September.

Certi giorni non iniziano mai, nascono inceppati, li percepisci appena torni cosciente dal sonno: stanno lì, non ci entrerai mai davvero, ti rigirerai fra le ore senza saper bene cosa fare di te e dei tuoi pensieri, inizierai mille progetti, ne finirai nessuno.
Certi giorni non funzionano e, forse, va bene anche così.
Sono tornata a Copenhagen domenica sera, con delle sensazioni e degli odori addosso che non capivo bene dove collocare. Mi guardo allo specchio della mia stanza qui e mi vedo poco nitidamente.
A un certo punto, oggi, verso mezzogiorno, ho noleggiato un van e iniziato a spostare un po’ di scatoloni in casa nuova. Piante e libri. Jeans per ora abbandonati sul davanzale della mia futura camera da letto. Il mio sapone per le mani preferito in cucina.
Me ne stavo seduta sul pavimento della sala, a osservare la luce ondeggiare sui muri, quando C. mi ha mandato un video di sabato sera in cui sorrido con occhi vibranti. Mi ripeto quel passo celeberrimo di Tondelli - in Biglietti agli amici - che sappiamo (probabilmente) tutti a memoria, blocco di nuovo lo schermo dell’iPhone e lo lascio andare sul parquet. Appoggio la testa al muro, piango un po’, in un modo indecifrabile che prescinde da me. Vorrei che i pensieri tornassero lucidi e che questa paura (ogni tanto voglio dare alla mia ansia nomi diversi) mi lasciasse respirare. Vorrei essere capace di pensare qualcosa di diverso, un finale leggero o una leggerezza senza fine. Riapro gli occhi, scaccio seccamente le lacrime dagli zigomi, mi alzo, col desiderio di una sigaretta a distrarmi.
Non sarebbe strano / Essere più leggeri / E non aver paura / Se capitasse a noi

Settembre, che benedizione sei stato. Settembre, che maledizione sei.

Aside from this opening (heart wide open and zero filters), the holidays have been great. Sicily was magical—days filled with sun, swims in the clearest sea, almond granita at every hour, sfincioni, scacce, raw shrimp, and aaaall the vegetables (and fruits—you have no idea how many grapes I’ve eaten, or maybe you do, eheh). We drove for hours along the East Coast, all the way down to Marina di Ragusa. On the first day, I hiked on Etna—six hours walking between craters, caves, lava flows, and black ashes, reaching an altitude of 2600 meters. Sunset light and something so alive, ancient and magnificent beneath my feet.
What I felt up there will stay with me forever; it’s beyond human expression.

Overall, in addition to the beautiful baroque cities, what I brought back from this past week is a connection with nature I haven’t felt in a while (Denmark is not the right place if you need something wild, let’s put it like that). We decided early on to forget about all the famous beaches and choose some incredible nature reserves for our daily dose of salty water and sunlight. I remember when we first arrived at Eloro: we were the only ones there. The sea was a bit agitated because it had rained the night before (still emerald green, though), and the scent of eucalyptus was everywhere. Before Monica had even finished telling me to put on SPF, I was already running into the sea—no swimsuit needed. That energy. The feeling of being absolutely, wildly free. Swimming in the deepest blue, contemplating that invincible silence, and surrendering to the fact that I had no control over what was around me; it was all about water—deep, salty, moving water. I laughed with joy every time I resurfaced, hungry for oxygen, contemplating the sea.
Fino al mare, I have written on my hip. Fino al mare, sempre.

I remember being in Isola d’Elba a few years ago. I was sitting on a rock in front of the sea; it was 7 PM, and the last sunlight was melting into the water. At some point, I began to observe how the waves were gently yet persistently hitting the rocks, penetrating every inlet, breaking on those hard surfaces as if they were almost being absorbed. I remember being hypnotized by that endless movement of care and perseverance. I thought love would resemble it—somehow, at some point.

Holidays have been all about being together again. Monica and Gaia, Gaia and Monica. My heart couldn’t believe it when I looked at them sitting at the same table in front of me in Sicily. Life, again. We talked about everything—about all that had happened, how much we have grown, how much we have been through, and how good we feel now. About the light we finally saw in each other’s eyes, the kind that shines when you start loving yourself. I can’t describe the feeling of looking at each other after five years apart, realizing that we are still the same, but everything has changed—except for us two.

We would tackle a 200-person service without batting an eye if we found ourselves in the same kitchen again. We were dancing in that fucking kitchen. We were.
And we still dance every time we are together, even without knives and fire.

Ai suonatori un po' sballati
Ai balordi come me
A chi non sono mai piaciuta
A chi non ho incontrato
Chissà mai perché
Ai dimenticati, ai playboy finiti
E anche per me.

Ai nostri pensieri, a come eravamo ieri, e un po’ anche per noi.

Una gioia da poveracci. E poi è domani.

(Kitchen stories will be back soon ❤️)