We’re on the road. We left Greece a couple of weeks ago for the first time in over a year to travel to Italy overland to see my parents and meet my brother’s daughter, Ines, who was born five months ago.
Those 14 months in Greece were the longest I stayed put in my adult life. This may not come as a surprise, if you’ve been following my work for a while. You may remember that my son Lorenzo was born while we were housesitting in Umbria, central Italy, and lived in that home until he was three months old. We didn’t have a fixed address again until we decided to settle in Greece between lockdowns. If you’re new to this space, however, let me tell you that I was born in Naples, in southern Italy, and I left when I was 17 to study abroad. It was 1999. Since then, I’ve lived in a dozen countries across the Americas and Europe for studies, work and love.
After meeting Nacho, my Argentine partner, who’s also a journalist, we decided to live out of suitcases while pursuing writing projects. Friends would tell us that we would stop once we had a child. Now they tell us we will stop when Lorenzo starts primary school. My father has given up guessing the future and has settled for calling us hippies.
When Lorenzo was born, we did not stop travelling. He came along with us during work trips to Lampedusa and Amsterdam, to conferences in Switzerland and Sweden, to visits with friends and family in France, Germany and Argentina. I sometimes worried whether this nomadic lifestyle was too much for him, but I usually concluded that travelling was an intrinsic part of my life I couldn’t shelter him from.
After so much movement, staying put in Greece felt strange but also quite natural. There was the pandemic, of course, and a lengthy lockdown. We dealt with a tough year: I lost my job at …