Tag: travel diary

City

CORNERS, JOURNAL, TRAVEL September 7, 2018

After 10 weeks,

Max and me decided to leave the tropics and move back to the city.

 

The rhythm is faster,

the noises louder,

the people different.

 

 

We found a place in Surry Hills

– little residential corner just below where the skyscrapers and the bus lanes collide.

 

 

There’s a supermarket down the road where I stop by in the morning

                                                                                     to get almond croissants,

 

a park with a rugby pitch in the middle

and a bottle shop a few steps away.

 

 

There’s no heating, the fridge is often empty and the stairs are steep,

      but it feels good to have a place to call home.

 

 

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This island I call home

JOURNAL August 15, 2018

After three months on this island I call home,

I see how lightheartedly I left home and all things I could trace by heart under my fingertips,

landed on the other side of the world to untangle my collection of knots,

and gave myself a one-year-long break from growing up, snoozing alarms and expensive pilates classes.

 

 

I’ve finally realised that you don’t need to have it all figured out yet,

that if you want to go from A to B, you don’t necessarily have to go through the paved path, that it’s o.k. to stumble into wrong jobs,

long-term hostel stays

and people who won’t stick around.

 

 

 

So here’s to another handful of months of temporary jobs, cereals for dinner and

late nights spent booking flights.

 

Here’s to giving myself another shot to prove myself wrong,

because maybe,

after all,

not all things are meant to be the way you were taught. 

 

Because maybe,

after all,

you can change the flow of your days and find your way to reach point B

whatever,

wherever,

whoever

that is.

 

 

 

It can be fun letting go of right and wrong, a stable income and a balanced diet,

and trust your guts.

 

 

You may end up in the right place

 

at the right time.

 

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10 Days In

CORNERS, JOURNAL, TRAVEL May 16, 2018

Moving to Australia is definitely one of the most bat-shit crazy ideas

I’ve ever had the guts to follow.

10 days in,

I’m still living in a hostel,

picking the combination of clothes out of the suitcase sitting in the corner of this room,

while the girl sleeping on the bottom bed is still in her dress from yesterday’s night

and the 40-year-old man is half drunk from his unplanned pub crawl.

And despite the air chilling my bones,

the $12 for a drink and still getting lost around these streets,

the thought of being on the other side of the world doesn’t feel so scary

if you find your bunch of people to talk to on a balcony,

all things light like how you like your tea or if it’s okay to wear slippers to go out, tv series and learning to find your balance.

So here I find myself,

leaving the thought that flying halfway across the world wasn’t a matter of stubbornness,

but the evolution of me turning into me,

scratches

and bad habits

and tattoos

and questionable taste in late night music altogether.

10 days in and I can’t say I feel at home,

but a step closer to how I’ve always liked to things to be.

It’s mad how comfortable you can feel around people you’ve only shared

a handful of days with.

 

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Friends will be Friends

JOURNAL April 30, 2018

I don’t know with mathematic certainty

or fortune-teller’s accuracy

when this need for popping the bubble I’ve been living in started

 

– indomitable thought that there’s something more, out there,

something different from the mould I’ve known.

 

 

But for some combination of inexplicable reasons I can’t call by a name

and these selfish dreams of mine,

stubbornly stuck in the upsidedown way I see the world,

like a messy succession of impulsive moves and the inevitable coming to familiar conclusions and tastes.

 

 

But I often found myself piling up thoughts and locking them

in a drawer I’d forget about,

opting for the usual jeans, the usual sentences that don’t let show

that perpetual veil of days with no risks, but forever lacking a bit of salt.

 

 

Fuck it to the stillness of the flow,

time diluted in lukewarm relationships and orgasms let halfway,

articulated in grey skies and mid-season jackets.

 

 

So I bought that plane ticket I was terrified to buy.

And I came to the conclusion that maybe it’s hard for me to buy the idea that I deserve better than this foreplay games I’ve been playing

to keep me distracted

and my days filled.

 

That maybe there’s more than days lacking salt and common places.

That maybe it’s not too bad to fall into the mud of If’s and But’s.

That maybe this mould of life without unexpected turns and tough lessons isn’t as bad as I’ve pictured it.

 

 

And so I took a run,

and started to believe that maybe the emptiness under my feet when the sea gets deep isn’t that scary if you turn it upside down.

If I think that not knowing what’s waiting for me out there, where others haven’t swum so far, can be the best gift I could give myself.

 

 

So here I find myself,

laying for the last night in my bed

– knowing by heart the voice I make when I cry

and the way I sing when nobody’s listening.

 

Ready to take a deep breath and see it by myself,

what the hell is waiting for me there where my eyes can’t see.

 

The things that scare me the most are also the things that make me the happiest.

 

Who knows what’s hiding where people don’t have the guts to swim,

where some don’t find the heart to come back from.

