Hi! An early Monday for once.
This issue is of a different kind. Does reality sometimes feel off? Am I supposed to feel that way? Does it have to be perfect? Please take a minute to explore the @howtobenotperfect community on Instagram. Their work of addressing modern, concrete issues in a judgement-free zone is very uplifting. This issue is being published together with @howtobenotperfect. I invite you to visit their Instagram page throughout the entire week, where we dive into the Expectations of Travelling.
A few posts I have been particularly enjoying
So friends, make sure you give @howtobenotperfect a visit. Thanks for that!
Today I am coming to you with a short story, describing emotions and insecurities on solo travels. Enjoy the read, and have a great week ❤️
8:13 in the morning. My alarm goes off. Stiffly I try to sit up, fail, try again. I’m awake now. The night was short, had I been busy finding my apartment in the middle of the night. My taxi driver was trying to help me, but his muffled voice was more gibberish than Italian to me. Should have taken my Duolingo lessons more seriously. I came in with the last machine from Orio al Serio di Milano. Long past midnight the taxi pulled up to the apartment. I went inside. The key had been placed in a code box outside. I had no ambition to turn on the light, I was straight-headed for the bed, in which I am still laying now.
19 hours! It’s been 19 hours since the world last heard of me. I disappeared in the form of an Instagram story at the airport. Since then, silence. My mum got a text from me that I arrived well. She would worry horribly, home in Copenhagen. I cannot help but notice this push to open my phone and post again. It is not what I want, but, it feels right?
I successfully shake it off until breakfast.
Not bad. The apartment I had randomly booked only three days ago turns out to be a bit of a gem. Huh, I SHOULD give my friends a room tour. Slouching, I make my way to the bathroom. When I look up from the sink, water dripping down from my washed face, I catch a view out of the window. What my eyes catch is a beautiful glance over the town of Cagliari, the capital of Sardinia.
Get your camera out already, I think. It will show how good I have it. Why is that all I can think about? Caving in I snap a photo on my phone. I decide not to post it. For now.
After freshening up, I get dressed. It is late April, and the temperature is scratching the 20°C. Warm. Perfect, because I had packed in hope of that. I want to go to the beach. My dad had borrowed me his 1987 travel guide for Sardinia. The Poetto beach was underlined in multiple colours. To my disappointment, it was hard to reach by bus. However I did not want to renew my experience with Italian taxi drivers, so taking the 13, 1, and finally, the PQ line seemed the only way. With the WiFi in the apartment, I had downloaded Spotify’s Top 50 Italia, which was now playing on my plastic headphones as I walk to the bus. I make a stop at the supermarket opposite the bus stop. Of course, I had forgotten to pack sunscreen.
The first 20 of the 90-minute bus journey had passed. I was getting bored. Nervously, I scroll through my push notifications. Hanne sent me a snap. Lars sent 5 TikToks. Camilla messaged me: How are you doing? How is Italy?
My head is humming songs. But not the Top 50 Italia. I am skimming through Instagram Story sound snippets and TikToks, thinking about how to best capture the Italian spring vibe around me. A call from Louise, my best friend, ends the concert in my head. I do not want to talk, so I decline. But out of guilt, I open my private chat with her. She types… Anne, u okay? I haven’t heard a word of you in 24 hours. No message, no story, no photo? Hello??
After a numb “I’m fine” text, I open Instagram and post the photo I took earlier.
An hour later I get off the last bus. Okay, let me realise where I am and what I am doing right now. Happy face. I am on vacation, the first one in two years after my last summer vacation got cancelled by the travel agency. I feel a bit hungry, so I start scouting for some street vendors to sell me Pane Carasau, a crispy bread often served with some meats and cheese. Another highlight from my dad’s travel guide. This time it was circled, in just one colour. It is almost midday, and the restaurants start to advertise themselves on the beach boulevard. Every time I am approached, I just throw a Pane Carasau plus question mark in my heavy accented Italian back. On the third try it works. The friendly waiter guides me to a table for two. I choose the seat that looks at the sea. In the very distance, I imagine to see Sicily and the coast of Tunisia. Of course, I do not, but I find peace in knowing that somewhere behind the horizon they would appear.
The waiter approaches me with the wine menu. He recommends a local white wine, I nod. I do not know anything about wines. I am sure however that the waiter does. A moment passes, and I am served my food—Pane Carasau, accompanied by fresh olive oil and the bespoken glass of wine.
The food is garnished like an art piece. Not taking my eyes off the plate in front of me, I grab for my phone. I choose the Mediterranean filter on my camera, and bam, my food is on my Instagram story. Maybe I want to make my friends jealous. Bottom line, it is a rainy Monday in Copenhagen, they all work, while I enjoy a white wine I know nothing about. Am I being mean?
The food is fantastic. I am amazed. But nobody knows about it. I plan to make the chef a compliment, by means of telling the waiter how excellent the food was. Enjoying the spring sun on my face, I start to get a little tipsy. My body loosens up. The stress that I felt from my travels, it fades. My gaze swings over the boulevard. I see couples on walks, kids playing, dogs wagging their tales. Everything seems to happen so slowly. I am right here, in Sardinia, with these people. Living. Zoned out, I do not notice the waiter clearing my table. I feel to have missed my chance to compliment the chef, and quietly ask for the bill. I pay and leave.
Disappointed in myself, I draw the phone out of my tote bag. A quick internet search later, I find the restaurant’s Instagram, tag them in a story. Somehow I find relative satisfaction in the thought of having shared this place with my friends.
Strolling down the boulevard, I get dizzy in the sun. A bottle of water, some shade and a park bench do me good. I am worried that I do not enjoy myself at the fullest, feeling some inner clock counting the minutes since I last posted something online. I rummage for my book. It is “Flights”, by Olga Tokarczuk. This book could not be more on point. It resembles my feeling, travelling without rest, being in between worlds. I still begin to read. The story reveals other people’s sorrows and thoughts. I feel less alone. I must have been devouring the book, as the sun already starts its descent. It was not until now that I look up.
Suddenly, I hear music. The square in front of me turned into a dance floor. The local people are moving happily to their beloved jazz. Couples, young and old, families, sisters and brothers, all join in and celebrate. I think they celebrate life. The scenery is vibrant. Happy faces, swinging feet and hips, rhythmic chants from some grandpas, metamorphose me. I want to join! But I am shy. It is their party, not my place to be. Ashamed of that thought, I look down at my black phone screen.
Something touches my shoulder. It is the finger of one of two grandpas. “Vieni cara”, he says. Come dear. His mature face transmits warmth and love for life. They both wear summer shirts, loafers and Coppolas, flat hats. He holds his hand out and smiles. I stand up and follow. As others recognise me, they welcome me heartily into their group. A young lady, who I later meet as Faviola, helps me with the dance. It is perfect. I laugh, I dance, I let go. All thoughts are in the present. My whole heart is happy. In the short break between two songs, I turn around and quickly deinstall all my social media apps.
At least for a while.
I am free.
Thank you for reading ☀️
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