It’s become a habit of mine to set certain arbitrary dates as points of future reflection. In other words, when something happens to me (usually something either incredibly positive or incredibly negative) I, after reveling in the emotion of the moment, inevitably begin to wonder where I’ll be a year from then. So I make it a point to remember that on “November 30th”, for example, I must perform an act of retrospection.
Today happens to be one of those days.
A year ago I was in Rome, living what was to be the second most emotionally erratic period of my life and just barely hold on. I’ve failed to discuss publicly earlier and more important points of reflection from this period, but I figure now is as good a time as any, and I might just combine some of those moments anyhow.
Contrary to popular belief, living in Rome (or really traveling in general) was never the magic fairy tale I feel we like to pretend it will be. That’s not to say it isn’t incredible, but that is to say it’s real, with all the baggage that word connotes. I had been in love with Italy since I was 12, and had decided after talking a 10-week Italian course that no matter what I was going to make my way there someday. And ten years later I did. After the initial euphoria of seeing a dream realized, though, came the inevitable crash of: “what next”. While I imagined I would make friends like magic, would go out dancing every night and would pick up fluent Italian in a month, what I got instead was loneliness and frustration. Everyone seemed to be making friends but me, everyone seemed to be doing fun things but me, and god damnit after a few weeks of seeing my “dream” fall apart all I wanted was a new novel to read, something to distract me, but I didn’t even know how to go about doing that.
I realized partially then, and much more strongly now, that my disappointment had nothing to do with the surroundings but rather coming face to face with my dependency on others and my inability to let go of preconceived notions. I expected to do fun things but for whatever reason needed other people to catalyze them. I had no idea how to make fun things happen on my own.
About a month into my stay, utterly defeated and alone, fed up with crying and fed up with my own pathetic desperation, I finally decided I had to do something. So, I walked down the street from my school to buy a Rome public transportation map from a vendor, googled “English book stores” in Rome, found one, figured out how to get there (walking, bus, metro, bus, more walking), and did it. Alone.
For a first timer, let me just say that going out into a city you’ve never really explored with little money, only a basic grasp of the language and no one else to depend on was terrifying. And exhilarating.
The bookstore was located in Trastevere, what will always be my favorite neighborhood of Rome. It is one of the city’s best-kept secrets. Winding streets, gorgeous colors, hidden churches, populated by locals, this was the Rome I always imagined. After getting lost, finding myself, getting lost again, buying a gelato, stopping in a Church, and finally getting back on track I found it. Tucked away down a random alley, the store was owned by an ex-pat who had moved there fifteen years prior. It was small, but filled ceiling to floor with glorious glorious books.
I spent an hour poking around, smiling to myself, before I finally made a selection and went on my way. Stumbling gleefully out, I decided buy a couple postcards and sat down on a fountain in one of Rome’s million piazzas to write. I wrote that I was disappointed I had never given myself the credit I deserved. I wrote that I had no idea why I didn’t do something like this before. I wrote that I had never felt less alone in my life.
Of course one day wasn’t going to undo what had thus far been (and continues to be) a lifelong struggle towards strength and self-reliance. But one day did show me that if I stopped feeling sorry for myself I was capable of some incredible things. The next weekend I took a trip alone to Ostia Antica, forty minutes outside of the city, because fuck it, I could.
And that felt amazing.
I feel like a very different person from the girl I was one year ago. Not necessarily to say that I’m “over it all” or I’ve got *it* figured out (whatever *it* is), but I carry myself differently. That’s perhaps the best way I can possibly describe it. I feel strong. Most days, anyway.
And I think learning how to be happy with ourselves is something we struggle with our entire lives. Terrified of having to be alone with only ourselves as company we hang out with people we don’t like very much, decide not to go to that party because there’s no one there we know, opt out of going out on a beautiful day because there’s no one who wants to go with us. What are we so afraid of?
There’s a quote I think I might have reblogged a while back, but I’d like to add it here for relevancy’s sake:
“We are all alone, born alone, die alone, and — in spite of True Romance magazines — we shall all someday look back on our lives and see that, in spite of our company, we were alone the whole way. I do not say lonely — at least, not all the time — but essentially, and finally, alone. This is what makes your self-respect so important, and I don’t see how you can respect yourself if you must look in the hearts and minds of others for your happiness.”
-Hunter S. Thompson
This is a great post from Sarah.
