Birthdays, Christmas, and Everything In Between

25/12/2020 – It’s Christmas.
As long as I remember, I always imagined myself as an accomplished, independent woman, the one who not only can do everything, but can do everything with a smile on her face, casually, with the left hand and eyes closed.
I say I imagined myself like that, I don’t say that I am.

With that idea, I entered Christmas 2020, my first Christmas in an Italian version. Covid, borders are closed, Bosnia and Herzegovina is in the highest risk category according to the Italian government, which in practice means that if I go home, on return I face 40 days of quarantine, tests and real possibility that I cannot continue my life normally.
I won’t be able to go to work, I will lose everything I worked hard for.
Going back to the old, honestly, was not an option.

And so, with exactly zero Italian friends, I realized I have nowhere to go, so I “decided” that it is not a problem for me to spend Christmas far from my family, completely alone, without the shine of the Christmas lights, without Mađarica, without an Instagram story where I am driving while snow is falling and Chris Rea is singing Driving Home for Christmas in the background.

Be careful what you wish for

I am happy because I am eating panettone – Christmas calories don’t count, neither in Bosnia nor here. On the first bite, the taste of industry from Despar doesn’t bother me – ok, it’s not my mum’s Mađarica, but I am a big girl.

I sat on the window and called my parents. I poured wine into one of my two glasses. We talked on video call, pretending it’s not a big deal. Of course, the glass was not allowed to be seen, because Balkan parents – you remember?

And so, the rest of the day passed with Friends or some sitcom like that. I think in the evening I even went running.
And ok, at that moment it didn’t feel like a big deal. I wanted a new life, new people… apparently that also includes Christmas alone.

Good Hair, Bad Timing

My birthday is only two months after Christmas. In the middle of February winter. In general, I don’t like birthdays, especially in recent years, as I am getting closer to another round number. February in Trieste is not pleasant, I will just say that.

The Trieste bora hits with full force, without mercy, not sparing anything or anyone. And so, that year it didn’t spare me either — on my birthday it knocked out the heating in my apartment.

I woke up in a freezing apartment, with no plans at all. By then my skin got a bit thicker so I didn’t feel sorry for myself.

At least not until I got up. Dear God. Ok, fine — let me not have friends and cake. Let me not have someone I love — or at least like — to go for an Aperol and toast another year, but not even heating? In that cold I washed my hair — I can’t go out messy on my birthday — and I sent two messages.

One to the repair guy, begging him to come and fix the caldaia, and the other to one guy from the course — to ask him if he is up for aperitivo.

He was actually a good guy. Probably a better person than me. Just not my match.
And I guess I tested that question firsthand — is it worse to be alone or in the wrong company.
The moment I sat down for the aperitivo, I knew.
I lasted maybe thirty minutes, made an excuse, and left.

I didn’t even tell him it was my birthday.

The Things That Stay Behind

I didn’t think about it then as something big. There were no tears, no special moment of realization. Just one Christmas and one birthday that passed more quietly than I’m used to.

But somewhere between the panettone from Despar and the cold apartment without heating, I started to understand that a new life doesn’t come with everything the old one had. Some things just stay where you left them.

P.S. About twenty days after my birthday, a real, proper letter arrived.

My Amila sent me a birthday card to Italy.

That’s when I cried.

You can stay. I won’t treat you like the guy and leave after thirty minutes.

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