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  • Writer's picturematilde tomat

ITA/SLO | [inner] travelling

It was July, this summer. And I am looking back at this journey only now, after having realised how much I miss travelling and how long my bag has been empty in the other room. Always out, so I can look at it; but lately open and empty for too long. There has been a back-and-forth of conversations about changes and what-next and I have to admit that I am sitting here, while a little bit of sun comes into my living room in between dark clouds, and I miss Italy. No, I miss my corner of Italy. I miss my land, my Heimat, my slice of earth. I miss driving to an airport, catching a plane, landing, and having my first espresso. I miss the air. And gosh I miss the light. The light there is different. I am always reminded of that passage from Keanu Reeves' The Lake House when Christopher Plummer [as his father] and he talk about light: Now, come on. You know as well as I do that the light in Barcelona is quite different from the light in Tokyo. And, the light in Tokyo is different from that in Prague. A truly great structure, one that is meant to stand the test of time never disregards its environment. A serious architect takes that into account. He knows that if he wants presence, he must consult with nature. He must be captivated by the light. Always the light. Always.

The light in Gorizia and Trieste is different from the light here in the UK. The laughter sounds lighter and fresher. The Poseidonia dancing in the sea, its waves crashing at sunset, the open vowels in the streets and the white wine while enjoying calamari fritti seem to create the perfect combo. And then, there is that little hidden garden that saw me every morning: coffee, laptop, books [guess what?! about travelling!] and where I do feel at home. At peace.

There are stories, voices, and mannerisms that are so familiar that slide under your skin and become yours. Mine. Mine forever. There are memories that only someone recalls, stories told only to a few, mistakes forgiven by kind eyes, hugs that never end, understandings that go beyond the usual and trips late at night that we will never forget.

There are voices that are so needed that at times feel like cries. They are Family. There are sounds embedded in the bones. There are streets that remind you of your own veins and you know them so well. There is walking embodying a city, a space, a light. A light that shines on you and through you and that tastes of saltiness and baccalá mantecato on warm bread and zia Lelle's butter-and-herbs.

There is an ancestral land flowing through my veins as threads.

There is an ancestral home wedged in my heart.

upwards + onwards + always moving



baccalá mantecato: whipped dry cod

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