Curious Conversation About 'Eat, Pray, Love'

Eat, Pray, Escape ... The movie...

The other day someone asked me what immediately comes to mind when I imagine my life from this day forward (I'm not going to get into the circumstances of who asked me and why, so just bear with me). I immediately responded by saying something along the lines of, "writing, traveling, eating, drinking...At the end of the day, my sig other and I head out for some red wine and a nice dinner under a moonlit night somewhere in Italy, or France, or South America, or..." well, you get the picture.

The woman who asked me the question assumed a kind of sour puss, shook her head, said, "Eat, Pray, Love...That's you. I hated that book."

I said, "I read it, and I liked it." Me, smiling, like, lighten up already.

She said, "Selfish. The writer of that book gave up everything so she could pursue only what she wanted in life."

I said, "But it's her life. The only one she's got. Maybe she gave up what she didn't want anymore, so that she could gain the world."

The woman shook her head once more, checked the time on her wristwatch, then quickly changed the subject.

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Where the Home Is

People ask me...and ask me often I might add...if I have a home.

An editor for a magazine I work for referred to me in a nice way as a vagabond, and a fellow author posted in Facebook just the other day , "Does Vince even have a home?" My sig other got a little frustrated with me about month or so ago when she shook her head saying, "I feel like I'm living with a nomad."

I assure you I'm neither a vagabond, nor a nomad, and I do have a home, even if the home I live in is not my own. This goes for both my studio and said sig other's place of residence. I will admit, having been on the road for months and months over the past five years has begun to make me feel like I don't have one place in the world that I can call my own, so much as places I can return to, to sleep, to wash my clothes, and to be cared for by others while I care for them. But always in the back and fore of my mind are thoughts and dreams of where I might escape to next.

Italy has been a great place to escape to. Florence in particular. It's a good place to write and a good place to think. Its cobblestones seem to resonate with the inspiration that so motivated DaVinci, Machiavelli, Dante, and yeah, Zandri. I wrote Blue Moonlight here which takes place in part in Florence. There isn't a time I don't walk past the Duomo in Piazza Dell Duomo and picture Dick Moonlight being chased by two Russian mobsters on top of the dome, a la Alfred Hitchock. For me, this is more than a place for escape, it is romance and intrigue. A place where, in the fall as the rains come and darkness settles in early, men don their leather coats, scarves and black watch caps, while the women put on their black leggings, short wool skirts, and tall black leather boots. 

Other places have been good for escape and writing. Paris is one of them. I even wrote well in Cairo, but always there was this sense that the barrel of an AK was staring me down. There is West Africa, and Moscow, and Athens, and even Lima. I've written in many places, but none of them I refer to as home. I will always consider them escapes regardless of the reason I go there.

In January I will return the US and my day will be the same as it is here in Florence. The only difference will be that at the beginning and end of the working day I won't hear the bells ringing from the Cathedral, nor will I make out the click-clack of the women's high heels pacing past my open French windows, nor will the street lamps shine down on the damp glazed stone in a way you never get sick of looking at. The voices will not speak Italian and the smells of olive oil and garlic cooking will not fill my head and make my mouth water. But when I look up on a clear night and see the same moon that we all see the world over wherever we lay our heads, I will know that I am never far from anywhere I call home.

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Travel Day

In 1937 the young journalist Martha Gellhorn traveled to Spain to to observe the Spanish Civil War and to get a little private face-time with Ernest Hemingway. She carried only a knapsack, a portable typewriter, and fifty dollars in her pocket. I think for Martha, or Marty as Ernest would call her, it wasn't what she brought along on her travels that bore importance, it was more about what she left behind. There's nothing romantic in packing up your entire apartment and dragging it along with you on your travels. Far more romantic to leave it all behind. Everything.

Martha would become a life-long traveler, never staying in one place for very long. She would go on to have homes in Cuba, Mexico, Rome, East Africa, and eventually London. Her homes were always small if not humble and in terms of mod cons, sparsely equipped. Instead the layover-homes contained the essentials for a writer who spent most of her time on the move: books, a typewriter, booze, and an ashtray for her never ending cigarette. Even into her late eighties she was always ready to travel at a moment's notice and often found herself making difficult journeys on her own dime in order to research a new novel she was writing or to find the truth behind an armed conflict or the resulting carnage of that conflict.

She had a son, Sandy (adopted), but she would claim herself to be the worst mother in the world. She had several husbands (including Hemingway), but she would claim to not only be a poor wife, but also very bad in bed. Once, she spent a couple of years playing the house-frau to the then editor and chief of Time Magazine, complete with weekend house parties in the suburbs and she nearly committed suicide from the boredom and despair. I think it safe to say that Martha Gellhorn was not the domestic type.

I've just packed my knapsack. I have considerably more than fifty bucks stuffed in my pocket, but given the more than three quarters of a century that's lapsed in between 1937 and now, I'm not carrying much more than its 2013 equivalent. I'm heading back to Italy for two months and then onto France for the New Years. When I'm gone I will be rewriting two books, MOONLIGHT WEEPS and THE BREAKUP. I'll also be mapping out another new standalone that at present has no title. I'll be taking care of my normal journalistic duties for some magazines I work for (I have a deadline tomorrow which I'll make as a soon as I land in Rome). It will be a busy time that will also include some four-wheeling in the Tuscan Mountains and short trips to other countries. Traveling light without the burden of possessions is important. Traveling without regret is essential.

I'm not sure who pointed out to me that if sharks don't move forward they die. Probably some dude in a bar. But no one wants to be that dead shark laid out on the couch watching the flat screen in his living room whispering shoulda, coulda, woulda. Not me anyway.

Passport...check.
Boarding pass...check.
Wallet and euros...check.
Kindle...check.
Backpack...check.
Laptop...check.

I'm off to the airport.
So long and farewell.

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