Early August, 2015
We arrive at the cabin just before lunch, each of us eager to eat and nap as soon as possible. It’s cooler in the mountains, and quiet—the perfect combination for an afternoon nap. Or going mad with boredom.
This is not a long weekend of skiing the bunny slopes with newbies, rappelling waterfalls with old friends or sitting around a bonfire with fellow travelers to discuss our futures while ceremoniously burning our pasts.
This weekend, this long weekend, there is nothing to accomplish.
Being from the United States, and having lived the last twenty years in Los Angeles, “nothing to accomplish” sounds theoretically relaxing, a welcome-ish reprieve from the hustle and bustle of being, or appearing, accomplished.
But in reality, this weekend, this long weekend, I’m just plain terrified.
I’m about 15 miles from the French border in a small Italian town, a once-thriving village abandoned about one hundred years ago. It now serves as a summer vacation spot for families primarily of the northwestern region of Italy (where I spend my very busy weekdays accomplishing things, thank you). The roofs here are made of the mountain’s stone and the power is supplied by the mountain’s water—the falls of which are a-stop-you-in-the-midst-of-your-champagne-problems-rant kind of sight to behold—and the locals speak an ancient French-Italian blend that is rarely, if ever, spoken beyond these mountains.
There is no WiFi because there is no Internet. Cell towers? :(
And so it is that I can’t visit Facebook friends or upload my pictures to Instagram. I can’t consult an online thesaurus for a different, yet broadly recognizable, way to write “different” or “broadly recognizable.” I can’t email my mom to tell her there is an entire town submerged under the lake in the valley below and that during dry seasons the church steeple emerges for a quick “Hello! Remember me?”
I can’t WhatsApp. I can’t Google. I also can’t nap.
I should be writing if I’m not going to sleep. Jesus, I’m fucking itchy. Is that a mosquito? I can’t write. Do we have mosquitos in LA? My legs are going to look like Jeff Goldblum’s from “The Fly” if I don’t stop scratching. I’m gonna to have to put makeup on my legs. I didn’t bring any makeup. I’m going to need it for my eyes too. I suddenly feel very old. I’m going to look old without concealer. I hope it doesn’t melt, wherever it is. I need wine. Great. Now I can’t get rid of the image of Jeff Goldblum’s ears falling off. Bottle of wine.
I fantasize about kissing the man I’m in love with (who is nowhere near Italy or France or Los Angeles, for that matter). I realize I should not fantasize about kissing anyone A) who lives nowhere near Italy or France or Los Angeles, for that matter and B) when it distracts me from writing. I decide I would rather kiss a man over writing any day of the week.
I, then, think about a recent conversation with Sara—who is peacefully napping in the next room with her kids—in which she said that Americans always seem to be walking into schools and churches and shooting each other and how is it that we have so many guns and so many prisons and so many men in prisons and do we all have swimming pools and drive huge cars and drink to get drunk and leave the lights on in rooms we are not in because we don’t care about the environment, just curious that’s all.
I give up and sit up. I take the eye mask off and fling my itchy Jeff legs over the side of the top bunk in a decidedly “Fuck this shit!” move when it dawns on me: I don’t have an air purifier. No wonder I can’t sleep!
That’s right. Deep in the distraction-free—and, did I mention, BEAUTIFUL?!—mountains between France and Italy, this American is distracted by alcohol, her legs, her makeup, kissing, men, past conversations and the ways in which the best naps are bought. (FYI: Sara thinks I am as cool as a cucumber, that I roll with the punches and the boredom, that nothing gets me down or keeps me up other than crying children. So, SHHHHH.)
In the absence of an air purifier to lull me to sleep in the pollution and noise-free mountains between France and Italy—I KNOW! CHAMPAIGN PROBLEMS!—I decide to make a list. I’m from L.A. after all. I need to accomplish something.
Top Ten Things I Thought and Did and Said Today That Aren’t Ridiculous
- Unscrewed the water bottle top for Francesco.
- Washed the dishes and counters after Sara made lunch.
- Thanked Sara for lunch.
- Opened my laptop to write.
- Decided, again, as I must do time-and-time again, to write truthfully even though it makes me want to throw up pasta because that’s all I eat now.
- Washed my face; put on deodorant; brushed my hair; brushed my teeth.
- Got dressed.
- Attempted to speak Italian with the children. (“Ragazzi! Basta!”)
- Petted a dog and attempted Italian with its owner. (“Ragazzi! Basta!”)
- Thought about the love I have for my animals at home in L.A. and how much I miss them; thought about my friend Marc and how much I’ll miss him when he and his wife head to Malawi to work; thought about how everything is brighter and less terrifying when someone you love loves you back, particularly if he willingly endures silence and sleeplessness and the lack of Internet and boredom with you (and, especially particularly, if he’s a good kisser).
And we’re back to men.
Early December, 2015
Still men.
Thumbnail photo and gif of Jeff Goldblum in David Cronenberg's The Fly compliments of Google