To Camille, there were two types of people: those who sat slovenly on the sunny side of the bench and those who squeezed under the shade of the tree.
I always complain.
In general, I tend to complain a lot. I came up with the understanding, or rather, the best way of justifying myself by saying that the feeling of sadness – preferably referred to as sorrow, melancholy, grief, is the most noble feeling, and that any worthy piece of art has been created by troubled souls.
Misery, is another synonym for it.
Not that I like making my boyfriend assisting at the too-many episodes of me sobbing profoundly after the lady at the cobbler shop had the unfortunate role of informing me that my leather boots could not be repaired. But at the same time, I don’t know how to prevent this from happening.
And besides raising an important issue with this little iconic scene, that is hormones are real for however much we try to avoid talking about them, or worse, suppressing their functions with pills – it also reminds me of the many times I have been coming up with the harsh conclusion of how difficult I find to live in a different country, i.e. Belgium.
It came out in those posts, and during the conversations with people who more or less share my point of view, that it’s been (it is!) very difficult for me to adjust to the behavior and personality usually to be found in Belgians. Like when they don’t let you get out the carriage before getting on the train; when they would pay taxes just because “it’s fair” (I am Italian, you should have a much more solid argument than that); when they never say “hi” and “goodbye” in social situations with limited space, like doctors’ waiting rooms, or elevators. When I raised the last point to a lady here, she admitted she took the habit of saluting after living in Panama. The first times she saw people doing that her reaction was to ask herself whether they actually just knew each other.
This whole strange sense of individuality, sometimes selfishness, together with a very clear perspective of what is the common value, always startles me.
Kind of French, but yet colder: almost Dutch, but less loud. My friends and family in Italy would always refer to me as the one that moved “to the north”. Mostly justified by the lower temperatures and bigger clouds, by which people are effected consequently Despite this parallel being exquisitely synaesthetic, it never really satisfied me the description of Belgians – or Germans, Norwegians, Danish – just being “colder”.
But I know that would feel more at ease hanging out with an Argentinian who was born on the other side of the Ocean, rather than with a Belgian. Don’t get me wrong here: I just feel that we would understand each other better, and not only because Argentina is full of Italians – there are so many here too, as Belgians love eating spaghetti bolognaise.
Some nights ago I attended a Belgian wedding. It’s not the first one I’ve seen here, either as a guest or a server – my boyfriend manages an Irish pub and there have been a few there already. And yet, it’s still strange to me that people choose to have their wedding reception in a pub surrounded by strangers; that they would choose burgers as their dinner; that the thing would last maybe 2 hours and a couple handshakes; or that the bride and the groom wouldn’t get utterly drunk, or smashed, as my boyfriend would say.
And yet, that night something more happened.
The longer I saw that couple – her gorgeous embroidered dress, the shy smile on the face of him – the guests politely asking for orange juice rather than the cava they were offered, the more I saw them all smiling, chatting, joking around with their kids, taking pictures and making some games I could not understand entirely as I still don’t master the language enough – who am I kidding, I don’t have it at all – I noticed that each one of them was connected to the other, they were all living there, that moment, and nobody, and I mean nobody was interacting with a screen and the very distorted image of themselves, the people not there, and the whole world it offers.
I hadn’t fully realized this until I was tidying up the table – I rightfully was too busy before that – and my thoughts went to the approaching wedding me and my boyfriend are going to in Italy, in September, of my cousin. I thought about the very close relatives of my family, especially the ladies, even my mother, flooding their outlets on the fabricated-world online with the best representation their cameras are able to give of their lives. I’ve seen them doing that plenty already; during holidays, dinners at restaurant; times spent together. I haven’t seen many Belgians instead having their meals with their faces stuck to their phones. And I don’t know from where they take all the social confidence that it requires these days, but oh God if I love that.
And if it’s true that Belgians and Italians are so desperately different, the question now is who’s right on what here?
I don’t think I can give this question an answer – nor do I want to, but I am glad that I can see a bit clearer sometimes, and appreciate the cues my surrounding is giving me in the midst of what I consider being a sad moment of my life. Or I should say, a sorrowful one.
Despite those around her see her crouching over her laptop with frowned forehead and bitten lower lip, she sometimes stops her focus on writing to wonder over e-commerce websites, filling up shopping carts she wouldn’t buy.
Ho iniziato a scrivere perché non gliene importava a nessuno.
A nessuno importava mi chiudessi in stanza, impugnassi penna e diario segreto e buttassi su carta pensieri che dovevano, a ragione o meno, venir perpetuati nella mia testa.
Ho iniziato a scrivere perché a nessuno importava spendessi ore ed ore nella revisione di un paragrafo, chilometri di carta ad elaborare schemi secondo i quali sviluppare personaggi in un racconto, interi pomeriggi o comunque più del necessario a struggermi davanti libri tanto belli quanto più famosi dei miei scritti.
Nonostante ciò continuavo a scrivere, e a crescere; a perdere fiducia nelle grandi e piccole cose, nella religione, nella politica, nella famiglia. E quelle pagine fitte di episodi irrilevanti, di vita quotidiana sono rimaste sempre le più oneste.
Nonostante tutto continuo a scrivere, con testardaggine, che abbia ragione o torto, che piaccia o meno, che mi faccia bene o mi distrugga, che mi porti alla miseria o alla fama. Sebbene, o proprio perché, sono ancora tanti a cui non gliene importa nulla.
Continuo a scrivere perché per me è la cosa più bella che esista: che nessuno possa mai entrarci in questo piccolo, complicatissimo universo che ho in testa.
“Anything to add, Laura?”
Laura flinches and looks around at her colleagues, who pretend to be too busy with the papers they have been provided.
She points out at the corner of the room where the spiders have crept in, but their existence can’t be demonstrated any longer.
“Right,” is the one of the last words she will ever hear from Crane.
Thanks to The Devil’s Dictionary
Not without excitement, he had gotten closer to her face, as close he could distinguish the pink powder of make up applied to her cheekbone.
He was caressing her small arm, the daunting afternoon clouds running towards the horizon and with them the remaining of rain; the smell of wet soil filtered by the dead trees’ branches was filling up their silence.
A minuscole dimple encountered in his fondling, he looked down to a tiny white scar on her skin; but kept on cuddling her without talking.