 

 

Europe’s been the perfect playground,

Australia I’m coming for you.

 

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No good at keeping secrets

JOURNAL April 23, 2018

And maybe one night

when the air starts to feel warmer

we’ll all end up with glasses of discounted wine in our hands, climbing stairs to a rooftop

and olive stones crumpled up in white napkins

 

 

Like our talks on getting your skin inked without planning it,

long road trips

and real good friends you won’t see in years

 

– too wide for our eye bags filled with sleep to redeem and money to buy our summers of getaways to talk about on those city rooftops.

 

 

And maybe we’ll all end up wandering with no deadline,

leaving the office filling our days to give them all a fil rouge to follow,

some sort of bad excuse to hold tight to when having breakfast on a weekend with people curious about your way of phrasing your purpose, now and here.

 

 

 

Here’s to train rides with the sun setting fire to the sky of an April morning,

a man playing with a game boy on the seat next to mine,

the quiet promise of a flight booked in the secrecy of the night – not a word with anyone but your circle of trust and some strangers met along the way of those last days in your mother town.

 

 

Here’s to flights to be on time for,

months of improvisation and watering yourself along the way – it’s important to keep your curiosity alive and your roots well tied.

 

 

Here’s to days passing by without making much noise,

without weighing your body changing with landscapes outside the window of a house that you’ll make home in a new neighbourhood,

to the people to let out and those who’ll swing by and to those who’ll stay a while longer,

even when the glasses are empty and the clothes stained

with the scars you tried to hide.

 

 

Here’s to the stories to weave in yours,

and arms to fit in,

without losing the fil rouge you’ve been searching for in this tangle of thoughts you crafted in those times spent pondering and getting all wrapped up into it,

 

letting that fucking fil rouge slip from your fingers

– because too cautious,

because too scared to seek what you deserve.

 

 

Here’s to coffee paid with coins weighing in the pocket of your jeans,

falling into tiny bad habits to use as icebreakers

in hostels in the outskirts of unknown cities,

 

to the nights alone and those spent tracing new shapes and skins and voices in the space of a caress,

to burn them onto your mind and carry with you along the way.

 

Here’s to another glass emptied in your lungs craving for some fresh air,

the one you’ve been trying to swab with stories in mid-air and uncultivated love stories.

 

 

 

Here I find myself,

with a ticket bought in the secrecy of a midweek night,

 

holding tight to the promise I made to my 18-year-old self  of trusting this fil rouge

found right where I knew I’d find it,

within me.

 

 

I can’t wait to go get what this crazy ass world has to offer.

 

 

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Throw me a Bone

JOURNAL March 30, 2018

A song I play quite often goes like this

” Throw me a bone,

Don’t be scared of what you don’t already know “

And I wasn’t quite sure how to interpret it,

at first sight, it sounds like something trivial.

Over time and with all that’s come through in between,

well,

this doozy started to make a real nice sense.

And the sense it started to make has a pinch of melancholy within,

especially to someone like me –

who weighs words and commas and all the smallest details.

I’ve dreamt about this faraway land.

pictured it in the tiniest of details,

from the disposition of plants in the house

to how long it’d take me to get to the beach.

Stupid little things, you may think,

My happy places, I dream.

But for some reason, I don’t seem to grasp, that I don’t seem to baptize.

Here I am, still picturing it in its details,

this far away land,

repeating myself to sleep that maybe there’s no need to fly to the other side of this world to find myself at home,

to find my way to the balance I crave.

That it’s not the view from my window or the shades of the sand under my bare feet that’ll make me happier.

That what I need is already within me.

Some fucking where, flooded under these piles of freedom thoughts

and idealizations.

And so I distract myself with simple things

like weekend getaways,

restaurant dinners on Fridays

and subtle vices

– to swab this thirst of mine I don’t find the guts to shush

nor to water.

But then I think to myself that damn yes,

the view from my window and the smell of the ocean and the way to the beach and the shades of the sky, they all make a hell of a difference,

especially to someone like me who doesn’t want to give up wondering,

not even when the alarm goes off,

not even now I see I’m making some hell good paintings of these faraway dreamlands.

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This is not an apology letter

JOURNAL March 15, 2018

For the past few months, I’ve tried to ghost away from my past routines

– quick additions of bad habits and the circularity of things I let happen. I broke patterns and slipped out of the uncomfortable suit I’ve been wearing for far too long

to please anyone else but me.

 

And I’ve travelled to colder countries to get the chill in my bones and feel myself again,

I’ve cut and run from all distractions, superficial anecdotes and unnecessary frills. I’ve turned down my daily low-income internship and with it the sense of purpose I’d swallow every morning with my coffee. I decided to take a leap and commit full-time to an ever-changing plan that jams in my head and changes shape according to the weather, the horoscope or the vibes of the day.

