Solo ♥ traveller – Settembre 2013
In Çeşme, the Havas driver kept repeating his only English phrase: You sit down. He laughed, waved his hand, and made me wait. Behind me, a Spanish couple tried false descents, impatient to arrive. But my eyes were fixed on Chios, shimmering in the distance, as if a spell might steal it away.
That first image — the island waiting across the water — carved itself into me like wax under flame. Even if I return one day by yacht or limousine, Çeşme will always live in those few hundred meters between the bus station and the quay, and in the magic of the Turkish Coast Guard who escorted me to the ferry.
Then came the scents: sea, diesel, roasted meat. A wedding procession of red tulle and joyous racket. Memories layered over memories — my father kicking the wheels of our car in Villa San Giovanni, my own wedding in New Orleans. Journeys overlap, grooves of life etched one into another.
Joyce’s Eveline* could not leave her safe home; she clung to the railing, paralyzed by fear. But I did leave. I crossed the water. And in that crossing, I discovered the true gift of solo travel: the courage to say yes, the wonder of arriving, the magic of belonging to the world.
“She had consented to go away, to leave her home. Was that a wise thing? She had tried to weigh every side of the question. At home, after all, she had a roof and food; she was surrounded by everything she had known all her life. Naturally she had to work hard, both at home and at the shop. What would they say of her at the store when they found out she had run off with a fellow? They would say she was a fool, perhaps.”
In Joyce’s time, leaving the island — to leave Ireland, a safe home — and going West, toward the place of non‑rebirth, was a grave sin: a challenge to the Almighty, a challenge to the homeland, a challenge to the world. That is why Eveline cannot do it, and from her incapacity is born one of the most intense pages the twentieth century would give to literature, and its author to the science of the human soul.
“She felt her cheeks pale and cold, and in the midst of her mental confusion she prayed to God to direct her, to show her what her duty was. The ship blew a long, sad whistle into the fog. If she went the next day she would be at sea with Frank, bound for Buenos Aires. Their place had been booked. Could she draw back after all he had done for her? The confusion made her body feel sick and she kept moving her lips in silent, fervent prayer. A bell rang in her heart. She felt him seize her hand: ‘Come.’ All the seas of the world flooded her heart. He was drawing her toward them: he would drown her. She gripped the iron railing with both hands. ‘Come.’ No! No! No! It was impossible. Her hands clutched the iron frantically. Amid the seas she uttered a cry of anguish. ‘Eveline! Evvy!’ He rushed beyond the barrier and called to her to follow. He was shouted at to go on, but he still called her. She set her white face toward him, passive, like a helpless animal. Her eyes gave him no sign of love or farewell or recognition.”
(J. Joyce, The Dubliners, Traduzione di Corinzia Monforte.)
“Come.”
All the seas of the world flooded her heart. He was pushing her toward them: he would drown her. She clutched the railing with both hands. “Come.” No! No! No! It was impossible. Her hands clung frantically to the iron. Amid the seas she uttered a cry of anguish. “Eveline! Evvy!” He sprang beyond the barrier and shouted for her to follow. He was told to go on, but still he called to her. She set her pale face toward him, passive, like a helpless animal. Her eyes gave him no sign of love or farewell or recognition.
But I awoke to a different, brighter reality. This girl, with her hands on the railing and the waves behind her, reminded me: she is not Eveline—and I am no longer her either. I am a solo traveler now, proud and conscious of my solitude, carrying it not as a burden but as a strength.
