Traveling

and the itch that can never be scratched

I don’t get sad after vacation anymore.

I mean, sure I do. I miss the slowness of our time in Greece. The duality of people that know exactly where the hell they’re going and you should move about it, while not necessarily being in a hurry to get there. I miss the so good cappuccinos that don’t require a milk substitute, the meandering, the two-plus hour meal times, the mid-afternoon Aperol spritz, the occasional Grecian cigarette, the everything-new-to-me surroundings, the what-should-we-do-next vibe, the sunshine mornings followed by sexy and slow afternoons, and the food.

I miss the food.

More on that, but what I am saying is that I love my life.

Truly. Typing it even feels foreign on my fingers and I have noticed myself shying away from saying it out loud, too loud, for fear that someone will discover me. Who do I think I am, you know? Going around and loving my life.

But I do and I have waited almost 35 years to say that.

So, I don’t get depressed after vacation now. I miss things, yes. I cannot wait to be in that space again with those feelings and that very specific kind of slow. But when I come home I don’t get that anxiety lump in my throat anymore. I don’t find myself scared to get back into our routine for fear that the cracks will show and I will seep out of all of them. Here is good and although I am still settling into that truth, the sentiment remains. How hopeful it is with all of the hard and long and tired. With the parenting, the partnering, the working, the existing under capitalism, the absolute fuckery of the world, to be able to come home and say all of this and even the inbetween is really good.

At any rate, the food.

Food that literally takes words out of my mouth and has me sit in silence is not an impossible experience Here but it certainly isn’t happening as often as it did on this particular trip. Understanding that as with anytime we travel there is a certain level of romanticism that is also in the room making everything seem one million times better than what we access at home.

But the produce? I have this experience with approximately two tomatoes over the summer months here in Colorado. The ones that make you say “This. This is what a tomato should taste like.”

The olive oil here? Not happening, not a chance.

The cheese tastes cheesier, the lamb tastes just as it should, and the house wine damn near everywhere is less of a crapshoot and more of a pleasant surprise.

Is the romanticism playing its role? Absolutely. Is the food and wine just generally better? One hundred percent.

While driving to Elafonisi beach we drove through the hillside that swept into an incredibly lush valley. Just as we emerged from the tunnel we saw the swift change in scenery and what appeared to be infinite miles of green. Around every curve was another stand selling raki, honey, olive oil, and various spices. Sitting alongside the edge of the hill was a taverna that I still regret not writing down the name of, where I saw my equivalent of God in a stuffed zucchini blossom.

Simple, perfectly cooked rice with fresh herbs, served with a yogurt sauce.

That’s it, that’s the whole dish.

I watched my gorgeous fiance sit in front of the kind of backdrop that sears into your memory while drinking a glass of incredible $2.50 wine, and ate in silence until I finally looked up and said, “this is easily one of the best things I have ever eaten.”

Re: this is so fucking good.

Pinch me moments, you know?

More of those this year and all the years to come.

XXX

What a release this year has been. From untangling from old narratives, setting down all things that aren’t as tender as you need, going fantastically inward, sheltering in place in the softest ways, boundaries as far as the eye can see, and finally from a place of “I need to protect this goodness. This kind of peace. This level of soft” as opposed to “I am going to implement XYZ in order to finally get to where I want to be.”

I have arrived.

I had more time during our trip, as one does, to sit and reflect on everything we have accomplished individually and as a unit this past year. Job changes and shifts, a city council run, a live-in couple turned our-first-place-together couple (re: we moved twice this year), an engagement, the ebb and flow of relationships old and new, the settling into parenting together, and how gorgeous it is to be able to say “we fucking did it” while simultaneously breathing out “and it’s been so good.”

As a famous white woman (who isn’t our cup of tea for lots of reasons but I’ll leave it to your desire and capacity to read up on why) once breathed the glossy saying “we can do hard things” and printed it on coffee mugs, Anaya and I have decided that We Can Do Easy Things.

The soft things. The restful ones. The things that allow us to show up for our community while tending to us and ours first. The silly things. The things that affirm that we are Here and it is good. The kinds of things that make you realize that stuffed zucchini blossoms eaten in the sun with your love can be life changing, the things that you say “No, thank you” to. The kinds of things that you catch yourself smiling over weeks after they happened. The kinds of things that you have waited your entire life for.

Do the Easy Things, yeah?

I wish that for you.

The softest love,

AT

Currently Reading: The Mountains Sing by Nguyen Phan Que Mai

Currently Listening To: Love Songs by Kaash Paige

Currently Writing: Just here with ya’ll

Currently Cooking: Turmeric + Coconut rice and grilled chicken thighs