Last year, I was having a hard time feeling joy. Sure, there were good things happening, but that visceral, fizzy, happy-to -be-alive-ness was struggling to make its way fully in — and stay there.

But then something magnificent happened. 

My friend Lucy and I’s pitch for a book got accepted, and I had this idea that maybe joy wasn’t lying along the same four streets of Tāmaki Makaurau but on the other side of the world. In Portugal. Specifically Lisbon. And so I decided to go.

The week before I flew out, amidst the chaos of leaving, I took a bouquet of cymbidiums to my therapist to thank her for her hard work. As I was getting into my car to leave, she opened the front door of her office and yelled over to me, “You are IT! Go and be IT!”

God, don’t you just need someone to read you for filth sometimes? 

Six months into my life here, this is what I’ve come to know as pleasure. I’ve kept the bad bits out of it because that’s another story for another time under a theme like ‘reality!’ or ‘what you can’t predict!’ but I thought it was worth mentioning in case you read this and mistake my life for being perfect. A girl can only try.‍

Pleasure‍

Pleasure is falling in love with a city like a person; eschewing all responsibilities like sleep and sobriety, and getting home late three weeknights in a row. Or maybe not coming home at all. Pleasure is losing track of time like that. Pleasure is writing this to you at 11pm on a Tuesday night.

Pleasure is newness in one of the oldest cities in the world. Pleasure is all the stories in the walls and the ones that tip out with strangers on top of a lookout until you know them better than people from home. Pleasure is the collision with things that couldn’t happen anywhere else in the world but here. Pleasure is anonymity. 

Pleasure is the heat and all its warped smells they cite back to Roman times like it's an exotic piece of dank-smelling history. Pleasure is slipping down the cobblestones over the stories you couldn’t make up. Pleasure feels so good you wouldn’t believe it. 

Pleasure is lunch. Pleasure is not lunch at your desk or lunch on the go or lunch half-eaten at the standing meeting. Pleasure is dripping down your mouth in a buttery sauce, laughing at friends with your phone turned face down on the table. Pleasure is something you’re entitled to.

Pleasure is giving up a bit on fashion so you can make it up the hills alive. Pleasure is a sneaker and sweaty top, and your hair slicked back in a simple tuck. Pleasure is generally not giving a fuck.

Pleasure is making out with strangers you’ll never see again, walking for hours and ending up sipping coffee for a dollar at a quiosque, kissing on a park bench when everyone’s looking. Pleasure’s a thrill like that.

Pleasure is Sundays — what used to be bleak is now a table of fish and chocolate mousse by the beach until the sun goes down, and no one minding going back to reality because it feels like one we all carved out ourselves. Pleasure sometimes comes as a shock because it’s less fleeting than you think. 

Pleasure here is political. It’s a privilege, and it's something you have to understand without being able to do a lot about it. Pleasure is class. And pleasure is luck. Sure, pleasure is gorge, but pleasure can also be complicated like that.

Pleasure is licking the rim of another orange wine, ordering more in the tiny phrases you can properly pronounce. Pleasure is being in the sea til 10pm because traffic’s so bad, you might as well stay. Pleasure is all the colours you’ve seen on the internet but can’t be mistaken for real life. Pleasure, then, I guess, is this life.

Pleasure is knowing, at any minute, everything could be terrible or incredible, and that’s something you can never predict. Pleasure is loneliness but an exotic kind you can’t complain about. Pleasure is running away and having the time and space to figure it all out. Pleasure is making it work in your favour. 

When people want to know what you’re doing here, so far away from home, in a city unimaginable, they often ask, “What are you running away from?” but I think the question really is, “What are you running towards?” ‍

Pleasure just might be it.

Make It Make Sense by Bel Hawkins and Lucy Blakiston of Shit You Should Care About hits the shelves in September. You can pre-order your copy here.