A year and a half has passed since I boarded that one-way flight to the Seychelles. But these last months here? They’re wildly different from what I imagined. Maybe that’s because they include a pandemic, rich and powerful families, work contracts reduced to toilet paper, officials who mysteriously vanish, anger and frustration, suspense, canceled international flights, and others booked at the very last second.
A strange cocktail for someone who doesn’t usually live inside a novel!
But let’s start with the context.
Once upon 2020
Do you remember what happened back then? I bet you do.
It’s a year no one will confuse with any other. It felt like living in a dystopian movie like V for Vendetta or 1984, but without the cool masks or the inspiring revolution.
I had envisioned this Seychelles adventure as a sabbatical—a chance to get my thoughts in order, to decide where to settle down, and how and if to reinvent my career (and hey, what better place to do it than on a paradise island?).
The plan?
After leaving the Seychelles, I’ll explore southern Spain, Portugal, and the Canary Islands thoroughly, in this order, from May to November 2020, in a van, and wrap up this journey of inner and outer discovery picking my perfect spot, the one that resonates with me the most and and start a steady new chapter.
That is if everything had gone as planned.
May 2020: the goodbye that wasn’t
We’re shyly making our way out of the initial lockdown measures. Things seem hopeful, but no flights to Italy yet. My job in guest relations as a translator for Italian tourists is about as useful as air conditioning in Alaska, so I’ve already been told that as soon as flights resume I’ll be one of the passengers.
July 2020: flights are back!
I have already made my calls and planned my next moves.
Rome. Naples. Calabria. Tuscany. Milan. Madrid.
With this itinerary I will finally be able to hug my loved ones: they don’t all live in the same place, and I haven’t seen them for a year and a half, others even for two years or more.
The last formalities are missing, and off we go!
Cuqui, my bestie, has already finished her contract, we tried to get put on the same flight but my paperwork is not ready since it involves contract changes: no big deal. I will leave next week. Other collegues and I accompany her to the airport. We hug, ready to see each other again soon. A matter of days.
BEEP BEEP
Our company phones ring at the same time. It was the SMS ringtone (yes, those phones don’t have WhatsApp).
I read the message. Blink. Then blink again. I wait for my eyes to focus correctly the letters, I must have misread.
I look up hoping to get a better interpretation from my colleagues: their foreheads are furrowed, eyebrows raised.
We exchange perplexed glances, silently asking, Do you read what I read? Sure, we all speak English, but none of us is a native, maybe we’re misunderstanding something. We hope there’s a nuance we’re missing.
The message says:
“From the day after tomorrow at 2 PM, staff will no longer be allowed to leave the resort premises and will remain confined inside until further notice.”
Weird. There’s no new lockdown or outbreak. Everybody in the world is finally enjoying summer, or trying to, after those months confined at home.
A Royal hostage situation: paradise interrupted
A rich family (really rich, not “I collect Ferrari, have Champagne for breakfast and fry with olive oil” rich) has booked 5 luxury resorts on the island I am on. Exclusively. For them, their entourage and the staff of the 5 hotels that signed the agreement.
The resort managers, dazzled by the glitter of the buckets of gold coins that were about to submerge them, accepted all the conditions requested by the aforementioned family who, eager to live indefinitely in a place considered without risk of contagion, included:
- Staff will not leave the resort as long as we are here.
- Staff will undergo one PCR test per week.
- The only exceptions are for people required to travel from one resort to another to work, and they will do so only with our private drivers, in special vehicles and under the supervision of our military personnel.
- Anyone who leaves the property cannot re-enter (a very important detail, given that we are not in a city full of houses to rent: expats live within the property, and refusing means ending up on the street, on a remote island of 150 km² with nothing but jungle and ocean).
So, in less than ten seconds, my status shifts from “I’m going home in a few days” to “I’m confined to the resort indefinitely.”
There is no need for an Italian translator anymore.
Seychelles laws don’t allow company to employ expats for jobs that can be done by locals (and my job without translation, is basically guest relations).
My countrymen, still reeling from the collective shock, aren’t planning luxurious holidays on tropical islands.
The reason why they are not putting me on the first available flight, as agreed in the previous months, is not related to any of my skills.
They have already dismissed lots of expats, not renewed contracts, and sent away as many people as possible.
The airport is not operational for commercial flights.
Rehiring dismissed staff or training new recruits isn’t practical—the process of obtaining visas and permits would take too long.
The best solution? “Hold hostage” whoever is still here to plug the holes and keep operations running.
