His name was Arthur but he didn't like him and he wanted to be called John. His last name was Bandini, but he wanted it to be Jones. His father and his mother were Italian, but he wanted to be American. His father was a bricklayer, but he wanted to be a pitcher for the Chicago Cubs.” Wanting, wanting to be, that is the question, almost a pun of the one that tormented Hamlet so much.
Well, with this string of detachments the novelist presented John Fante in his literary debut, Wait for spring, Bandini (1938), whom he turned into an alter ego through four novels, the brilliant Arturo Bandini.
More than eighty years have passed and now it is another Bandini, Rigoberta –the surname winks at Fante, of course–, who makes us dance talking about being, wanting to be and, above all, about freedom. Freedom understood not as if a politician launches it as a decoy while (allegedly) lashing, but as a gesture of love Of self-love to start, what do you look at, that's where it starts.
This preamble, I assume a bit convoluted, has a lot, everything to do with what we want to tell you in this special Love&Travel in which we have worked on all the editions of Condé Nast Traveler in the world. Hence its diverse mood, the mood that we want to convey – how good that certain polysemy of the verb “want” is – and that comes to life on our cover with Rigoberta Bandini Y Alizzz, who are not a couple but who cares, are more: listening to your Sunrise you will understand that chemistry was not only the vapor of Gainsbourg and Bardot, and following their trail you will see that both give voice to a society freer to say, think, do, and also to a cultural movement that has come ready to remove foundations and consciences.
March 1 at newsstands!
The cover photo of our new issue, which unintentionally looks like a potpourri of tributes to Truffaut, Yoko and John and, come on, Doris Day and Rock Hudson, shows just one moment, the (happy) ending of a meeting that began sailing the seas on a sailboat. Yes, a sailboat, we count it on the inside pages, named bare foot (barefoot in English), what do I say, how much freedom does it contain –taking an oxymoron without meaning to– to take off your shoes. The bonds.
And from the lace to the bra is a step, the one that means ending up tying the dots already on solid ground and deciding that these lines dedicated to love, to freedom, should be illustrated with such free boobs (thanks, Delacroix) and the most resounding phrase of Ow mom, the hymn with which Rigoberta has taught us that the protest song can be danced. You can smile.
And we still have more: more reasons to travel as you want, with whoever you want; honeymoon to idyllic destinations or, why not, ice moon to the Anabella Milbanke and Lord Byron What a little trip. To Tunisia, to Provence, to Puerto Rico. As a family, as a couple, neither with you nor without you, alone. Hey, you are free.
In true Delacroix style.
This report was published in the number 150 of the Condé Nast Traveler Magazine (Summer 2021). Subscribe to the printed edition (€18.00, annual subscription, by calling 902 53 55 57 or from our website). The April issue of Condé Nast Traveler is available in its digital version to enjoy on your preferred device