back up blog

‘Here,’ mama said, after she’d unpacked her bags in the Sardinian villa we were to share, as a family, for the next eight days. ‘Your Auntie Shirley sent this with me.’ Dear Auntie Shirley , the envelope read on the back. Today is August 25 th 2012, and so this is a letter from the past, to my future self. I didn’t know where I’d live, or where mum and dad would live, so I’m sending this to myself at your address. I hope that’s okay! Love you! I stared at the letter in my hands. I didn’t open it for a week. * Dear Laura, This morning you cried. It’s the day of their wedding and that means years of wondering and hurting and ill feeling and strength and sadness and everything else have a final line drawn under them. You’ve learnt to be kinder to yourself over this time – particularly this summer – and it’s been the education of a lifetime. But you’ve also been very hard on yourself, too, punishing yourself for what you perceive to be ‘so long’ to heal. When things in life happen to us...

‘Look,’ he said down the phone. ‘I get it, and you’re right: it would be easier if we didn’t see each other again. But… I want to. Just for lunch, for an hour. So I can wish you luck for your trip properly.’ I. Did. Not. Want. To. See. Him. ‘That makes me really uncomfortable,’ I said. ‘Let’s just leave it. I’m fine, you’re fine – it’s…fine.’ The night before he’d come over, late, after work. I knew, inevitably, that we’d capital-t Talk, even though his 10 p.m. arrival meant our evening was essentially a booty call designed for spooning. In texts and phone calls my trip away had been coming up more and more frequently, and whilst he was as excited for me as I was to share the details of my plans, it also served as a stark reminder that no matter how much fun getting to know each other might be, it’d be on temporary hold soon enough. That’s kind of a passion killer. And look, this isn’t my story to tell, but I was very aware that the last woman in his life to take a trip away for two m...

The thing you can never fault Italians on is their honesty. They don’t lie about beauty, or desire, and as a people we can, in the same way the English are filed under repressed, or New Zealanders as horizontal, sum them up by labelling their profiles with enormous capital letters that say: SEX. And it’s causing me quite some bother. ‘Can I give you a compliment?’ Mario said to me, as he served up my primo piatto. ‘You are beautiful. You have beautiful eyes.’ I didn’t know what to say. ‘Cute is cute, and you are cute,’ he finished, shrugging. I turned magenta and tried to force myself to be gracious. I wanted to die. I don’t think I realised how truly invisible I’ve been, at least in Italy, and now, 40 pounds lighter and feeling, of course, strong and sexy and all the things associated with that , this country reminds me of my sex at every corner. I was stared at walking into a restaurant yesterday. It was a table of men, all about my age, wearing overalls and smoking and laughing ri...

I have no idea where I am, or what there is to do, I thought. I didn’t even think to bring a guidebook. It was a funny feeling. I suppose my adrenaline had been pumping since I’d landed, tasked nervously as I was with navigating myself from airport to B&B. It’d had been wonderfully simple, though, hopping from plane to bus to street, following the directions I’d laid out for myself via Googlemap. I’d gotten to the B&B early, laughing and joking in unsure Italian – I’m convinced I sound like a caveman – the owner noting my Marco Polo-like adventuring. The obvious truth only later whacked me full pelt in the face: Laura! You’re communicating in Italian! She understands you! YOU UNDERSTAND HER! GET. IT. GURL. In fact, I haven’t spoken a single English word out loud since I got to Sardinia, and I’m talking all the time. I’ve missed those sounds on my tongue , the sing-song melody of words that become poetry with the rolling r’s and trilling vowels. I’ve resolved to chat with everyo...