Those in the middle of termination proceedings, halfway out the door with plans set elsewhere, are pulled back into the fray.
Since this isn’t the moment to delve into the details of the tirades to leave such a scenario, where I was dealing with people with way more political and economic power than me, in Africa, alone, without legal, financial, or emotional support, I’ll cut short by saying that by the end of October—after a colorful resignation letter and three months of “private lockdown,” —I’m finally holding in my hands a ticket back to Italy.
October 2020: welcome back
Italy’s rules for arrivals are clear:
- A 14-day quarantine is mandatory for people coming from certain countries (yes, Seychelles is one of those).
- Yes, even if you are coming from three months of private quarantine.
- Yes, even you you have an official PCR, mandatory to get on a plane with a stopover in Dubai.
- Yes, even if you have 12 unofficial PCR carried out on a weekly basis for the rich client’s peace of mind.
What’s two more weeks at this point?
First stop: mom
I land in Calabria and decide I have enough time to understand better what’s going on in Italy. Since 2013, I’ve been living in houses without TVs and haven’t gotten into the habit of sitting down to watch the news. This combo has likely spared me a long list of stress-related ailments, but given Italy’s rollercoaster of unpredictable decrees this year, I make an exception. Much of my time is now spent catching up on what’s happening in the Bel Paese, where I’ve finally returned.
Every news broadcast boils down to the same bleak message:
“Step outside, and you’ll either die or kill someone.”
A mental map of friends and family pops into my head like a cloud. I’m no longer on a remote island, and it’s clear that here, even stepping out for a solo night run in the park is considered like a major crime.
I try to assess the situation. Between one piece of fear-inducing news and the next, I catch the latest from the government. As usual, they’re throwing out decrees from their palace like confetti at a wedding.
“We’ve noticed a slight increase in cases,” they announce. “We’re considering two weeks of preventive lockdown to save Christmas.”
Two thoughts immediately strike me:
First, the two weeks trick feels awfully familiar. The Seychelles resort private lockdown was originally for just a fortnight, but renewal after renewal, that turned into four months (though I only stuck out the first three).
Second, the two weeks of Italy’s first lockdown had somehow morphed into an open-ended stretch of confinement.
They must have figured out that if you want to trap people without sparking riots, you just need to start with “just two weeks.” It’s short enough to digest than the truth stated upfront.
Two weeks must have been identified as the perfect psychological sweet spot to guarantee the boiled frog scenario.
I think about this.
I see the boiling water and think it’s time to start considering other destinations. After all, my only reason for being in Italy is to be close to my loved ones, scattered across the country and Europe. But if they’re locked up in their houses and I’m locked up in mine, what’s the point of staying?
November 2020
I’m wrapping up my 14-day quarantine, which, when added to my resort lockdown, will total 98 days in isolation. I have no intention of watching that number climb any higher. November 3rd will be my first official day of freedom—and my last before the new decree kicks in.
Quick translation:
Red area: you can’t leave your home, your town, your region.
Risk on the road: a traveler’s board game
November 4th it’s my second day of freedom, the day I’m supposed to renew my expired driver’s license, and… the day Calabria, my region, goes into lockdown and seals its borders.
I’m not exactly thrilled at the idea of leaving the private lockdown of the Seychelles only to step into an equally restrictive one in Calabria. Renewing my license seems pointless if I can’t even leave the house.
Scrolling through Instagram, I spot a friend lounging in a swimsuit, diving into a pool.
“Where are you?” I ask.
“Tenerife!” he replies, “but I’m back next week.”
This jogs my memory: the Canary Islands were part of my pre-pandemic plans for October and November—months too cold for van life in Europe. His carefree dive feels like a reminder of the plans I’d shelved.
I book a one-way ticket to Santa Cruz de Tenerife.
Now for the logistics: I’m in the south. Which airport should I fly from?
Lamezia Terme? Naples? Rome? (South and center)
Nope. Bologna. (North)
Why? The color-coded restrictions spread like wildfire. It feels like my Emirates flight from Mahé Island dropped me onto a Risk board in the middle of a wild game. Every time I reach a region, it promptly gets “conquered” by a tank and locked down.
For now, Emilia-Romagna is still a yellow zone, allowing travel between regions until November 14th. It’s my only viable escape route.
I’m still unsure about leaving. I haven’t seen friends or family in over a year. Some, I haven’t hugged in two years or more. I want to be absolutely certain the situation is about to turn apocalyptic before I fly off again indefinitely.
