flying solo

I have a fear of flying. It's something I can't control, I can't explain, and I can't get rid of. It wasn't always that way though. I used to fly all by myself ever since I was 7 years old. And I took 14 hour flights 4 times a year and I had no problemo.

But then one day, something happened: I got scared. It was a sudden realization of just how much life hangs by a thread and I'm not ready for that thread to break. I've seen death from many different angles and honestly, I don't want to experience any of it yet. There is so much to life that I haven't discovered, so much I still want to do, I definitely do not want to go down on a crashing plane. I know what everyone says: chances of dying in a car accident are like a million times higher, blablabla. But planes in specific scare me. When you're so many feet off the ground, completely and utterly without control on your own well-being with no way whatsoever to protect yourself, nothing makes me feel more vulnerable. Nothing, except of course life in general. Because even though I only get this sickening fear when I'm flying, the truth is, death is always beyond our control.

Now life, that's something we can choose, change, adapt and transform as we go.

I'm having breakfast in Rome this morning, and tonight, I will be dining in New York.

The last time I was in the city that never sleeps was 3 and half years ago, which seems like a lifetime away. I had packed up my bags and left behind 2 unforgettable years, a time when walking through Fifth Avenue, or Central Park, or near the Empire State building was just another walk I took everyday. Now I find myself filled with anguish, returning to this city I was so in love with as a different person. Maybe New York hasn't changed, but I certainly have. The last time I was there, I was 23 years-old. I was a journalist, fresh off Grad School, and the world was at my feet. I wanted to become the next Christiane Amanpour and use the Middle-East's fucked-up politics as my personal training ground. Then I made choices. Choices that you get to make even if they are sometimes dictated by things we can't control. I made it as a news anchor and head of my own news bulletin but I hated it and I quit my job and changed my career. Now I run an NGO, I write a blog, and in my free time I write and act for a TV/Web series. Basically I find myself nothing like the person I expected to be back then. And I know I'm at a crossroads once again, and that the choices I make in the coming few months may completely change the course of my life. Again. And that's okay. As long as I know I can control it, as long as these decisions are my own, then my life is my own.

I don't know what may happen in that flight I'm about to take (hopefully nothing because I'm just a paranoid freak with plane phobia) --it scares the shit out of me and I have to severely drug myself in order to survive it, but it is my choice to go. The way there might be scary as hell for me, but the destination it worth the risk.

I know they say "enjoy the journey, not the destination." I get it and it's true. I say it too sometimes. But not when I'm flying solo. 

the walk home

“Every day is a journey, and the journey itself is home.” Matsuo Basho


There are days when the walk home stands out.

When I lived in New York, I'd walk in between skyscrapers, with my ipod blasting "Suddenly I See" at full volume; I'd take a short-cut through Central Park holding a Starbucks Tall Skinny Late, and watch random people jogging at any given hour with their dogs running at the exact same rhythm. I'd feel like I was part of a movie-set or something. And that thought always made me smile. "I live in New York," I'd remind myself. But when I'd get home, to that 6th floor apartment on East 20th street, with nothing in the fridge and a pile of laundry waiting for me, my heart would sink. I missed the smell of caramelized onions in the kitchen, and the feeling of freshly ironed sheets. My roommate worked 23hours a day, and home was most often a combination of Grey's Anatomy, a soup from the downstair-deli, and me.

One of my worst walks home in Manhattan was on a hot day in August, when I stepped into a store for ten minutes, and by the time I got out, it was pouring rain. And when I say pouring, I mean the streets turned into a river with strong currents. It was the longest fifteen minutes of my life. Never mind that I was drenched from head to toe, and that every car that passed by splashed me with disgusting sewage water... the worst part was when I had to cross the street and the current was so strong that it removed my flip-flop from my foot, and dragged it away before I could catch it. Walked half-barefoot the rest of the way, trying not to think of all the diseases I could be catching. Needless to say, I was never so happy to get home.

But most memorable of all was me going through the walk of shame like it was a scene out of Sex and The City. Long story short (and to spare me from sharing too much) I was leaving the Four Seasons Hotel at eight o'clock in the morning, in my clothes from the night before --and as I was stepping down the entrance stairs of the biggest hotel in New York, hangover and in heels, I fell.

The walk home, that's the journey. Sometimes it's the best part of the day. It's three o'clock in the morning, and that gorgeous guy you met is with you, and there are butterflies in your stomach because you wonder if he's going to kiss you. And sometimes it's tortuous. It's raining and you don't have an umbrella, your phone falls and breaks in ten different pieces, and your new shoes are ruined.

And on days like these, it's uneventful. I walk home every day from the office. It's a three minute walk, and not a lot happens, except for the valet-parking guy who feels the need to make a disturbing comment every time I walk by. Now the days of skyscrapers and the Four Seasons feel like they never even happened, just memories among others. But still, they're my own. Part of my journey.