand Duchy of Tuscany effectively became the first modern state to abolish capital punishment, a couple of years before the invention of the guillotine. Rolling heads are thus unlikely to have been a scene familiar to the residents of these cities.
Great Idea to put images in your posts :)