My friends, back in Italy and all over the world, they call me "the vagabond"; nobody knows exactly when I will leave but it is a given that the day will come.
I was born in Autumn, the Luna Park was in town. Lights and screams filled the night, the kids pirouetting on the rides, their hands sticky with cotton candy.
As a kid I lived on the "street of the thousand turns", the hospital and the school on one end, my family house on the other, with mamma, papà and nonna Valentina. My grandma grew up under the bombs, taking care of her siblings and selling salt to buy bread. She would tell me this story every day, while she was busy knitting and me daydreaming, browsing my sticker books.
I was 4 and my cousin was 10 when she unveiled to me the secrets of the alphabet. I loved to help her doing homework, feeling the weight of the dictionary and its slim pages.
My primary teacher said of me:
"Bookworm Lisa, she will be a writer some day"
so don't be surprised if you find me here today to tell you that's what I want to be.
The day after my Bachelor Degree in Clinical Psychology I carried a backpack and left to go see for myself what was there to find. It turns out there's a lot more than I imagined around the corner. Twelve years on, and I'm still not at peace that it's not possible to see all there is to see.
I am sure about very few things in life, but I know for sure that I've been to 32 countries, I speak three and a half languages, I hate tourists and signed contracts. At some point in my life, you could have met me publishing scientific papers, cleaning hostel toilets, serving tacos y guacamole barefoot. I laid awake at night wondering the mystery of human relations, genetic disorders, and falling stars. I swam with mantas, I smoked a cigar, I jumped off a plane... the biggest rush remains meeting my friends again.
Will I move back to Italy at some point? I would love to eat lasagna and prosciutto round the clock. I would wait for Saturday afternoons, when Fede and I warm up in the sun, looking at passersby and gossiping, spread on the wicker chairs at Caffè Europa. And yet, somehow, I find myself going back to Canada, again and again. I wonder if it has anything to do with that funny cute character who lives up there and whom I accidentally fell in love with.
And so here you find me, writing from a little window overlooking the maple woods, plotting new exotic adventures and making my dreams come true.