The Key that Opens All Doors

“stay for another five minutes, we won’t see each other again”. 

Although I had every certainty, he gave me that look of regret I knew too well and when the door swang shut behind him, I felt the sheer forcefulness of distance closing in.

The exception proves the rule, they say. In general, I don’t find distance unsettling, and the truth is that I have asked myself the question, have I become a bit of a cold person? But the answer is that I haven’t because, actually, distance has not only taught me a few things, but it’s also helped me connect with people and with myself.

It’s a matter of perspective. For years I didn’t retrace my steps to go back home, and so I stayed away from the warmth of family for longer than I would have ever imagined. But in doing so I gained another family, the one I wouldn’t have met if I had stayed in Argentina not to stray too far from the mate (i.e. Argentinian tea) circle. I met this other family in the shade of a palm tree in the Australian tropic, while having a takeaway coffee; and amid the hustle and bustle of an Irish bar, while sipping at a Gin & Tonic; and in the dragging heat of an island in the Philippines, while drinking coconut water; and in the patio of a hostel in a rundown town in Thailand, while taking fresh air.

Every time I decide it’s time to go, I feel like the wind must feel when it whistles with nostalgia because it gets caught trying to escape through chinks in the door but, once it’s freed, it blows decidedly, always onwards. Leaving, putting distance between ourselves and the people or the things we care about, allows us to see them with perspective. But distance has yet another advantage: it comes a time when it takes our common sense by storm in the middle of the day, while we’re visiting some distant country, and leaves it completely baffled and helpless. When this happens, we start losing confidence in this common sense, and the suspicion that taking things for granted must be recommended against in the book of the wise traveller, starts creeping up on us, until we realise that 'common' sense is perhaps a disposable commodity that we’re supposed to leave behind each time we cross a border. Slowly but surely, distance changes us, until  we realise that we have been clinging on to what we think is true and permanent in our lives because, internally, we really need to know that our world, as we know it, will always remain the same. This necessity springs from a more basic need, that of keeping our lives and what happens around them under control -like we could ever master that art!

As it happens, travelling is a constant reminder of the transience of all things and so, simple pleasures and cheap thrills become more important than ever, and we open our eyes -and our heart- wider to see them. These thoughts kept hovering in my mind on the eve of my last day in a seaside town on the northeast coast of Australia, when I got home after my last day at work, and wrote in my travel journal:

''Today, when I left Vivo [the restaurant where I worked], I took the path half hidden among the leaves and felt a wave of gratitude. I thanked the universe for my life, for this place and these people, for the lonely walks back home under the stars in the immense silence of the night and for that fleeting rush of happiness I got when I looked back on it all -it was like a surge of adrenaline .''

The foreseeable endings and the impending distance do a good job in keeping our attention in the present moment. Learning what distance entails teaches us something, in turn: to be grateful. This, I think, goes hand in hand with an unfailing love for life.

A day or two before leaving Australia after almost three years, I was at my Bondi home in Sydney, getting ready to go out to the street. I had an appointment with the doctor and some last minute errands to run. That’s where my thoughts were off to when C. came up to me:

- “Vic, what's the word for this in English?” 

She lifted the curtain of her long straight hair off her neck so that I could see the tattoo of the lock that was right in the nape.

- “It's a keyhole.”

- “A keyhole. OK, thanks.” 

She let her hair cascade back down, and went into the kitchen without another word. C. was from Brazil and I met her when I moved into that house, which would be my last home in Sydney. She had moved in first and was already settled in when I arrived. The first time I saw her, she was in the kitchen, by then anyone’s worst nightmare come true, home to a cockroach colony. She was wearing a blue satin dressing gown and was sitting on the kitchen counter, her bare feet resting near the microwave. The satin trickled down the sides of her long legs, leaving various tattoos in plain sight. She rested the weight of her body on one of her arms in a relaxed stance, with her bare hand (more tattoos) also resting on the counter, which was cockroach territory, too. She was chatting away in lively tones with another Brazilian flatmate, and laughed nonchalantly, like she wasn’t in the middle of Mister Cockroach and all his offspring’s maneuvering field and between the rice of my dinner and me.

