Not every COVID-19 memories have to be a sad one. Here’s how my quest for meaning in Sicily enlightened a dark period for me.

I remember the yellow daisies.

I remember the way their delicate arms brushed against their neighboring friends, which in turn made an entire army of millions of daisies sway in unison. The endless sky was bluer than the Sicilian waves crashing below on this one, fine April day.

Maybe one cloud was hovering sleeplessly over this preserved national park of Siracusa, where I was strolling with my Italian friend. As spiritual and hippie-like as he may be, he calmly kept telling me to listen attentively to the whispering wind, those harmonzing bees, that distant siren of the sea calling.

We were near the ancient town of Siracusa where it was as dead asleep as the next person infected with COVID. That is because this story occurred during that memorable summer of 2022 when red zones flooded much of southern Europe, Italy being the hardest hit with COVID-19 lockdowns.

And yet, there I was, fluttering like a butterfly through rays of endearing sunshine, bare skin and bones, with my local Airbnb host.

What was I doing out of the house? How did I escape Dutch lockdown? Where were my pants? All really great questions, but me reflecting back on this beautiful memory three years later doesn’t help.

I do know that I was privileged enough, let’s say, to arrive at a point in my career where I could work remotely. At the same time, I managed to either schedule enough vacine booster shots or travel documents in — one or both — some order.

I found myself solo backpacking to Sicily in this period, after eyeballing Google Maps on a given random Tuesday and deciding to take myself somewhere unfamiliar, far, but not too far.

I rented an Airbnb, an entire flat to myself, in the dead center of then-ghost-town Siracusa, or Syracuse, as Italians prefer. The one of three bars a stone’s throw away would open around 5 PM, after the fireball blazing over the entire island sizzled down.

I was also a bit lost in my life at this time. I enjoyed my job and my team, but I felt incomplete, always in need of something more. Maybe more authentic, different. So I jumped on that plane down, down, down from Amsterdam to this strip of land below the boot of Italy, just to work smarter through a change of scenery. But those quiet days in solitude, fortunately, turned into quiet luxury.

My Airbnb host was, fittingly, Fabio. I’m vaguely familiar with the actor, but if you recall, Fabio Lanzoni is among the popular icons of 90s romance novels, making half of us American women swoon over anything on a horse with a ponytail (of the men’s hair). Let’s call my host and friend Fabio while we’re at it.

My Fabio opened that door after nearly an hour of me sweating through town, lost, trying to find his Airbnb address, wearing an old leathery bike jacket, loose 80s denim, and his mane folded behind his ears. I wasn’t immediately in love or attracted to him, but I was surely not expecting a decent-looking male host. Again — COVID, lockdown, ghost towns, 90-degree farenheit, and my questionable deodorant situation. Most irrelevant, but still.

It was an entire flat overlooking the main square of Siracusa, with faint cries of kids only after 5 PM, once the sun would teasingly retreat. I spent most days working online and enjoying a glass of wine or two. Fabio would come by daily to check in, perhaps side-eyeing my American indulgence habits, but professionally carried on. It eventually led to him showing me around: one of the popular local pizza spots, and a personal massage.

Yes, you read that right. I won’t go too deep, but he was a spiritual kind of being and gave me some sort of Ayurvedic massage, basically head to toe. In the same flat I was renting.

To say something didn’t spark between us would be me lying to my beloved readers. But to say it did, and that it was like some real Fabio romance from those cringe novels, would also be an overstatement.

Which leads to Fabio and I now standing in the daisy field. He wanted to help me discover more of the island’s beauty and drove me out to a national park, and — wow.

What kind of Western girl do we really know goes off frolicking in a hippie wonderland with Italian Jesus, albeit much hotter, in the middle of a global pandemic?!

Moral of this story (or were there any morals)… Lessons of this story:

• Life was and is too short to let media outlets and national governments deter you from going into the unknown. Just have your paperwork in order. That’s all.
• Life is so beautiful, like that field of yellow daisies. Like that day. This article does not measure the amount of nostalgia and gratitude I have for the photos and memories shared here. It is truly hard to describe how one can be so lucky to meet new people who show you this corner of the world in a time that was so confusing and chaotic and even tragic. Without the themes of men or sex or romance or nudity — if my friend was a woman, I’d have done the same (but without the massage). I am forever grateful to recall such a story from the Corona period (I’m sure others had it much worse. I’m sorry for that.)
• Which brings me to my final main point. When you feel low in certain aspects of your life, let it be your career or dating or social, and you travel as a coping mechanism, even during turbulent times — not saying you should — approach it with real caution (plus great admin) and a big, open mind. Say yes to that pizza. Say yes to being alone. Say yes to a ghost town. Say yes to the present.

Sicily, my love. I was younger when I met you. But I never felt so free and empowered by my youth and travel privileges as I was when I was with you.

Ciao, bellas.