Once Upon A Time…

Once upon a time, there was me—me, who many years ago, when my shrink asked, “What brings you here?” replied, “Wanna learn how to walk through the world on my own two legs.” Back then, I was just over twenty. The range allowed to my legs barely extended beyond the borders of Carrara, where I still live. My therapist and I had set a generous expiration date: my fortieth birthday…

At thirty, I managed to board a plane alone to Rome, to the Casa delle Letterature, for a translation I’d done of an American author. And the taxi driver who took me from the airport into the city said, “Chill out, lady, will ya?”

At forty, I was zigzagging across the USA, making exhausting (well, sort of) back-and-forth trips between Carrara and Las Vegas—a tiny blue dot on Google Maps, darting here and there, recalculating routes and itineraries. And my marriage.

At fifty, I was watching the Red River flow through Hanoi from the airplane window, my tears matching the flow, with Supertramp blasting: Take the long way home…

Once upon a time, there was me, who had a home.

And a superpower: I’d show up at someone’s house without even buzzing the intercom—let alone making an appointment by phone or WhatsApp. I’d just arrive: “Hi! How are you?” And without socially acceptable formulas, you could simply be who you were.

Once upon a time…

Once upon a time, there was me who, when night fell, could hide in someone’s arms so the world would lose sight of me.

Now I take refuge behind Camel smoke—just three, precisely three, split into two-piece segments, so six stops: two halves between five and six, one whole at seven, the rest distributed as needed.

Once upon a time, there was me—who is no longer here. But here’s the thing: I may have lost a lot, but I’ve gained twice as much. Because as Leonardo said, “When you are alone, you are all your own.”