becoming a regular
But you know what I find interesting? How the spaces in which we live can be catalysts for change. Think about it. 6 months ago - who were you? What was happening for you? Which life were you living? 6 months is a very specific time frame. It’s half of a year. It’s spring and it’s summer. And I don’t think we often realize how much we’ve grown until we look back.
In the first week that you move to a new city - you need to establish yourself as a regular somewhere.
The dates can wait. The friendships can wait. We need our regular coffee, our regular cappuccino, and our regular brioche/cornetto/croissant con crema/albicocca spot. We need a corner table to claim ours, in which we will bring our beloved e-reader, because that’s who we are now.
We’re girlies who read and drink cappuccinos first thing, instead of girlies who doomscroll.
I’m reading Dolly Alderton’s “Ghosts”. I’m obsessed. Next on my list is the Elena Ferrante novels. Everyone tells me to read them. I can’t believe I haven’t read those yet.
There is a certain magic in becoming a regular somewhere. And it’s not because you want special attention, but it’s because you want to be known. In a city where you know no one, there’s comfort in finding familiar faces who know your breakfast order without you even having to say it. There’s a certain romance, a certain intimacy to it.
And after three back to back visits, you’re not just another customer, you become someone who they care about.
I came early to the cafe today. I’m thankful for the no cappuccinos past 11 rule, because it forces me to get out of bed when the January sun starts to seep in through the curtains. I could stay in bed forever in the winter, but we have so much life to live. Mainly, I need to get a croissant all’albicocca before they sell out.
I’m a messy croissant eater. The icing sugar and flakes of my croissant spill on to my beloved black coat. I hope no one notices.
“Are you sleeping?” My spiritual friend asks me on a call last night.
“Shockingly, yes. I pass out before midnight and wake up at 8.”
“Maybe the energy is different there.”
The young man who I see at the cafe everyday catches the corner of my eye. “Bonjourno!” We give each other the biggest smiles. I’m home.
-
There’s something about this city that seems to fit seamlessly to me. My friend tells me that I seem happier.
“I’ve been thinking about the next chapter. And I’m starting to think that maybe Rome…is an old chapter.”
My spiritual friend nods in understanding, and doesn’t look surprised.
“Last summer, it always felt like I was pushing a boulder. And it didn’t mean that I didn’t love every minute of it. I did. But there was this… ”
“Limiting energy. And here?”
“It’s…easy. It’s calm. It’s inspirational. The shopping, the fashion, the cafes, the bars. Everyone is friendly. Everyone is beautiful.”
“And isn’t that what life’s all about? To be in flow. To not feel like you have to force.”
Nearly everyone in Rome, except for a select few, told me that I’d hate Milan.
“Once you live in Rome…Milan is just not the same.”
There are so many moments where I wonder what the point of telling people anything at all really is.
It’s all projections, anyway.
“Tell them that Emily Mais is the only one who can make that decision.” My friend from home messages me.
I start to laugh. She’s right.
-
I thought about some of my favourite memories from the summer. One of them took place in the blistering heat of last August. It was my last few days in Rome before I headed to the sea, and I was having a hard time leaving Rome. Namely, I was having a hard time leaving the bar.
In my black strapless top with the sweetheart neckline, high waisted black denim shorts, and pointed snakeskin slingback flats, I was doing my usual - 10 minutes at the bar, 20 minutes outside, 20 minutes at the bar, 10 minutes outside. It’s all about balance. And for a Thursday night, the bar was surprisingly empty.
“Emily, you say home for you is understanding. But for me, home is acceptance. Understanding is - I see you, but there’s still a wall there. Acceptance is - I see you, and I love you for it.”
“And do you have that?” I ask him. “That acceptance.”
“No, and I don’t think I ever will.”
The conversation almost brings me to tears, so I excuse myself outside.
“I don’t understand you.” The Man at the Front opens the door for me. I have PN’s cigarette and red lighter in hand. “Do you just go around, asking people if they’re happy?”
