By Anci CL
Immersing myself into our annual Dalmatian getaway is always a little jarring at first—time seems to stand still over here, like we’ve got a foothold in a perpetually sunny Narnia of sorts. I realize life goes on even when I’m away, but I also kind of think that’s bullshit, and that this island only exists for six weeks out of the year. (that’s my self-centeredness talking. Or maybe it’s my science fiction geek.)
I experienced some return anxiety, when I first stepped
through ‘the door’ —I guess I’m never sure what to expect when re-interacting
with ghosts from the past. Not that they
are malevolent ghosts—more like, hormonal, pubescent phantoms that stir
confusion in me, when I see gazes, (and biceps) I recognize.
The women are preternaturally beautiful. I scan their faces
with fascinated distance, and wonder what it would take to join their
ranks—legs that start from their shoulders, and end several miles below sea
level, for starters. (Not to mention a semi-bitchy walk, which my flat feet
can’t pull off, but my ambitious hips perpetually strive for, anyway.)
I am suddenly bombarded with memories I have long-since
forgotten. Riding on the back of a raging rusty motorcycle, gripping onto the
tanned skin of a semi-reckless, sandy-haired driver, whose masculine prowess is
forever set (in my mind) at a hissing,
red “TERRIFYING.”
Then I blink, and I’m
storming away in 17 year old rage when… a boy I “liked” did something
unforgiveable like... use a shitty tone of voice. His indifference clashes with
my leopard print bikini, and my eyes are burning with hot, feminine fury.
I flash forward several years and I’m watching glowing sea
creatures shiver and dance below the surface of the Adriatic, as somebody in the
background strums on an old guitar, and a very drunk friend of mine starts
quietly playing with my hair. I pull
away, and allow him to compose himself but my thoughts are scattered with dull whispers
of Bosnia.
In an instant I am back to 16, holding a trembling flute in
my hand, and feeling relief when my professor praises me. She calls me musical and talented, and this makes
me both elated and nervous. It’s a feeling similar to having a teenage crush, (except
for none of the downsides, and all of the
self esteem.)
Then I’m back in my 20s dancing in a bar surrounded by
friends, knowing this moment would remain forever in an increasingly
inaccessible loop, buried deep in the least reliable parts of my psyche. I am
pained with joy that I will never recapture, and I am simultaneously uplifted
by its fleeting force. More importantly, I am also
uplifted by Jennifer Lopez’ loud clubby beats.
In another instant I am roaming the coast with my friend—her
dark black curls are bouncing with their trademark enthusiasm, while her black
eyes glitter with intelligent mischief. I enjoy having girl-friends like her—sharp,
bright, chatty, and a little bit biting. She is telling me about a Japanese author
she really likes, and I am listening intently, while picking at a scab.
Finally, I am turning 27 ( exactly a year ago) and I am fully
absorbed in the pages of Murakami, while swaying gently in a hammock. I feel
quietly happy, and self assured. Ahead of me is a long year of teaching
children, and snowy days in rural Ohio. But in that moment I am utterly okay
and satisfied, and grown up. The
long-haired waiter stops by and asks if I’d like a refill on my beer, I shake
my head no, and continue swaying before turning the page.
These are all very old memories, but I relive them in every
whiff of sea-air I inhale. I feel both childish and very ancient—like I am
rooted to the earth, simply by existing within this rocky landscape.
But that’s a lot to take in, on my first day back.
