volume fourteen: capocesto

ten years and counting. instead of empty words of what could have been let’s focus on what can be.

capocesto. sitting at tonkica’s but the little dog is not here anymore. I have ordered my usual bruschetta and wine. they bring real bread and I can smell the tomatoes from the kitchen. freshly cut garlic and parsley. this little restaurant is too simple to be called that. improvised chairs and tables; the kitchen is inside an old stone house. there is all together ten seats to be served if at all. but it is one of my favorite places in the world. I keep coming back because of its simplicity.

I’m inspired. by the fresh air, seawater, open sea, sunsets, sunrises, seashells, blue, yellow, fire red and orange, red wine, white wine, the locals, the foreigners, fresh produce, even the feeling of being at home alone inspires me. my home and the house that represents it inspires me. old photographs stashed in boxes at the bottom of old vitrines. bowls and plates that hang on the walls. personally I would never use them as a decoration but it is part of it. part of this culture here. cocktail umbrellas hanging in the outdoor kitchen. I love my loft apartment. I love sitting on the terrace, sometimes until the small hours of the morning because I can’t sleep. I love waking up each morning at the same time, knowing there are no obligations or responsibilities waiting for me. apart from swimming, walking, reading, writing and spending time with my grandparents.

it is as though I am allowed to be a kid for a little longer even though things have changed. but that’s okay to some extent. a live band down the street at the tiny square is playing black magic woman. it reminds me of hot hong kong nights and I smile because this particular song has many memories attached to it. at the same time that whole world over there seems so far away. like a life of someone else. dalmatian folk replaces santana; I am back to where I am physically. people chatting around me, laughing, walking past. the locals speaking loud in a dialect that is unlike any other dialect on the balkan peninsula. a sing song of sorts.

it is dark by now but I can see my words clearly. I wish I could freeze this moment. put it in a glass bottle and take it with me anywhere I go. any time I start missing home, I could open up the bottle and breathe in the scents. then I’d put everything back and cork the bottle carefully. I am looking down the street and I imagine seasons of the year moving across the sky. changing, one after another. every time it is summer the picture pauses for a few seconds and then everything continues. in our hearts the summer always lasts a little longer. spring, summer, fall, winter. entire years pass by but the street never changes. eventually when I get too old and my memories fade, I could send the bottle out on the sea and let someone else have it. let someone else know what it’s like to feel home.

September 11, 2011