Five Postcards from the Heart

My story with Ermonela Jaho, for the September cover of G Travel with Style, began somewhere between two destinations. A message from me. An invitation to appear on our cover. An idea: to portray not only the soprano the world knows, but also the woman who has spent years living between suitcases, airports, hotel rooms and the stage. Her reply came from an airport. Ermonela was travelling from New York to Vienna for a production of Adriana Lecouvreur. That was when I realised this interview needed no script. Her life was already the script. As I write these lines, Ermonela Jaho is once again on the move. This time, she is in Zurich, where, on 24 September, she takes to the stage at Opernhaus Zürich as Magda in Puccini’s La rondine. Just a few days later, she returns to the same stage as Elisabeth in Tannhäuser. Another city. Another theatre. Another character. And between them, always her: the Albanian Swallow. A woman who has made movement a way of life: Tirana, where it all began; Rome, where she developed as an artist; then London, Milan, Paris, Madrid, New York, Vienna and Zurich. In an artist’s biography, these cities become dates, theatres and roles. In her memory, they are something else entirely: a scent, a hotel room, a street after a performance, a morning before rehearsals, an airport, a face, a moment. So, this time, I did not want to trace the itinerary of a career. I wanted to follow the map of the heart. I asked Ermonela to choose five places: five cities, five memories, five stops along the journey of a life that is still in motion. Five postcards from the heart. Perhaps this is the truest portrait of our Swallow: not simply where she has sung, but what she has carried with her from every place she has been.  

“TIRANA”

Where every return begins

What do you feel today when you return to the city where everything began?

When I return to Tirana, I do not feel as though I am simply arriving in a city. I feel as though I am returning to a part of myself that has always remained there, waiting for me. There are places we visit, and there are places that live within us. Tirana lives within me. It holds my beginnings, my family, the voices and faces of my childhood, my first dreams, but also the hardships that, back then, I could never have known would one day become a source of strength. Whenever I return, it feels as though time briefly loses its meaning. The woman I am today meets the girl I once was and, for a moment, the two of us walk the same streets together. I have travelled far, but life has taught me something remarkably simple: the farther you go, the more deeply you come to understand your roots. Tirana is my root. And roots do not need to be seen to keep you standing.

Does that young girl still exist within you, the one who dreamed of a world so vast?

Yes. And I hope she never leaves me. That girl probably had no idea just how vast the world was. She did not know the names of all the theatres, how many airports she would pass through, how many characters she would inhabit, or how many times she would have to find the strength to begin again. But she had something incredibly precious: she believed. Today, I understand that she was braver than she knew. She dreamed without guarantees. And perhaps that is the purest form of faith: walking towards something you cannot yet see, but which your soul somehow recognises. Even now, before every new role, I try to find that girl within me. Because experience can teach you how to sing, but only that innocent part of the soul can remind you why you sing.

What is the most Albanian thing you have carried with you to every city in the world?

My heart. We Albanians have a powerful way of loving. We love our families, our homeland, our friends, the table around which we gather, and our memories. Sometimes our love is loud, sometimes stubborn, but it runs deep. I have also carried with me a certain resilience that I believe comes from our homeland: the ability to keep going even when the road is difficult; to find light even in hard times; to open both our doors and our hearts, even when we ourselves have very little. But above all, I have carried with me a sense of belonging. I may stand on the greatest stages in the world, but somewhere inside me there will always be an Albanian girl who knows where she comes from. And that keeps my feet firmly on the ground.

If Tirana were a postcard you could send to your younger self today, what would you write on the back?

Dear little Ermonela, Do not be afraid of the size of your dreams. There will be days when the road seems much bigger than you. There will be doors that refuse to open, people who will not understand you, and moments when even you will doubt yourself. But keep going. Do not lose your tenderness in order to become strong. True strength is not about never breaking; it is about knowing how to rebuild yourself without losing your capacity to love. One day, you will travel very far. But remember: it will not be your voice alone that takes you there. It will be the heart you place within it. And when the world applauds you, remember the silence from which you began. That is where you will find yourself.

“ROME”

The city where the dream found an address

How do you remember those first years in Italy?

