Have Love, Will Travel
We always said we needed to travel out of the country before we had kids.I was pregnant, now I’m not.I can’t stop thinking this.——Everyone keeps asking if Italy was “the trip of a lifetime?” and I think, no, not really, because I envision H and I taking many trips like this, traveling and adventuring being an important value of our life together, but then I’m probably missing the point of what people mean. They’re projecting all of their own wishes, dreams, travel experiences and thoughts about happy unions onto the bright images of the Colosseum and pizza that I shared on Instagram. What they don’t know is that Italy was the trip we needed, because of what we experienced over the last week of 2014.——I was pregnant, now I’m not.
I was pregnant, now I’m not.
I listen to Tori Amos and Rufus Wainwright while we travel on trains out from Rome, through Tuscany, or down through Naples, the harder, working class marina city. Tori sings “6:58 are you sure where my spark is. Here?”We each eat an entire pizza, with fork and knife, the sauce so tangy in rich tomato, my mouth waters thinking back. H has to run out of the restaurant looking for an ATM because of course a pizzeria that only serves 2 options - Marinara and Margherita - also only takes cash.——I wear bracelets to remind me, to protect me. Even though I am not a trendy girl - Pandora and Alex and Ani - all gifts, from women in my life who believe in me. The heart and angel wings from my mom. The one from my colleague. The “what’s for you will not pass you” from my sister-in-law — who gifted it at the perfect time.I was pregnant, and now I’m not.And now I’m in Florence, sitting in an apartment while a woman our age cooks us scrambled eggs, slices kiwi with cashews on a white plate, and serves very dark, very strong coffee. The ten-foot windows overlook the Florentine rooftops, that are like something out a video game H plays where assassins run along rooflines and escape via narrow alleyways. The vibrating noise of motorini reaches our ears as they zoom down the street. Our host prefers to speak with us in English, “Good practice for me,” she says. Later she’ll rate us as “super guests” on Airbnb.——It is hard for me to write about Italy for you because Italy is completely intertwined with the loss we experienced.
That’s the hard part, of course. That’s the part that you maybe don’t want to hear about, but then again maybe you do. Maybe you’ve experienced the bowels of grief. It’s not really explainable to those who haven’t, but to those of us who know, we know.——We’re standing up in the air, in the campanile bell tower, with the most splendid, fat-clouded, 360-degree blue-sky view of this historical city. We’re waiting for people to file down the winding staircase that, in some places, is only wide enough for one person. I am weightless, the wind coming down the river and swirling my hair through the grates that keep tourists from falling, careless picture takers and jumpers alike.I was pregnant, and now I’m not.
We made it. We wanted to travel before we had kids, and we’re doing just that, with a deeper sense of our own selves and the life we’re building together. We took what life threw at us, took it into our own hands, and stepped back into the world.And I feel it - looking out over Florence, seeing mostly sky - this overwhelming sense that I’m being visited, being reminded, being supported. My chest swells with emotions. I finger my bracelets. I hold H's hand as we walk back down into the sunlight.Life, all of it, is a miracle.