My Green Polkadot Bag Posting 1 of 3

Where did it come from?

In the above photo, I’m wandering the streets of Spaccanapoli, in old Naples, me, Naples, and my green and white polkadot handbag, which in the course of the day, any day I carry it, gathers up all the goodies that I discover as I go about my business, and must, simply must, take with me. I can tell you that at that given moment of snapping the photograph, inside my handbag was 2 sfogliatelle (one ricca, one frolla), a small local salami, half eaten chunk of fat-tail sheep pecorino, a plastic bag of fresh arugula, and another of mixed olives for emergency snacking. And the pane cafone from the restaurant bread basket the night before.

My bag always looks chic and wacky and is oh so practical! On Social Media, someone commented: “When people see the handbag they know its YOU."

I’ve carried the green and white polkadot handbag to most corners of the world; at any given moment, feel free to have a look inside: several flat peaches, a sandwich of mortadella, mozzarella and pistachios, an assortment of pastries. I’ve even used my handbag for aging cheese—its really good at aging Camembert.

I wasn’t born with it (though sometimes it feels that way). Where did it come from?

It came from the airport. It was unintentional, and love at first sight, and together, my handbag and I have had…and still have, a really good time! I mean: not only for practicality, but also entertainment: wherever I am at any given time, if I get bored, I simply open my bag: there is always something to amuse me there!

Here’s the start of our story: there I was, in the departure lounge at Heathrow airport waiting for my flight to San Francisco. Whereas once I would hop a jet at a moments notice, so eager was I to be a part of another corner of this vast and fascinating world, this time was different: it was my first long haul trip since being hit by a speeding SUV the year before.

I had every reason to be excited, and yet… I was still not myself at all. I felt no joy in the moment, not even this admittedly exciting moment, to be returning to the place and friends and family; in other words: my home (regardless of where my “residence” might be). I would cook, we would go out to eat, to drink, shop, dog walk; it would be so much fun. Or should I say: it SHOULD be fun.

But: I couldn't taste, I couldn't smell. Let me clarify: I couldn’t smell real things but my world was filled with smell-weirdness that wasn’t real. It was disorienting and sad and I spent a lot of time either desperately trying to discern the tastes and smells of the world around me. Its called: anosmia (no smell), parosmia (distorted smell) and phantasmia (crazy-ass smell with no relation to reality). But I didn’t know any of this then.

I pretended to be my old self to others; to think clearly (to myself), but in truth, I couldn't take much in. It was terrifying, but I kept it locked inside, hoping some day for the key. The truth is that you don’t get hit by a speeding machine on wheels, fly up into the sky three stories in the air (I knew from the height of the billboard and the shops, all of which I saw on my way up, and down) then fall three stories down, land on your head, and think clearly. Not for a while, if ever.

According to the SF neurologist (I had been struck down in San Francisco), the eeg showed "[a small amount of] irreversible damage". His light-hearted manner evaporated when he delivered this news. It was serious. But, hey-ho, thats what it is, and that was the end of that. He was dismissive about my smell difficulties, and I didn’t press the point: afraid of hearing that I'd never smell or taste again. If it wasn’t uttered out loud, I could work hard in an effort to make it okay, make myself okay, meanwhile, pretend all was fine, until…it was?

There was no reason to be optimistic, to be honest. At the time, there was little helpful information available--as well as the belief that damaged nerves do not regenerate. Now there is much, much more information, and the knowledge that nerves do, indeed, revitalize.

But still, so few doctors out there seemed to understand what life is like without smell or taste, and just how miserable it can be. All aspects of life are affected; the inability to think clearly was just part of my new reality. The reality that had no sense of joy.

I might appear normal, but everything about the inner me was a big grey-beige-blah miasma of emptiness: sensorary, emotional, intellectually. I searched everywhere, constantly, for ways I might be able reclaim my life and refashion it into something wonderful again.

I longed to be my old self, but so much had been taken away by my new joy-less, work-less, confused thinking, fragile, life. But a I tried my best. Joy was something I had always been so good at!

So that day at Heathrow, a long flight ahead, locked into a shell of a body in which my spirit was languishing, I shlepped in search of a treat. Shop to shop, backpack slung over my shoulders, in search of...a little serotonin hit of the pleasure shopping-therapy can bring?

Since I got no pleasure from tasting, I couldn't treat myself to something edible. Since I got no joy from smelling, anything with fragrance was meaningless. Alcohol just made me ill, it was years before I could drink it again. I could buy goodies for others, and that makes me happiest to be honest, but what a revolutionary idea it was/is to buy something for myself? (I did not feel that the self I was inhabiting was worth it, so this was part of resurrecting joyful Marlena.)

I passed souvenir shops, designer fashions, very interesting shoes and handbags, duty-free where they were giving out shots of whisky, for free! Here, have one! And then I saw a window and felt a little lift of…optimism? You know the shop: polka-dotted or tiny print, British themed, tiny dog patterned; things for children and grownups, pens, handbags, backpacks, socks, carry-all satchels; they are gorgeous, with endearing colours and classical shapes, whimsical design. And yes, definitely expensive.

BUT: The sign in the window announced: "Big Discount Sale!"

Should I walk in? I did need a new big handbag, one big and durable enough to stash lots of goodies in, like I used to do before my accident. Also, preferably green. I just love green.

Stepping through the door, I was drawn to a bright green bag covered in white polka dots. I thought if I was ever myself again, it could hold a lot of salami, a chunk of cheese, jar of mustard, tube of harissa, and a bag of Chinese mantou steamed buns, easily; plus cookies such as this honey-soaked nut ball!

This bag was expensive, though generously discounted. I couldn’t afford it.But each time I looked at it I could imagine myself, being more Marlena than I had been in a long time, stashing treats from the breakfast buffet, from shopping, from the breadbasket on the restaurant table, into my "borsa verde" (Italian for green handbag, and also a term referring to a gathering of goodies, say, an artisanal marketplace of local treats). It made me happy to just daydream about it; I pulled out my credit card.

Of course, I felt horrible and guilty, ridiculous and selfish to be “wasting” my money on myself. (Childhood voices reassured me I was definitely not worth it). Silly self indulgence with polka dots? Spending that much money on myself? It felt profane. But I suddenly realized: it didn’t matter: I could do it anyhow.

I actually felt proud of myself for buy something so adorable for myself, for no other reason than: desire. Maybe I WAS worth it? In a funny way buying the green polkadot bag was my first step towards saving (what was left of) my life. As I handed over my credit card, this was the little voice I heard. "Here, Marlena, get tiny little darling doggy wristwatch as well; it will make you feel cute and happy and loved (by the most important person: yourself!). I obeyed.

The shop attendant handed my purchases over the counter, and I felt: something. Maybe the stirrings of joy? Maybe not, but I had that green polka dot handbag now, ready for all that came my way, and that cute little doggy wristwatch on my arm so I’d always know the time.

Then I caught my flight.

N.B.: regarding joy: I was raised in a family in which joy—at least my own joy—was suspect. I live in a country in which one of the mottos, even if joking is: “Do anything you want, just don’t enjoy yourself”.

But: I always knew differently, even if I had to keep it to myself. Even the smallest morsel of joy of any kind for any reason can lift life, erase burdens of sadness, just make life: a delight. Even for no reason: life is the reason.

So, last year, in Paris during the pandemic when we were all trying to stay healthy and alive with a new variant making the rounds and life a bit grey and gim, the little man at the counter in my hotel said to me "Life needs joy". He knew. The importance of feeling joy--there is nothing frivolous about it. Its fundamental.