Puglia, Episode III: Time to Fly
“Something shifted” is a term I’ve used frequently in this blog (I’ve a lot of shifts, alright?). But after that morning with Claudia, it wasn’t that something shifted. Something was completed.
I couldn’t describe it other than saying, my job here was done. I came and did what I meant to do. And now, with Claudia gratefully accepting the money — and my standing with the grandmas on good terms — I was ready to come home. And fortunately, I knew where home would be.
You may remember my visit with Fidalma, in Umbria. I asked her where I’d live next. She told me: “Home isn’t something you figure out, but something you feel. It comes to you. What’s the place that, when you think of it, you get excited?”
Along my trip, I mentally played with all these different places: Bologna, Barcelona, Baltimore, New Mexico. I even considered an exploratory trip to Santa Fe when I got back. But funny enough, there was only one place that truly, undeniably called to me, and it was most unexpected. It was where I began.
New York.
At the start of this trip, I’d’ve called you crazy if you said I was going back. And I’m still shocked it’s happening. My first month in Italy, all I did was talk bad about it — saying how unlivable it is, how unhealthy it is for me, etc. However, the calling was unmistakable. It didn’t make logical sense, but at the start of this trip I’d made a deal. I asked the universe to make it very clear to me where I should live. And my answer came. The universe did it’s job, now it’s my turn to do mine.
When I was in Naples, I met a young man named Rohan. He lived in DC and worked in finance. Years ago, he was bored with his career and his 9-5, so he saved enough to travel the world and do some soul searching. Six months in, COVID struck and he had to come back. “It was okay,” he said. “At that point, I was ready.”
“Did you find your answer, your clarity?” I asked him.
“No, no exactly,” he said. “But when I finished the trip, I felt excited, re-energized. It was like I just needed to get it out of my system, and now I was ready to get back to the life I left.” (He did get a new job, though).
Somehow, when I heard that, all the way back in early June, I knew that’s how my story would end.
Funny how that works.
As I conclude this blog, one thing really needs mentioning.
This was not a trip of peaches and roses. I had magical experiences, sure — times of serendipity, divine-like guidance, and wonderful, synchronistic events. But many days — let’s say 60% of the time? — I was lonely and bored. I spent many evenings and hot afternoons not knowing what to do with myself. At first, I really struggled with this, as I wrote about in Rome and Bologna: Why am I not having an Eat, Pray, Love adventure? Why am I not rolling in bliss and ecstasy and being rubbed all over with olive oil and salami by my Italian lovers?
Because this trip was something different. I don’t think I was meant to be in ecstasy. And by the end, when I called my mom and she asked me to sum up my trip, my response came easily:
This wasn’t the trip I wanted. It was the trip I needed.
I did a lot of journaling. A lot of meditation and self-reflection. The one gift of loneliness is it clearly exposes what’s important to you. You notice what’s gone that you don’t miss, and you notice what you crave so dearly to come back.
For work, I did not get any clear thunderbolt for what to do next. God did not present me with a vision and a burning bush. Instead, I was given a glimpse, an uncovering, as to what was already there.
You may’ve heard of Joseph Campbell, the writer and professor. He advises all to Follow Your Bliss. Your “bliss” is your Holy Grail, it’s that which you love and which thus gives you eternal life. I’ve been asking to know my bliss for years, but I thought I’d never gotten a definitive answer. Well, turns out I knew the answer, I’d just refused to accept it.
It clicked when I heard a story about a young woman. Her father used to take her to hockey games. As a little girl, she’d be enamored by the experience. “My daughter, when she was 5, she walked into an ice hockey rink and she felt at home,” her father shared. “Now she’s in her 20s and she works for the NHL and she teaches youth hockey.”
When I was a kid, my Dad would take me to Miami Heat games. At that time, I couldn't think of a more exciting feeling than him sharing he got tickets. Miami Arena was my Shangri-La: The smell of popcorn in the air. That very particular sound of an NBA basketball hitting the hardwood floor. The scuff of the sneakers. The players in their warmups, gliding to the basket, effortlessly laying it off the glass (shout-out to PJ Brown, specifically). I never wanted it to end.