I remember them with great affection, but not with the kind of nostalgia that makes everything seem more beautiful than it really was. They were beautiful years precisely because they were difficult. Rome taught me how to grow. When you leave your country at a young age, you do not take only your dream with you. You also carry fear, uncertainty, the ache of missing your family, and the question that quietly follows you: Will I make it? There was so much I did not know. But I had an extraordinary hunger to learn. Today, when I think of that girl, I feel such tenderness towards her. Sometimes I wish I could embrace her and say: Do not worry so much. You do not need to know the entire road ahead. You only need enough light for the next step. That is precisely what Rome taught me: life does not reveal the whole map. It gives you only the next step. And you have to trust yourself enough to take it.

Do you remember the moment when you realised that the dream could become your profession and your life?

I do not believe there was just one moment. My dream did not become reality with a single knock on the door. It happened gradually, through many sacrifices, many ‘noes’, countless hours of work, and a few ‘yeses’ that changed the course of my life. But there comes a moment when you begin to understand that what you carry within you is more than desire. It is a calling. For me, music has always been more than a profession. It has been a way of understanding life and, sometimes, of understanding pain. At some point, I realised that I had not simply chosen music. In some mysterious way, music had chosen me too. Since then, I have felt a profound sense of responsibility: a gift is not given to us for ourselves alone. It is meant to be shared.

When you return to Rome today, what takes you back to the student you once were?

Sometimes all it takes is a street, the aroma of coffee, a church I step into for a few quiet minutes, or the afternoon light falling across an old building. Memory does not need much. Rome has this extraordinary ability to remind you that millions of lives have passed through it before yours — lives filled with love, loss and dreams. It puts everything into perspective. When I return today, I do not want to see Rome only through the eyes of the woman I have become. From time to time, I want to see it through the eyes of the girl who arrived there with very little certainty and so many dreams. That girl reminds me to be grateful.

If you had just one free afternoon in Rome, where would we find you?

Walking. With no particular plan. Perhaps I would step into a quiet church, not necessarily to ask for anything, but simply to be silent. Then I would have a coffee somewhere I could sit and watch people pass by. Rome is not a city I want to ‘consume’. I want to listen to it. Some cities ask you to run. Rome reminds me that life is also about stopping — looking at a window, a face, a fragment of sky — and understanding that the ordinary is often what we hold most sacred.

“LONDON”

The city of emotions that cannot be hidden

What is your relationship with London when you are not on stage?

London gives me a particular sense of freedom. It is a vast city, full of rhythm, history and contrasts, yet there are places where you can suddenly find an unexpected silence. I love walking and observing people. Perhaps because my profession constantly asks me to enter someone else’s life, I am deeply curious about people. I often think that every person who passes us is carrying a story we know nothing about. It makes me gentler in my judgement. We see faces; God knows what their hearts carry.

Do you actually get to experience London when you are there for a premiere?

When I am in a production, my world becomes very small: the hotel, the theatre, rehearsals, the journey back, rest. A role demands more than your voice. It demands your body, your mind and a very intimate part of your soul. So sometimes I can be in one of the most beautiful cities in the world and see very little of it. But I have learnt that you do not need to see an entire city to feel it. Sometimes, for me, London is simply the morning air on my way to the theatre, a face on the Underground, or rain against the car window. These, too, are journeys.

What is your favourite moment before a major performance?

The seconds before the curtain rises. There is something in that moment that I have never been able to explain fully in words. After months of work, technique, rehearsals and thought, suddenly you have to let it all go. You can no longer control what that moment will become. For me, it is almost a prayer. I breathe and try to say quietly to myself: It no longer belongs to me. Let it pass through me. In that moment, I do not seek perfection. I seek truth. Because an audience may admire a beautiful note, but what truly touches the heart is truth.

If London had a soundtrack for you, what would it sound like?

There would be a great deal of silence between the notes. Over the years, I have come to understand that music does not live only in sound. It also lives in the space we leave between two notes. Perhaps that is exactly what my London soundtrack would be: powerful, restless and elegant, yet with moments of silence in which you can hear yourself.

“NEW YORK”

The city you depart from, but which teaches you never to stop

What is your life in New York like between one premiere and the next?

New York has an energy that constantly reminds you that life is happening now. Everything moves. People walk as though each of them has an appointment with their own destiny. Yet it is precisely within that rhythm that I have learnt the opposite lesson: how to find stillness within myself. Because if your inner peace depends on silence around you, you will never find it in New York. You have to create it within yourself. And that is a lesson I carry with me everywhere.

