The title of this post is a little preachy, I know. And as someone who makes a living completely from work done online, it also seems a bit hypocritical. We’ve all heard this countless times already (ironically, on our social media feeds) and videos like this one have gone viral. But it is really difficult to stay away from that device that’s become iconic of our generation, especially as it gets better and better, and as new devices connected to it – I’m thinking of Apple’s new iWatch – are released.
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Amid the chaos – the sawing of the huge tree on the ground, the hoards of people in white, the passerbys with their jugs of communal wine and baskets of fresh bread for the taking – a man’s voice rang out. It was aching, full of passion. Even without speaking Italian I knew that it was a love song, a song for one that was no longer by his side.
I was in the countryside of Basilicata, near Accettura, where the famous Festival of the Marriage of the Trees takes place every summer. Dating back centuries, this festival celebrates the area’s pagan roots. The festival itself is a sight to behold; everyone was in good spirits, and most were drunk well before lunch. What captivated me most, however, was the music that seemed to echo through the forest from all sides, these songs full of such sorrow and heartache.
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There was always something calling me to keep travelling, to keep moving; the nomadic lifestyle appealed more than a sedentary one. That’s why all my paycheques went toward holidays or longer-term travels, and why I spent most of 2010, 2011, and 2012 on the road, with barely any breaks.
But then something changed. And although I’ve been realising the change for the last year, as I watched London go by from the cab window yesterday it all was achingly clear: I’m not ready to leave this place. I really like this place. I think that, for all of the wanderlust still in my bones, I want to settle in this place. Permanently.
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The last time I saw you, you were walking away from my flat, waving. As you turned the corner I still had a smile on my face. And then – you disappeared.
We met in a crowded east London bar over the thud of dance music and the raucous laughter of those still drinking at 3am. The next day I could barely remember your face, but knew you were tall and Scottish. I remembered giving you my number and laughed out loud; as if you’d ever call, I thought. As if you’d ever call.
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When I was in Basilicata in early June, I had the opportunity to visit Palazzo Margherita in Bernalda. There is no way to describe this hotel other than to say it is absolutely exquisite. Owned by Francis Ford Coppola, it feels much more like a beautiful Italian home than a hotel, which is because it is exactly that; the Coppola family stays there when they are in Italy.
The kitchen, then, is exactly what you would imagine of such a gorgeous estate: large and welcoming, with lots of fresh ingredients. I was a bit nervous knowing that I would learn how to make pasta here – did I really deserve to be in this kitchen, run by some of the best chefs in the country?
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Sometimes I say things like, “One of the reasons I am able to save money to travel is that I don’t spend money on other things, like shoes,” but then I look through my photos and realise that I have bought a lot of shoes in my life, so my point is moot. Almost all of these were bought on the road, and almost all of these died on the road.