#6 Eggs

Hey there,

I got a writer’s block. Or maybe not a block, more like a lack of bandwidth.
Who has time to write about trivial things when your to-do list is longer than you can manage?

That’s the problem with being too optimistic about your future self.
You think: That’s a problem for tomorrow-Thaina. But then tomorrow shows up, and it hits hard.

Currently typing this on a train, which makes me realize that most of this recent unbalance comes from booking too many trips too close together.
And as boring as I sound, that always wrecks me, because I love routine.

You see, there’s often a gap between how we picture ourselves and who we really are.
I always saw myself as the adventurous type, traveling, going places, living abroad, all that shit. But the older I get, the more I want continuity.

Like having the same breakfast every day (yes, every day). Two scrambled eggs, a little salt. Two slices of brown bread with raspberry jam. A glass of juice with all my supplements. A cup of coffee.
It gives me peace. Maybe even a little control over the external chaos.

Don’t get me wrong, I still love traveling. I really do.
But I never wish I stayed longer.
Travel should feel like a small dose of wonder, a little memory. Something that leaves you with saudade, that bittersweet longing for something (or somewhere) that may never return.

Some cheesy quotes just stick with you. I remember spotting one during a trip to Venezia which instantly made me snap a picture of it.
It was post-Covid, a warm summer afternoon and the city almost empty, which is a rare occasion that probably won’t happen again. There was this softness in the air. The kind that makes you order dessert after your meal.

Partire per imparare a restare.

Partire.
Why do we travel? That could be an essay in itself.
Often, it’s just a disguised escape, a break from your own life. But for me, it’s also like peeking into an alternate version of it.

Like going to Belluno and imagining a slower routine, picking up new hobbies, getting into hiking. What would life be like if I lived here? Or if I were born here?
But then Sunday came, and I just wanted to be back. Back in my house, my bed, and my two eggs in the morning.

Imparare a restare.
I left home when I was 18. And between leaving, returning, and leaving again, I’ve come to see how beautiful it is to grow roots (again) somewhere.

I’m still learning how to stay. I love getting to know my friends more deeply. Watching their kids grow into new personalities. Feeling part of something, build something.

Restare is also in the small quirky things like saying hello to the local coffee place, which religiously goes like this: “Buongiorno, come state?” “Bene bene, tu?” “Bene, tutto bene. Allora buona giornata!” “A te!”.

Partire per imparare a restare.

But sometimes I wonder if I’m not learning to stay too much.
Am I getting too comfortable? Do I need to keep moving?
And how do you even tell appreciation and complacency apart? Boh.

Maybe I’m just getting old.
But when the noise gets too loud, I know exactly where to go.

I walk into the gym. Andrea might offer me a coffee, ask how I’m doing. I’ll have random chats with random people. Then I’ll step onto the mat, and all the noise disappears.

A problem for tomorrow-Thaina.

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Technique of the week: stacks & double unders

Things that made me happy: swimming in the Dolomiti

Gratitude moment: honestly? air conditioning