freezing coffee into cubes again
how the umbilical cord never really gets cut maybe no matter how far we go
It is the season of freezing strong coffee into ice cubes and throwing them into cold milk the next day, pouring over some fresh hot coffee to melt the cubes a little, which results in a cold strong drink that reminds me of being fourteen in Italy with Emma and Sara, their mother Doraluz showing us this trick.
On this vacation we were two families renting an old solid rock villa in the Italian hills. It was hot, and a relieve from the heat was provided by a huge tree, a tiny pool, and cold coffee. We would wake up at 11, have a first meal of the day at 12 which consisted of fresh loafs baked by my mother and tomatoes tomatoes tomatoes with mayonaise.
We were four brunette girls, two pairs of sisters, who decided to drag their mattresses into one big room so we could all sleep together. One night, we chose adventure, and we slept outside on the trampoline under a star speckled ceiling.
We visited Rome one day, and a significant decision was made by our parents: we were allowed to venture out alone. It must have had something to do with our pressing desire to visit the Brandy and Melville store -much bigger than the one in Amsterdam- and their reluctance to join us, but it was a big step ahead in terms of independence. Being allowed to roam freely through an unknown metropole in a foreign country without the supervision of adults, meant reaching a new level of autonomy, emancipation, freedom.
I do not remember what we did precisely. I think we did reach Brandy, and probably ate ice cream. I do remember confronting our parents with this memory on later occasions and all of them admitting they felt a bit scared letting their kin venture out of sight, but both sets of parents said that the other parents were relaxed about it so we figured it was okay? A funny prisoners dilemma albeit less strategic.
Fast forward to this June, I am now 24 years old, and again it is a holiday that has made me feel like I unlocked a new level of independence, adulthood, autonomy, freedom.
I went on a trip to the south of France by car. My friend (which is a severe understatement for our relationship) Clara and I drove 17 hours to the last tiny town at the French Mediterranean coast. One bay further, and one found themselves in Spain. One bay up, and one found themselves in Banyuls-sur-Mer (a town I had visited once before on a staff party eating canned shellfish in vinegar in a vineyard, drinking wine from a hand blown glass bottle, being sick, sharing a bed with the Argentinian, not being able to enjoy oysters again for a very long time).
We drove for 17 hours and everybody had warned me how tough it would be and dangerous and we were crazy and would definitely need to sleep in a hotel! To which Clara replied, eh no, I have done this, we can do it, it is fine. And it was so fine.
It is funny how you can feel at once so emancipated from your elders but at the same time realize you are a product of their creation. Like when the sun was rising and I was driving up and down hills on the A75 and Pink Floyd’s live album seemed the only right soundtrack. Or how in the Intermarché, slightly delusional because we drove for seventeen hours I get ecstatic at the sight of all the plump tomatoes.
And Clara, so so so independent, guiding me through péages and gas stations, will play a Dutch musical in which her father sings, and builds breakfast tables they way her mother taught her.
This holiday made me feel so big and rich, indulgent in the best way, realizing we have such a talent for making ourselves happy. Of course we added things of our own, like my parents would not have driven to a specific cave for boxes of wine to drown themselves in, nor would they have folded airplanes out of papers that read their phone number to throw them at some guys at the beach. They probably would not have abducted my sister in the same hangover induced hysteric manner we did, nor would they have manifested the waiter of a restaurant giving them a ride home followed by some skinny dipping. They would not have been pretend-surprised when their hotelier in the Auvergne said he wasn’t familiar with the concept of apéro douche nor would they have made it their goal to impress manu by ordering too many dishes and then also ordering the baba au rum before sprinting out to catch a train. They would not have been seen sing-shouting from Paris to Berlin whilst punching the roof of their car, nor would they have made a cigarette burn in an antique table. They probably would not have spent over a hundred euros in the french pharmacie.
It is a funny realization how a holiday can make you feel so big yet also somewhere so small, when we drive home from Paris, exhausted, and ring up my parents if they can cook us dinner.