At the age of 51, my mind shuns all sense of tiredness and seeks respite in the dreams of 30 years ago, looking back to the day I came of age. I told myself then I would travel to all those far-away exotic places that enticed me, promising all manner of delights.

And travelled I have, though seldom where I’d hoped. Only now, in my second half century, can I accept that actually it’s okay not to have been to the Maldives, travelled by Orient Express or stayed at the Ritz. Some day perhaps I will but maybe I’m not so bothered any more.

The journeys I’ve made have been of another, often painful sort, like the first, long haul that awaited me after that momentous birthday, a bleak and sombre journey to maturity, holding my father’s hand as his life on earth came to an all too untimely end.

So the diary of my travels is packed with memories that can’t be captured with a camera … the voices of my Sicilian forebears rebounding among the ruins of Selinunte … the look on the faces of street children visiting from Johannesburg, loath to go back to their dreadful existence … the tears of veterans of the Pachino landing, back on that beach again 60 years on … snowflakes falling on the barbed wire at Auschwitz … and the fears of my companions when the illness that claimed my father came back to beckon me as well. Only I shut my eyes to it.

Having turned 51, my mind attempts to evade weariness and seeks refuge in dreams of 30 years gone, travelling back to the day I came of age. On that day, I told myself I would travel to all those exotic, faraway places that called to me with the promise of fulfilment of every kind.

And travel I did, though seldom of the kind I would have hoped for. Only today, as I enter the second half century of my life, do I accept that it doesn't really matter if I've never been to the Maldives, or taken the Orient Express, or stayed at the Ritz. Maybe I can still do it someday and maybe I don't really care so much any more.

My travels have been of another kind, often wearisome, like the first long journey that awaited me following that fateful anniversary. A rough and gloomy trip to adulthood, hand in hand with a father whose earthly sojourn was coming to a far too premature close.

Thus, in the journal of my travels, I hoard memories that could never be captured by the eye of the camera … the voices of my forebears, echoing among the ruins of Selinunte … the look in the eyes of Johannesburg's street urchins, drawn to us and reluctant to return to the dreadful reality of their lives … the tears in the eyes of the veterans of the landing at Pachino returning to that same beach some 60 years later … the snowflakes settling on the barbed wire at Auschwitz … the fear in the eyes of my fellow travellers of the illness that, having carried away my father, returned to claim me also. But I turned a deaf ear.

Angela ARNONE (Travel diary)

Beyond the age of 51, thought overcomes fatigue seeking solace in the dreams of 30 years ago, returning to the day of my coming of age. That day I told myself that I would travel to all those distant, exotic places that enticed me with all sorts of promises of fulfilment.

And travel I did, but rarely to those places that I had hoped. Only now, entering the second half century of my life, do I accept that it’s all the same that I didn't go the Maldives, that I didn't take the Orient Express, that I didn't stay at the Ritz. Perhaps I still have time and perhaps it doesn’t really matter to me anymore.

There were other, often difficult journeys, such as the first long journey awaiting me after that fateful birthday. A stark, dark journey towards maturity, holding by the hand a father who was coming, all too soon, to the end of his earthly sojourn.

And so I’ve crammed my travel journal with memories that cannot be captured on camera ... the voices of my Sicilian forebears resonating among the ruins of Selinunte ... the expression of the Johannesburg street kids, who came to us and were reluctant to return to their terrible reality … the tears of the veterans of the Pachino landings, returning to that same beach sixty years later … the snow falling on the barbed wire in Auschwitz ... and my travel companions’ fear at the illness, which having first claimed my father, now returned to claim me. But I turned a deaf ear.

Angela Arnone. “Travel journal”.

Diary of a journey

Now that I have I turned 51 I find my mind sidestepping fatigue and seeking refuge in dreams that go back 30 years or so. I recall the day I became an adult, on my eighteenth birthday. I promised myself that day that I would visit all the exotic, far-away places that beckoned with promises of many sorts of weird and wonderful things.

And I must say, I have traveled, but rarely to the places I would have liked. Only now, as I enter the second half-century of my life, can I accept that it doesn’t matter if I haven’t been to the Maldives, or that I’ve never taken the Orient Express nor stayed at the Ritz. Perhaps I still have time to do some of these things, but maybe I don’t even care that much any more.

My travels have instead taken me in other, often painful directions, such as the first, lengthy journey I undertook after that fateful birthday. A bleak, gloomy journey to adulthood, holding my father’s hand as he took his premature leave from the land of the living.

And so, I have stored memories in my travel diary that I couldn’t record with my camera … the voices of my Sicilian ancestors echoing through the crumbling ruins of Selinunte… the expressions of street kids from Johannesburgh who came to stay with us and then didn’t want to return to their terrible lives… the tears of veterans who were in the landing at Pachino and then revisited that very same beach 60 years later… snow falling on barbed wire at Auschwitz… the fear felt by those who were at my side during my voyage into an illness that first took my father and then returned to claim me. But I turned a deaf ear.

After the age of 51, my thoughts escape impending sleep and find refuge in the dreams of 30 years ago, returning to the day when I reached adulthood. On that day I told myself that I was going to travel to all those exotic, far-off places which held such an allure for me with promises of gratification of every kind.

And journeys I made, though rarely those for which I might have hoped. Only now, as I enter the second half-century of my life, do I accept that it doesn’t matter that I have not been to the Maldives, travelled on the Orient Express or stayed at the Ritz. Maybe I still will do and maybe it won’t even matter to me so much.

The journeys were rather different, often arduous like the first long walk which awaited me after that auspicious birthday. A hard, dark journey towards maturity, holding the hand of my father, who ended his stay in this world much too soon.

So, into my travel diary I stash away memories which cannot be captured by a camera ... the voices of my Sicilian grandparents which ring through the ruins of Selinunte ... the sight of the street children of Johannesburg, who came along with us and were reluctant to return to their dreadful way of living ... the tears of the veterans of the landing at Pachino who had returned to that beach after 60 years ... the snowflakes falling on the barbed wire at Auschwitz ... the fear of my travelling companions in the face of the illness which, having claimed my father’s life, had now returned to claim mine. But I wasn’t going to listen to it.


Angela Arnone. "Diario di viaggio" (Travel Diary)

Having reached the age of 51, my thoughts push aside my fatigue, and I take refuge in thirty-year old dreams, returning to the day that I reached the legal age. That day I told myself that I would travel to all of the exotic, far away places that fascinated me, with promises of all sorts of gratification.

And indeed, I have taken trips, but they have rarely been the ones I would have hoped for. Only now, as I enter the second half-century of my life, I accept that it is okay to not have gone to the Maldives, to not have taken a journey on the Orient Express, to not have stayed at the Ritz. Maybe I still have time and perhaps it doesn’t really matter that much to me anymore.

I have taken other trips, often arduous, like that first, long walk that was waiting for me after that fateful birthday. It was a raw and dark journey towards maturity, as I held my father’s hand, his own earthly travels coming to an end much too soon.

And so, my travel diary is crammed with memories that cannot be captured by a camera lens…the voices of my Sicilian ancestors that echo among the ruins of Selinute…the expressions on the faces of the street children from Johannesburg who came to us and were reluctant to return to their dreadful reality… the tears of the veterans in Pachino, who had landed on that same beach 60 years before… snow falling on the barbed wire fence at Auschwitz… the fears of those who had accompanied me on my journey through the illness that claimed my father and returned for me as well. But I have turned a deaf ear.

Angela Arnone “A Travel Diary”