I start to laugh and give him a shrug. PN’s lighter is warm, and I’m dizzy from a few martinis. “Maybe.”
-
“The fire needs to burn inside you.” My spiritual friend tells me. “And that’s what that connection did for you.”
I write it down: the fire needs to burn inside you.
My spiritual friend, she is one who understands me.
She shakes her head. “I really don’t know what this is, or what this was, Emily. It’s like…you both were really, just… going at it at the end.” She motions with her fists, like two bulls in an arena.
I put my head in my hands. “I know. I know.” We both ended up doing the same thing to each other.
“The jealousy, trying to get a rise out of the other person. Getting underneath the other person’s skin. But there’s still some karmic connection, some karmic lesson, some…cord that’s still there.”
-
A few weeks ago, I’m leaned up against that white brick wall, my camel coat wrapped as tightly as it can around my body. I just came back from dinner with a friend, and decided to pop by the bar to hang out with the Man at the Front.
“Meet my friend Emily. She’s Canadian. You can tell by her beauty.” The Man at the Front winks. He introduces me to two guys who have just come outside to smoke.
All three of us stand in a circle, talking. It’s a busy Friday night. People overcrowd the bar and spill into the parking lot outside.
I’m learning about them, where they live, what they do. One is a writer, the other is a filmmaker.
I tell them that I write.
“And what do you write about?”
I can’t tell them that we’re standing outside the subject that I so often write about. “Love. Death. The concept of home. Falling in love with someone you can’t have. Feeling like you’re at home somewhere, but it’s not actually your home. Grasping at different feelings, trying to make sense of it all. But I guess we’re always redefining what home is, and what love is, aren’t we?”
I’m always a little more eloquent and unfiltered past midnight.
The writer raises his eyebrows. “Very complicated subjects.” They’re both intrigued.
The door opens, and PN walks out. He nods to the two guys, he’s been serving them inside.
He looks over at me. Leaned up against that brick wall, I tilt my head and smile, as if greeting an old friend. “Hey.”
He puts his cigarette in his mouth, holds my gaze and smiles back. And maybe we held that gaze for just a nanosecond too long. “Hey.”
“You two know each other?” The writer asks.
Both of us are silent. I decide to stare up at that tower instead. “I just like to pop in here sometimes. After I leave the city for a few months, come back, and then decide to leave again.”
The two friends laugh. Another silence creeps up between all four of us and lingers.
In a quiet voice, he adds, “She’s a regular.” We look at each other, and for some reason, I feel a pang in my heart.
He walks to the other end of the parking lot, and smokes the rest of his cigarette alone.
“So you guys are together?” The writer asks, a tiny smirk forming across his face.
My heart sinks. “What?”
“The bartender. How long have you two been together for?”
“Oh we’re not. No, I -
The filmmaker starts to laugh and nudges his friend. “You’re very perceptive. I picked up on that, too.”
-
“Do you think you can put this on the mantle?” My spiritual friend asks.
I love that analogy. Putting it on the mantle. We’re not putting it away in a box, suppressed in the back of our minds, of our bodies, and of our souls.
What we do so often - that suppression that oftentimes, leads to projection.
But instead, we’re choosing to let it live above the wooden logs and above the cozy flames. We won’t interact with it as much as we once did. It’s still present, but it won’t interfere.
Love lived here. The mantle says. Love didn’t make sense. But it wasn’t meant to. Love came to burn us. But love also came to transform us, we have the scars to prove it.
Remember all the times you became a regular? The mantle says. Remember all the times someone cared for you? All the times you found understanding, all the times you found acceptance. A stranger alone in a foreign country.
And remember all of the times you felt at home.
The old man at the cafe winks at me when I hand over a few euros. His blue eyes are warm and welcoming.
“A doppo, bella.”
It’s not a goodbye, but it’s a see you later, the mantle says.