Since I got into my twenties, I’ve started notice something: The progressive loss of my ability to be thrilled by the small things.
Likely it depends from the fact that the older you get, less is the number of the things you can actually do for the first time.
Don’t you believe me? Take a moment and try to remember the last time you did something for the first time.
Luckily, I have my way out from this sense of “old youth,” it’s called: Travel alone.
In the exact same moment in which you decide to go somewhere by yourself you have to come to terms with the idea that everything you’re going to face, will be new. And literally everything could become an extraordinary adventure that – somehow- could bring you joy.
I can still feel how proud I was of myself when I went out for the grocery in Russia and at the question “do you need a bag?” I was able to answer without any doubt “yes please, a small one.”
Of course coming to New York isn’t as shocking as move to Russia when you barely know the language.
It’s more something close to the feeling you have when you’re going to visit a distant relative. You’re scared, you feel embarrassed by the idea of not having enough argument to talk about and then time flies and both of you ended up, drunks, gossiping about the weird cousin you two have in common.
All of this just to express the joy of have finally managed the “I refuse to answer calls” situation.
(I will have to give up the idea of training Cosmo to do it on my behalf)
So now you know, if you call Gotham and someone with a strange accent it’s on the phone that is me.
Be patience and be aware that you’re contributing to my attempt to be happy of all the small things.