On November 3rd, I leave Calabria and move my observation post to Naples (still in yellow) and start hunting for a rental in Tenerife.
I decide I’ll leave afterall.
“If the lockdown really lasts only two weeks,” I reason, “I’ll book a return flight and see everyone at Christmas.”
Spoiler: they didn’t just close for two weeks.
I’ve never rent a house or room without visiting it in person, but it looks like the circumstances allow an exception (the second time I did that, didn’t go very well).
I can’t make it to Milan (red region), where my sister is. I head to Rome (yellow region), where I catch up with friends and then make my way to Bologna to use the flight I booked.
The airport claims to be open 24 hours, so to avoid breaking curfews or rules I might have missed, I decide to spend the night there.
Midnight mishaps at Bologna International Airport
I have dinner and have a look at the departure boards.
It’s a sad three-colour rainbow: blue, white and red.
Blue for the background, white for the writing and red for canceled flights.
Every time I look up there’s a new one in fire color that flashes like a broken traffic light.
11 PM O’clock
My flight leaves early in the morning, and it’s still there.
I see a security officer.
“Good evening! Do you know if they usually cancel flights even with a few hours’ notice or if I can relax and rest assured that my morning flight is safe?”
“I would like to reassure you, but when they start with these decrees and prohibit leaving the regions, sometimes the airlines cancel even at the last minute, even an hour before departure.”
I remain hypnotized by observing the line with my flight data on the board, as if my fixed and imploring gaze could glue the words “on time” to the screen and prevent it from falling down to be replaced with “cancelled”.
On hour later, I see another security guard. He is approaching.
“Good evening. You must leave the building.”
“Wait. What? My flight is there! What is happening?”
“Nothing related to the flight for now, don’t worry, it’s just that the airport closes at midnight.”
“Closes? But the website says it’s open 24/7.”
“Ah, didn’t you check our Facebook page?”
“F A C E B O O K ? ? ?”
“Yes. It’s written there.”
“No, I didn’t check it. You have an official website. I looked there and considered the information reliable.”
“Yeah, we posted that we close nightly for disinfection—for your safety, miss.”
“For my safety, are you throwing me on the street, at midnight, in an extremely peripheral and desolate area, in winter? A girl by herself? FOR MY SAFETY?
He stares at me.
“These are the new rules.”
Adjectives immediately come to mind to define these rules, but I opt to keep them to myself and appeal to the guard’s good heart and common sense.
“I promise you that I won’t be a hindrance to the cleaning, I’ll stand in a corner and not move from there. Please don’t throw me out on the street.”
He stares at me.
“Give me a moment, in the meantime don’t move.”
As he walks away he meets another security man. They mumble something.
The other man points to a couple.
They look at each other, hands on hips in an authoritative position. A few seconds pass like this and then they nod to each other.
Here he is again.
“Follow me.”
He takes me in front of the Carrefour at the airport and tells me to stay there until opening time.
Tonight, me, the couple and the two security guards are probably the only 5 human beings to populate Bologna International Airport.
I didn’t have the scoreboard in sight and – in order not to die of tachycardia – I choose not to check anything until 4 AM.
I open the kindle. Sometimes I read, sometimes my head falls to the sides from sleep.
4 AM O’ clock
My alarm rings. I get up, drag the trolley towards the board. The flight is still there.
Slightly reassured but still on edge, mindful of the words “sometimes they even cancel at the last minute”, I walk towards security checkpoints, breathing at a pace that only half fills my lungs.
I decide to spend the time that separates me from the fateful hour thinking about the beaches of Los Cristianos and Las Americas, where a house awaits me once I land.
I combine prayers with all the notions I can possibly recall from The Secret, books by Tony Robbins, personal growth courses, esoteric, shamanic and holistic practices.
I visualize myself lying on a beach, I feel my skin warmed by the sun, I see my hands grasping a handful of warm sand which I then let flow between my fingers. I feel the caresses of the wind that ruffles my hair, and the salt that tingles my face.
I open my eyes. They open boarding.
I’m usually among those who get on the plane last. Why am I supposed to queue if my seat is already assigned and I can sit comfortably and read until the last second?
But not this time.
This time, I’m in pole position.
All I want right now is to feel my butt touching the plane seat.
I show my ticket and passport.
I smile with immense joy at the hostess, stopping myself from hugging her.
Every step down the jet bridge feels thunderous, each footfall reverberating like the heavy steps of John Coffey in The Green Mile—though my destination couldn’t be more different.
I sit down.
I breathe.
I smile.
My butt touches the seat.
Canaries, here I come.