My bliss was always apparent, but I’d downplayed it. I said sports “wasn’t important enough” for me. It wasn’t political enough, or spiritual enough, or impactful enough. My work had to be huge and monumental, something seismic that made an everlasting dent in the world. And I’m still open to that. But right now, I have to let that go. For one, we never know the impact we’re making, and impacts don’t need to be made exclusively in one’s career. But even more importantly, that’s no longer my priority. My priority is to be happy on a day-to-day basis. And that means keeping myself close to the things that bring me joy.
So I don’t know if sports or basketball will be my answer forever. But I said, I want to find work that I love. And I know what I love. Now, it’s time to pursue it.
I’d once heard, traveling and vacations are just a break from yourself. Once you’re free of that — of your own demands, criticisms, and self-judgments — truth can emerge. Traveling doesn’t relieve you of any problems. It just gives you the perspective to deal with them effectively.
And perspective is what I got. On this trip, I felt like I could see my life with a 10,000-foot view. I saw all the things in New York that weren’t working, clear as day. I saw what I needed more of and what I had to drop. I saw the people I needed to remove from my life, and who I wanted to bring in. I saw thinking patterns that sabotaged my dating and relationships. Most importantly, I got clear on what I need to feel content and happy, outside of work. And chief amongst those needs was simple: Friendship.
I remember talking to a man when I lived in Portland. He lived in many cities and he was a multi-millionaire. “In all the places I’ve lived,” he said, “I was the happiest when I had the closest friendships. When I didn’t have friends, I was horribly depressed, and sometimes that was when I was making the most money.”
And for this trip, if I had to honestly rattle off my top ten experiences, they all involved people. Nowhere in my top ten was a lovely sunset or a solitary meal. They all involved others: dinner at Silvio’s, spontaneous beach trips, hand-rolling pasta in the kitchen, going out dancing, making day friends and sharing life stories and never seeing each other again. Don’t get me wrong, I love solitude. I crave it, and I advocate it for everyone. But those periods are best when they’re sandwiched in between companionship. Solitude works when it’s your choice to be alone, not when you don’t have any other options.
That’s why I loved Bari so much.
Bari was a flow zone for me. I made friends quickly and easily. Maybe it’s because I got the goose off my back with the Claudia situation, and could then relax and enjoy myself. Expectations were absolutely dropped. But I considered myself blessed. Plans came easily. I usually knew what to do and where to go. I explored Matera, a city of caves. I checked out the pristine beaches of Italy’s heel. I had one last gasp of romance before my trip would end. But most of all, I met a crew.
They were around my age — several Italians and two Brazilians. They were smart, positive, funny. They were happy. They liked their jobs and where they lived. We had stimulating conversations and laughed easily. We got each others’ humor. We did barbecues, beach trips, dinners. And I loved Bari because I could spend my days alone while knowing I had someone to call for dinner that night.
And I’ll tell you this: Sitting with them and having a beer in the piazza after eating fried octopus sandwiches on the sidewalks was infinitely better than any plate of pasta or epic castle I’d experienced before that.
I said I didn’t have a big thunderbolt moment, but that’s a lie.
In my last week, I was listening to Oprah’s podcast. She had the writer David Brooks on, who’d just written The Second Mountain. In his book, he emphasizes the importance of commitment — either to a spouse or relationship, a vocation, a philosophy, or a cause. So in the end of the interview, Oprah asks him: What makes a happy life? Brooks responded by saying (and I’ll paraphrase):
“I’ll tell you what unhappy is. Unhappy is the man going around on his own, drifting in the wind, not tied to anything, keeping his options open. That’s the unhappy man,” he said. “Happy is when you commit to something. When you look at a man and you know where he stands.”
That…was my thunderbolt.
That guy was me. Has been for years. Ever since I got back from Thailand, I’ve had one foot in, never fully committing to anything for fear of missing out on something better. This applied to where I lived, who I dated, what I did for work, everything. I was terrified to commit and to get it wrong.
I’d always fantasized there being something more beautiful or fulfilling out there. That my real life had yet to begin, that the big thing would be happening soon, someday. And you know what? Maybe that’s true. But it’s not here right now. I spent too many years walking in circles waiting for it to come, and it hasn’t. All I can see is what’s in front of me. I see a city. A vocation. The friends I have and the ones I’m looking to build. And I commit myself to it all.
Earlier in the interview, Brooks put it beautifully: “Happiness is a nest of warm relationships,” he said. “It’s when you go from one thing in your day to the next, always content.”
I completely agree. Happiness is a nest of warm relationships.
And now, I’m ready to build mine.
