I remember leaning my head out in the wind, while driving along the high cliffs, day dreaming over turquoise seas of Amalfi.
I wondered about living off a lighthouse nearby and writing about the people from up high.
What I imagined their lives to be like, their hopes, their loves.
It’s probably why I fell for pretending to be a thousand personalities but longed for a place to belong to all at the same time. My parents believe the best gifts you give are trips to see the world and that’s what we did. I say they instilled in us a wonder for people and lust for places near and far.
How fitting that I would end up in a city like New York. Where one can pry, and disappear, all at the same time.
Image by Mike Perkins
I was born to bright swirls of yellows and greens in the sky, blue bright waves crashing by, Brasil.
My mother remarried and we moved to the States for a safer place to live. When we did, I wanted to be everything American too, like our new grandmother Patsy. A beloved nurse, a wife to a war hero, she was just like the movies.
My sister and I didn’t speak much English then, and we’d sit quietly on the bed watching Patsy put on her drop earrings last. When they came, we were ready.
I’ll never forget our summers spent with her in Texas at the lake. Red hot American days spent eating ice cream and renting VHS tapes from Patsy’s favorite place, the local library.
I remember rushing home to watch Hepburn, Taylor, Vivien Leigh say things and feel things we couldn’t possibly understand.
The only thing that quenched our thirst more then, were Patsy’s famous ice cold, pink lemonades.
The title of this blog is a tribute to her, to American film and the stories of our lives.
Image from Pleasantville