Reflections a year later

So you know what I've learned about finishing a blog and then leaving it dormant on the web? Whenever I tell someone about my blog, or they hear about it, or they stumble upon it, they see the last post I wrote. If they have some time on their hands or want to find something out about me, they'll maybe read a few more posts down the list, but I doubt anyone is going to the older pages unless they fall upon them during an unrelated web search. Why does this matter to me, and why have I decided to break the silence after a year? Well, I could say it's because I miss the act of writing, the catharsis and the thrill of expressing myself to an audience, but these feelings alone were not enough to bring me back. The real reason I have returned to the blog, if only for this post, was to firmly plant something above these numero-centric entries.

What a complete misrepresentation of my blog that all those numbers represent! It was never about the numbers; no, it was about freedom and generosity and the time to stop in the middle of a field, eat a lunch of bread and oranges while sitting on the ground, and take a nap with my backpack as a pillow. It was not about the number of times I stepped in poop or how many football fields I walked; it was about coincidences that made my mouth twitch with joy, about dishes eaten, animals spotted, and ancient ruins explored in awe-inspiring solitude.

This evening, so many days later, I reflect, and not for the first time, on how different my life is now. How different I have become, I would even venture. Somewhere in the process of finding a job in Rome, settling into a life there, yanking myself out right as I truly started to fit in, and finally plopping myself down in New York with no money and no job, I lost the vigorous ebullience that characterized every word of this account. Today I struggle to remain patient as I weave through an endless mass of humanity, cursing under my breath at their comparatively slow pace and forgetting with each passing day how I used to be able to wait three hours without the slightest hint of impatience. Or I feel compelled to spend all my free time in the pursuit of money, simply in order to afford my absurdly overpriced stay here. In the process, I push back the memories of all the lunches I picked from trees and bushes, and how tickled an unexpected cache of blackberries used to make me feel.

Even so, I know deep down that I do not have to act this way. I instinctively make regular contact with my past, and though I am outwardly cursing my own silliness while I type in the familiar address to my own blog, I lose any notion of frivolity once the page loads. In fact, I feel rather as though I have come home from a long and weary journey. My bedroom is the list of old posts at the bottom left, and each month is a box full of my most precious belongings from a bygone day. I pick through them at random, averting my eyes from the page as I click so as to surprise myself with the memory that I find before me. Each post conjures up a plethora of details that remained unwritten, and I form vivid recreations of places and conversations and feelings. Keeping this blog has allowed me to preserve and nurture these priceless memories, and so my attachment to them may explain why it is I recoil at the idea of leaving the blog with facts and figures at the top. No, this was never about the numbers.

Nor is it about lost glory days or a self-pity party! As my father has wisely said on more than one occasion, this is just a small chapter in my life. And I truly feel that my time in Italy was exactly that: a blissful and characteristic encapsulation of the buoyant idealism of my mid-twenties. But now I find myself in the beginning of a new chapter, and though it so far lacks exotic adventures and major physical feats, it is replete with hard-earned lessons, flourishes of hopeless but heartfelt romance, decisions that are presently altering the course of my life, and a brilliantly colorful cast of friends who inspire, respect, and support me.

This new chapter will probably not be recounted in blog form, but the old one stands before you. So if you came because you wanted to learn more about me or my trip, then go read about my frolic with the ibexes, the time 10 euros was taken from me and later returned, my stint on the vineyard, the string of good fortune starting in Salerno, and the group of lifelong friends I made in Reggio Calabria. Read anything you like, but please, whatever you do, don't stop at the numbers!