a bottle of fernet branca
and how it all comes full circle
August and September always, for me, have become the month of changes. I remember moving into my first apartment in Toronto in September of 2017. In September of 2020, I remember publishing my first essay about Our First Muse on Thought Catalog. The following August/September - I booked a one way ticket to Rome (what was supposed to be a 4 night vacation) - and I never looked back. And do you remember my brief, Writing By The Sea stint? That happened last September, too.
I always know August and September are going to bring about something. And I don’t exactly know what that something is going to be. But I realized - I have no choice but to brace for it. My mom used to tell me, “Sometimes, life likes to make decisions for us.” Which, I think, unintentionally, has become my new life motto.
This is my last day in Bordeaux. I went to France - did I tell you? I guess it was one of those spontaneous changes that August brings. And I didn’t want to leave Rome, again. I cried the night before, again. But, because August and September know something that I don’t - Bordeaux has been one of the most beautiful cities I’ve ever had the pleasure of playing house in. I am so happy I came here.
Taylor’s The Prophecy is playing in the background. It’s been my TTPD go-to lately.
Pad around when I get home / I guess a lesser woman would've lost hope / A greater woman wouldn't beg / But I looked to the sky and said / Please / I've been on my knees / Change the prophecy
There are many things that I’m proud of myself for. Navigating airports and love triangles. Booking flights, booking AirBnB’s. Unlocking European doors. Dining alone, drinking alone. Communicating with language barriers. Becoming a regular somewhere(s). Creating a routine, and creating harmony - wherever I am, and wherever I go.
Don't want money / Just someone who wants my company / Let it once be me / Who do I have to speak to / About if they can redo / The prophecy?
But I look around me, and I look at couples who are holding hands and who are sitting across from each other at dinner tables. And I dream of what it would be like. Leaving dinner with the same person, opening up the door to the apartment you two share. A home that’s always there. Hand in hand, your head on his shoulder as you sit on the couch and watch the small logs in a fireplace burn. A calm love. A safe love. A love that doesn’t have to be hidden, a love that doesn’t have to be clutched. And maybe it’s a love that’s immune to the changes of fall.
Cards on the table / Mine play out like fools in a fable, oh / It was sinking in / Slow is the quicksand / Poison blood from the wound of the pricked hand / Oh, still I dream of him
I kept walking by this restaurant all week. It’s on one of the most beautiful streets in Bordeaux, and there was something about it that kept drawing me in. You know when a place just has good energy? When there’s something magnetic about it? So, I googled it when I got home. All five star reviews. And I made a promise to myself that I’d take myself there on a date before I left.
Last night, the waitress seats me in their courtyard. I look up at the clear, cloudless, Bordeaux night sky. There’s wooden tables with lanterns, small vases of dried flowers and names written in cursive on small pieces of chalkboard. Low murmurs of French surround me. I order small plate after small plate. Spicy shishito peppers with sea salt and a yogurt sauce. Tomato carpaccio with fresh heirlooms, jerk chicken that’s been marinated and slow cooked for hours. And two glasses of a light gold Vermentino. The waitress smiles when she clears my plates.
“Looks like you enjoyed everything.”
“This is honestly one of the best meals I’ve ever had.”
“I’ll tell the staff. They’ll be so happy to hear it. We’re a wine bar - so we don’t even have a full kitchen. But everyone who works here is so talented. Dessert?”
I never order dessert. In fact, I never order 3 courses. But tonight feels different.
“The chocolate mousse.”
“And should I bring you a glass of red to go with it?”
“That sounds heavenly.” I always put my hand over my heart in a dramatic (but grateful) effect.
She smiles and walks away. I check my reflection in my phone’s camera. I just got a facial, so I’m completely bare faced. My cheeks are slightly pink, but I’m glowing.
Maybe this is the finale. I think to myself. Maybe this is how the story was supposed to end. Emily was always supposed to end up in Paris.
I smile and rest my chin in the palm of my hand. I lean into the moment. It’s peaceful. It’s calm. It feels safe.
Hand on the throttle / Thought I caught lightning in a bottle, oh / But it's gone again
She’s lucky, isn’t she? She’s found love all over the world. A glass of red in front of her, and maybe one more night in Rome with the Man at the Front. Reuniting with friends and family in Toronto. All of that love that’s been immune to the changes of fall.
Love knows no boundaries. That sign in Australia read.
I breathe in. Why do we always want to talk the people we know we can’t? The ones who live in that cloudless sky. The ones who live in our wine drunk memories.
To tell us what we need to hear.
To tell me what he knows I need to hear.
A greater woman has faith / But even statues crumble if they're made to wait / I'm so afraid I sealed my fate / No sign of soulmates / I'm just a paperweight / In shades of gray / Spending my last coin so someone will tell me
It'll be ok
-
“Have you ever seen The Dark Knight Rises?” He asks me one night.
I stare at him blankly, forgetting he doesn’t know me well enough to know that my movies of choice fall underneath the Romantic Comedy section and rarely span elsewhere.
In fact, I remember opting to not leave my bedroom when my mother chose any one of the Batman movies to watch for family movie night. She loved Bruce Wayne.
“No.”
“The final scene that happens in Florence. Watch it. It reminds me of you.”
“Okay. I’ll add it to my list.”
“Watch it. You’ll know.”
-
I face two of the restaurant’s windows in the courtyard. On the left, various empty bottles of alcohol line the bottom of the window frame. It’s messy, but it’s an aesthetic.
But the window on the right catches my eye. There is just one empty bottle that sits there. A lantern in front of the window has been switched on, so the bottle is aglow.
I associate roses with Rose, and she follows me everywhere. That’s no secret. But I associate one very specific thing with him. Something that I rarely see or find.
And this time, my heart stops.
A bottle of Fernet Branca is sitting there. On top of the windowsill, in the middle of small town in France, completely aglow.
-
“So, what happens in the Florence scene?” A friend fills up my glass with a dark, French red.
“It took me all night to find the script in the scene he was talking about. And then…” The French red is beginning to make me tell a story I swore I’d never share.
I pass him my phone.
Every year, I took a holiday. I went to Florence, there's this cafe, on the banks of the Arno. Every fine evening, I'd sit there and order a Fernet Branca. I had this fantasy, that I would look across the tables and I'd see you there, with a wife and maybe a couple of kids. You wouldn't say anything to me, nor me to you. But we'd both know that you'd made it, that you were happy. I always knew there was nothing here for you, except pain and tragedy. And I wanted something more for you than that. I still do.
-
What would he tell me right now? What is he trying to tell me right now? What is he trying to reassure me of?
In times of change, and in times of uncertainty, in times of uprooting. I could always count on that one corner seat at the bar and him. Comfort. Familiarity. A routine.
I take a bite of dessert, and a sip of the red the waitress has brought over. I stare at that bottle of Fernet Branca. There’s the slightest breeze, and my long hair moves with it.
But for some reason, I don’t feel vulnerable sitting alone anymore.
A greater woman wouldn't beg / But I looked to the sky and said / Please