It is always good to revisit first impressions if the chance arises. In my case, I had no choice, C. and I shared the house. Over time, I continued to grit my teeth as I entered the kitchen (after we got rid of the cockroaches), because of the stack of dirty dishes in the sink, but that was actually the only thing I could blame on C. It is true that she seemed nonchalant and bold in her ways and that the thick curve of her eyeliner, the tattoos, and the shrill laughter did not hint at the person that was behind. As I came to know her, she was a perceptive girl, full of determination and good will; a covert yet committed feminist. She showed interest in those around her and you could tell she wasn’t just being polite every day when she asked:

- “How was your day, Vic?”

When the day hadn’t been so good, she would sit in the living room armchair and would listen attentively while you vented.

That day was a Friday and after the brief exchange with C., I went to the doctor’s appointment. Not long before, I had singed my feet with scalding water while cleaning the coffee machine at work. The day that followed, I was fined $ 75 for crossing the road with the red light, in a rush to get both my bandaged feet to college in time for class (at that time I was taking a TESOL course). Also, a month before the flight I had torn my shoulder -with sound effects- doing acroyoga on the beach. For days afterwards, there were times in which it felt like the humerus came off the hinge at the shoulder and I remember wondering what else could happen to me before I left Australia. The answer to that came promptly: I closed the door of an Uber on my thumb (on the same side of the broken shoulder), which swelled up like a ball. As if I hadn't had enough as it was, at the same time, I was intercepted by an infectious virus. That was how I became a regular visitor to a number of health centers and had to have an X-ray, an ultrasound and an MRI scan, apart from the various tests, anti-inflammatories and antibiotics I had to take for each injury and/or illness.

That Friday afternoon I had two days left in Sydney and I came back home with two discouraging diagnoses and no solutions before the flight. I went straight into my room, feeling heavy with the stress and the mixed emotions that predicted yet another departure. I was ready to collapse in bed and wallow in self-pity for a few moments, when I saw an unexpected obstacle propped against my pillow. It was one of those little gift bags they put bijouterie in. I opened it: it was a silver chain with a small key pendant and a card. Slightly surprised as I was (it was yet another month until my birthday),  I sat on the bed and opened it.

“How amazing you are!

It was a pleasure to meet you, Vic, never forget the power you have within yourself and that you're capable of. You are a beautiful woman! Smart, beautiful inside and outside, I never want to disconnect from you. For this reason I'm giving you a key. I do have the keyhole forever with me. So you have one key now. The key for your happiness and the key for our eternal connection.

Be always happy wherever you are, and never forget how wonderful you are.

I'll miss you in my life.

C.”

The tears that had welled up when I closed the door and was safely out of everybody’s sight, started tracing my face profusely, although they no longer were tears of self-pity, but of gratitude. C.’s gesture was the last step I took to distance myself enough from Sydney, even before leaving, so that I was able to appreciate everything that had gone well, everything that I had gained in my time in this city. 

These definite endings, overseen by distance, remind me vaguely of russet sunsets because of the nostalgic colours: they do signal the end, but they are beautiful nonetheless. 

The Opera House from the Harbour Bridge,
as I first saw it in February, 2017.

A few days before, I had finished my course and, still under the influence of a sense of achievement, I had written:

''Endings have such a particular taste. Everything that was good and rewarding about the process buds like flowers at the end. ''

Every trip comes to an end and we learn to befriend distance to avoid her jumping right to our throat. She may prove to be more of a feral cat than a pouncing tiger but, in any case, there are occasions when we find ourselves opening doors we wouldn’t have dreamt of reaching at all, hadn’t we been brave enough to ride her.