Well,
I was finally here, sitting at a cafe in the glorious sunshine of one of the most spectacular
areas of Italy, the Amalfi Coast. I was sipping a chilled glass of Prosecco and
overlooking the impossibly blue Tyrrhenian Sea. Ah, pure bliss! La dolce
vita! And that’s when I heard the
strains of the Beatles’ “We all live
in a yellow submarine” shredding the air.
This was my first
clue that perhaps my expectations for this holiday might have been a tad
overblown.
What was I
expecting? An adventure to jump-start my stalling life. Maybe I’d even discover
the purpose of my life, something which has eluded me all these years or at the
very least, experience an epiphany or two. And surely, in the midst of all the
natural beauty and culture, my spirit would be restored and I would recover my
lost optimism, returning home refreshed and inspired. Was this too much to ask?
I happened to be
here because my best friends, four intelligent, fun-loving women, convinced me
this trip was precisely what I needed after a few years of personal turmoil,
including the end of a thirty-year marriage, a traumatic move and a laundry
list of health issues.
A cultural tour
would be ideal, they said. A small group of like-minded people would be much
better than travelling alone, they said. Especially for an artist like you,
they said. (My friends, though well-meaning, tend to have an unrealistically
high opinion of my art.)
I agreed that the idea had some merit, although I was
skeptical of being herded about by a sign-carrying tour guide. On the positive
side, I’d be staying at one hotel the entire time and, most importantly for me,
the itinerary called for a fair amount of free time to satisfy my need for
solitude.
You see, I’m a
bit of a loner and covet solitude above most other things. Don’t misunderstand…
I have friends, as I’ve mentioned, and I generally like most people but
I just can’t be around them for great chunks of time. However, once the
decision was made, I was moderately excited and as enthusiastic as my
personality allowed.
I was at that
stage of my life where parent-child roles sometimes become reversed and during
the last few years, I’d become responsible for my mother’s well-being. I was
looking forward to exploring my own interests without ties or constraints of
any kind.
And OMG (I
recently discovered the language of the internet), how I admire all things
Italian. Italian cuisine, both cooking and eating, has been a life-long
passion. And the music… Italy is the birthplace of opera and Andrea
Bocelli after all. I had even taken an introductory course in the language: Ciao
bella! Vino bianco per favour. Gracie. The words just rolled off my tongue.
Furthermore, I’d
graduated from an admittedly poorly-conducted Sommelier course years ago, writing my final essay on the “Wines
of Italy,” for which I received a basically worthless diploma and a tastevin
to hang around my neck, as if I would.
Still, I was eager to put my dubious expertise to the test.
And of course,
the art, architecture and history of this extraordinary country, all of which I
am genuinely and keenly interested in and pretend are my primary reasons for
choosing Italia.
Just in case you
were wondering if men featured on my list at all, that would be a definitive no,
as in I have no desire to jump off that bridge again any time
soon.
So as I said,
here I was, blissfully alone, except for the group. At our first
gathering, though, it became painfully apparent that an older senior (as opposed
to a junior senior like myself), a lovely white-haired lady the spitting image
of my mother, was the only other person on this tour travelling solo. I admired
her independence, but then Edna attached herself to my side and we became “a
couple” for the duration of the trip.
On one occasion,
the group was shopping along the cobblestone paths of the town and I was
enjoying the sights and sounds, absorbing the colours and storing images in my
memory for future artistic projects. I could feel my blood pressure rising when
Edna called me over to admire some embroidered linens and souvenirs. Deja vu…
and I was back home following my mother through Wal-Mart on the hunt for deals
on bunion plasters.
And so I began to
seek creative ways to extricate myself from the group, though it wasn’t easy
and it certainly didn’t go unnoticed.
To be fair, as a
group, we had some remarkable times. We tasted limoncello while wandering
through a lemon grove on Capri. And we rowed through the caverns of a grotto,
an otherworldly experience of caves, rocks and water that changed colour from
turquoise to emerald green.
We endured a
terror-inducing bus trip along the ragged coastline to stimulating, chaotic,
polluted Naples where we toured the famous National Archaeological Museum and
later enjoyed the equally famous Napoli Pizza Margherita.
Tough-looking kids, often girls, seemed to enjoy passing their time hanging out
of windows or hanging out on sidewalks, cursing at tourists and giving us the
finger. Motorbikes everywhere. Bleating horns.
On another day,
an unforgettable excursion to Pompeii, its tragic history buried in ash for
centuries. Fragmented images of paintings on crumbling blue walls, angels and
erotica. Magical abstract designs created by decay. Pure inspiration for the
artist in me.
But the best
times I recall were those stolen stretches on my own when I sought out slices
of local life to sketch. Vendors at work in their fruit and vegetable stalls;
weather-beaten fishing boats at the marina; lemon trees and bougainvillea.
Perfect moments sitting on rocks by the shore, mesmerized by the tranquil
cerulean waters of the Mediterranean. Or in churches, quiet and cool.
And one happy
day, I became lost as I was exploring, walking on and on but unconcerned,
through ancient stone portals and a maze of narrow alleyways. I finally came
upon a familiar sign of modern civilization: a rainbow of assorted garments,
underwear and such, floating overhead on wires between buildings. And there was
a special evening, the air soft and warm, when I dined alone at a ristorante on
the Piazza Tesso, savouring every delicious bite of my dinner and every sip of
my wine, thoroughly enjoying my own company.
Perfetto.
After I’d been
back home for a while and was looking over my photographs, I realized my
prominent memories were of the incredible things I’d seen and the people I’d
met … the petty annoyances pretty much forgotten, as were the grandiose
expectations which never materialized. This holiday had provided a beautiful,
life-enhancing but temporary distraction, and for that I was grateful.
Yes, I had
travelled with all my personal baggage firmly packed and its burden, though
subtle and simmering just beneath the surface, had remained with me throughout
the trip. Of course it would, wouldn’t it? The truth is that wherever I
go, there I am.
Sharon Chalmers
took a rather lengthy detour in life (20 plus years primarily in the airline
industry) before setting about to rediscover her creative routes, first as
therapy, then for the pure joy of it. The journey led Sharon from calligraphy
to collage to mixed media painting. And finally, to abstract expressionism. More
recently, she’s been exploring creative writing and has rekindled a life-long
enthusiasm for the written word… this time, her own words!”
See Brian Henry’s schedule here, including writing workshops, weekly writing classes, and weekend retreats in Algonquin Park, Bolton, Barrie, Brampton, Burlington, Caledon, Collingwood, Georgetown, Georgina, Guelph, Hamilton, Jackson’s Point, Kingston, Kitchener-Waterloo, London, Midland, Mississauga, Oakville, Ottawa, Peterborough, St. Catharines, Saint John, NB, Sudbury, Toronto, Windsor, Woodstock, Halton, Muskoka, Peel, Simcoe, York Region, the GTA, Ontario and beyond.