I’ve indulged in all things I craved at that right moment – little does it matter if we’re talking making out with someone for the sake of it, buying a new pair of sweatpants to make the lazy days look nicer or cutting the hair I’d been growing for years. I moved back home and then headed to the Netherlands to take one last breath of dizzy air, sip juice on the canals and have a bite of familiarity before making my next big move.

 

Because it’s important to be done with a chapter before starting a new one. I’ve tried shortcuts and improvised ways to get away with this ugly truth, but the only way out the messed up stuff heavy on your chest is to get rid of its tangles you’ve been ignoring, brushing them away from the roots  before they get too heavy.

 

Only then you can start over, lighter.

 

And what I came to realise is that these aching bones, lazy ass and thirsty eyes of mine are the only things I can always hold tight to when all things feel like they’re slipping from my fingers. At the end of the day, the only person I’m sharing the bed with is myself. And I might not have the tightest body or the wittiest mouth, but since we’re here I might as well make a hell good hookup out of it.

 

I’m sorry for everyone who found me at this weird moment where everything is still possible and I don’t seem to know how to take one step at the time. Sorry for whoever goes to dinner with me and has to wait for me to spend 25 mins reading the menu and then ordering the same pizza I’ve had since I was 10, for those who put up with me at the supermarket where I was supposed to buy a smoothie and got out with a bottle of wine and for those who are still trying to paraphrase my late night texts. And I’m even more sorry for those who haven’t found me yet and are about to get all tangled up in my perpetual indecision and attempts at adulting.

But the ones I’m most sorry for are the ones who’d rather sit on their asses and say sorry when they’re right and ask for permission before taking a coffee break, stuck in a life they didn’t dream about.

 

This is not an apology letter to my parents who see me leave every other month, for my friends whose birthdays I forget or acquaintances I haven’t seen in years. This is not a post-it to remind me to run more, drink less and stop falling for all the wrong guys. This is just some stupid late night mind doodle to remind myself of how far I’ve come and how long the way is. It’s going to be a hella ride but I’m sure it’ll be a fun one.

 

So here I find myself

yet another late night playing rock, paper, scissors to decide where to head next.

There’s some sort of pleasure in trusting the discomfort of not having a clue about what’s coming up next and just going at it.

Full speed.

 

 

If you can’t always do what you fancy,

why not at least pick a nice place to do it from ?

 

 

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COPENHAGEN

CORNERS, TRAVEL February 7, 2018

 

On a weekday,

Giorgia and I decided to head to windy Denmark.

A bit for the fun of it, a bit because staying still truly isn’t our thing.

 

 

We arrived at Steel House Copenhagen, left our luggage and wandered the city.

 

We got lost few times while she was trying to vlog and me reading the maps,

had long breakfasts at Kompa 9 Cafe and pastries at Sankt Peders Bageri,

visited the Design Museum

and stopped at Flottenhimer for a hot soup while it was snowing outside

and Belgian hot chocolate at The Living Room.

Also had the best cheesecake at Bertels Salon and took a walk in muddy Christiania.

 

 

Everywhere you lay your eyes on seems to be at the right place,

people balancing the colours of their clothes in a beautifully essential way,

buildings not exceeding with geometries and quietly nesting there for a precise sum of reasons.

 

Copenhagen treated us just right.

 

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         Kompa 9 Cafe

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Bertels Salon

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The Living Room

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sankt Peders Bageri

 

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Design Museum

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AVEIRO

CORNERS, TRAVEL November 15, 2017

Maybe because it’s autumn, And I let my bare feet walk on cold sand,

 

Maybe because I’ve been looking for an idea of life for so long, And drew it on sheets without lines confining the words,

Maybe because the salty air makes my eyes look greener, keener.

but on this endless beach, time marked by the waves, ruffling, breaking, readjusting,

Here I found what makes me feel mild, soft,

 

And it took so many steps and bets with luck and reading horoscopes to find this secret I’ve always been carrying in the pocket of my jacket,

 

To find home.

 

 

 

Praia da Barra

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NAPOLI

CORNERS, TRAVEL October 7, 2017

Naples is raw.

But not one of those crudenesses people talk about.

It is raw in a secret way, but fiercely.

 

There’s no shame in its narrow streets where noises and perfumes mingle with the traffic and the rhythm of the waves blown by the wind.

Naples is a mother at the window making sure her son doesn’t get distracted while crossing the road,

it’s baked bread tickling the appetite, unexpectedly,

it is the blinking blue of the sea between one building and another, like labyrinths for people’s lives, their clothes hanging on threads,

for you to wander, walking with your snout in the air.

Naples is geometries braiding with houses,

something nobody would ever think of combining, but for some reason they fit, just perfectly.

It is the daring of colours and tastes, something that only painters and the mads would think together.

It is the market down the road and days made of simple things, a slower flow, warmer.

Naples is raw,

but it is in the crudeness of simplicity that we feel the most alive.

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Spaccanapoli

 

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