Not everything on this blog is about vegan food.
I’ve been writing on this platform for 15 years. When you write with passion, belief, and honesty for that amount of time, elements of your personal story make their way into the space no matter if you intend for it to happen or not.
Over the years as FGV, I’ve shared my concerns for the future of the planet, my journeys and relationships, and my physical and mental health struggles. I’ve enjoyed sharing personal insights with my readers and I feel it is this openness that has kept so many of you connected and coming back for a decade and a half.
In the spirit of (over)sharing, I want to take a slight detour from business as usual today to share with you a personal story that means a lot to me.
Read more below.
The simple overview of the blog post is that I recently visited a stunning Italian village called San Fruttuoso. But to give you the deeper emotional understanding of this experience, I need to take you back in time a few decades.
If you read my book, you might recall a personal anecdote in which I describe a troubled childhood in Australia. Broken home is a term meant to convey a dysfunctional and unstable upbringing, whereas my early years were in absolute pieces.
There is a lot of trauma to unpack to do the full story justice, so for the sake of getting my point across today I’ll attempt to share only the relevant parts.
For a period of time during my early years, my mother and I were homeless and lived in a tent in a caravan park in an Australian seaside town. I suppose a tent means we weren’t technically homeless but for a young queer boy with an already hyper-developed fear of abandonment and physical violence, I certainly felt as though I didn’t have a home.
Life in the transient and often dangerous community of the caravan park had its ups and downs. Living in the outdoors meant my curious young mind was filled with the awe-inspiring sights, sounds, and smells of the ocean but also resulted in me having to hold tightly to all my worldly belongs if a tropical storm front swept in off the bay.
I met interesting people from all over the planet while I also had to navigate public shower blocks with creepy men, or took guidance and friendship from other troubled children who were in even more precarious and troubled situations. Life on the beach without a bricks and mortar home was a rollercoaster of emotions and experiences. One day I would be frolicking in the warm water while the next I was running away from strange men trying to spend time with children they didn’t know.
It was kind of what I imagine the wild west to be like, except with a sea breeze and lots more AC/DC pumping out of car stereos.
My mother took a job cleaning in a university and for a while this meant her leaving our tent before I was awake. My responsibility on these mornings was to wake myself, dress for school, secure the tent by lacing the ropes, cross the street for breakfast at the bakery (a can of lemonade and a sugared donut), and head to school. I was not yet 10 years old.
These mornings forced me into a heightened state of vigilance that I haven’t been able to shake even into my 50s. As a child who had no proper home, I was scared all the time. Scared of being hurt by strangers. Scared of the people I knew who were violent, notably my biological father. Scared of the sharks in the water just a few steps from my bed. Scared of the angry young men in my town who drove noisy cars. Scared of having to shower in the public toilets. Scared of drowning in the sea. Scared of being poor. Scared of being alone. So deeply scared of being alone.
We didn’t have a lot of money which translated into me not having many or any toys. Maybe this was a good thing as there wasn’t a lot of storage space in the tent. To counter not having disposable income, my mother would bring home found items from the university offices she was tasked with cleaning. Trinkets that she thought would bring me some comfort or interest me.
One such item was a postcard she found in one of the waste paper bins she was emptying. I didn’t know it at the time, but this discarded postcard would become a symbol of resilience throughout my life.
The reverse side of the postcard was addressed to a lecturer at the university with a simple message wishing them greetings from sunny Italy. However, it was the photo on the front showing an impossibly beautiful village framed by wilderness and tranquil turquoise water that captured my heart.
For decades I held onto this postcard as a form of escapism as it was a way of instantly transporting myself from the trials and tribulations of real life. I would stare at the enticing sea and imagine my life without pain, without fear, without hunger, without worry, without abuse. My young brain found comfort in the mystery and romance of the photo. It was a a beacon of hope that a poor child living in a tent in a rough part of suburban Australia might one day find a way to feel happy and safe.
I have memories of sitting on the cliffs overlooking the beach I called home, breathing in the salt spray and soaking up the scorching sun. The airplanes banking overhead into the bluest of blue skies were another sliver of hope and escapism I relied upon. My mind would fill with imagined stories of the people on those planes and wonder if any of them were heading to that seaside village in Italy. Did they know about this magical place?
The postcard became part of me. To this very day it is the only keepsake or physical item I have from my childhood. I have no photos, no toys, no mementos but I have that postcard. Through the most difficult moments of my life, I’ve somehow managed to keep ownership of that small item.
It wasn’t meant for me but the postcard morphed into an emotional anchor as life continued to push, pull, and pummel me. I’ve moved countries, I’ve been hospitalised, I’ve battled for better physical and mental health outcomes for myself, I’ve ended relationships, I’ve lost friends, and I’ve struggled with finances but I somehow still have that postcard. Heck, I don’t even have a relationship with my mother anymore but that postcard lives on!
So, is there a happy ending?
I don’t know if I believe in happy endings, but in my 51st year on this planet I was able to finally channel all of that longing, wishing, and childlike escapism and turn it into a joyous, real life experience.
A few weeks ago I visited San Fruttuoso, Italy.
The most obvious thing I need to say it how breathtakingly stunning it was and how it looked exactly like my postcard. Actually, it was more beautiful than my postcard and more beautiful that I had imagined it would be when I got there. The warm water was crystal clear, fish swam between my legs, goats scrambled along the rocks, and I enjoyed one of the happiest weeks of my life.
For me this was not only the ultimate bucket list experience, but a manifestation of my resilience. I was on that beach and in the water of my childhood fantasies because I was finally in a strong enough emotional position to make it come true. I keep coming back to the word resilience over and over again because it feels the most fitting descriptor.
Maybe this dream was always going to come true, I just needed to hold on long enough.
Extra notes:
Yes, my postcard made it to San Fruttuoso with me! Hahahaha. I don’t know why I wanted to take it but it felt like part of the full circle moment.
For anyone inspired to visit this village, it is only accessible via boat or a long hike. It is extremely expensive to stay in the village as I did, but I figured a few months of paying off this trip was justified considering how much it meant to me.
I mentioned in the post that I no longer have relationship with my mother. I know the curious out there always want to know so I’ll say that she made choices in life that weren’t in the best interests of me and my siblings so I distanced myself.
If anyone was moved by my story and happens to be extremely wealthy, there is a cute two-bedroom flat for sale in San Fruttuoso and I am not too proud to accept it as a gift! Hahahaha
If you have any stories of fulfilling lifelong goals or dreams, I’d love to hear about them in the comments.
You can watch me discuss my visit to San Fruttuoso via this video. I’ve linked to the relevant section to save you sitting through the intro!
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