Do you enjoy the anonymity that such a vast city gives you?

Very much. There is something liberating about walking out of a theatre where, only moments earlier, you were a tragic heroine, and then, a few minutes later, simply being a woman walking down the street. It is good for me. Applause is beautiful, and I am endlessly grateful for it, but it cannot become your identity. Because one day the curtain falls, the audience leaves, and you are left with yourself. For me, it is essential never to forget the woman behind the artist. Ultimately, my voice is what I do. My soul is who I am.

What is it about New York that you recognise in yourself?

Perhaps its ability to keep going. New York falls and rises again every morning as though nothing had happened. It has an extraordinary capacity to begin again. I feel very close to that. An artistic life teaches you that you cannot live indefinitely on yesterday’s success, nor can you remain forever inside yesterday’s pain. Every evening, the curtain rises again. And perhaps that is a beautiful metaphor for life: every morning, we are given another chance to begin.

When the plane takes off from New York, what do you leave behind, and what do you take with you?

I leave behind the noise. I take the energy with me. But whenever a plane takes off, I also have a small moment of reflection. From above, cities become small. The streets, the buildings, everything that seems so immense when we are down below suddenly shrinks. It reminds me that sometimes our worries, too, need to be seen from a little farther away. I take with me the gratitude of having been there. And I try not to think only about what awaits me, but also to give thanks for what I have just left behind.  

“VIENNA”

The city waiting beyond the airport

What is it like to step off an intercontinental flight knowing that one of the world’s great stages awaits you?

The body can arrive in a city much faster than the soul. That is perhaps the paradox of the life I lead. Within a matter of hours, you cross oceans, continents and time zones. But inside yourself, you need a little longer to arrive. That is why I try to create a sense of inner stillness. Because when I enter the theatre, I do not want to bring with me only the exhaustion of the journey or the anxiety of everything that needs to be done. I want to be present. A stage such as the Wiener Staatsoper immediately reminds you that you are part of something far greater than yourself. Great voices have stood there before us, extraordinary musicians, entire lives devoted to art. We come for a while, give what we have, and then make way for someone else. That fills me with humility more than fear.

What happens when the theatre door closes behind you and rehearsals begin?

I try to leave outside everything I can. But we are not machines. You cannot take off your personal life like a coat and hang it in the cloakroom. And perhaps you should not. Every joy, every loss, every wound, every love we have experienced becomes, in one way or another, part of our instrument. My task is not to allow those experiences to overwhelm me, but to transform them. That is one of the great mysteries of art: something that once made you cry can, years later, become the very thing that helps you touch the heart of someone you have never met. Nothing we truly live through is ever lost.

Do you feel a different sense of responsibility when performing in Vienna?

Yes, because in Vienna, the history of music does not exist only in museums. You feel it in the air, in the theatre, in the audience, in the way the city listens. But I try not to let that sense of responsibility turn into fear. Ultimately, whether you are singing in Vienna, London, New York or a small concert hall, the task is the same: to be honest with the music. You cannot walk onto the stage thinking, I have to impress them. You have to walk onto it asking, What do I have to give? For me, that distinction is everything. Because art, in its purest form, is not about display. It is about giving.

After all these years, do you still feel that first emotion before the curtain rises?

Yes. Thank God, yes. And the day I no longer feel it, perhaps I will have to ask myself why I am still there. Of course, the emotion changes. When you are young, it is often fear: Will I make it? Will they accept me? Will I be good enough? As the years pass, the questions change. Today, before the curtain rises, I think less about myself and more about what lies ahead. I think about the music. About the character. About the people who have come that evening, each perhaps carrying a joy or a sorrow in their heart that I will never know. And I think about what an extraordinary privilege it is to be entrusted, for a few hours, with the possibility of entering another person’s heart through music. That is why, just before I go on stage, I always need a moment of silence. Not to ask God to make everything perfect. But to say: Thank you for allowing me to be here. Help me to be true. And let what I have been given tonight not remain mine alone. Then I breathe. And the curtain rises.

“THE CITIES THAT STAYED IN MY HEART”

Five places, five memories, five postcards

TIRANA

The place: Tirana Why it has stayed in your heart: Because it is where I grew up, where I was educated and where my dream began. My roots are there, along with the beginning of everything that came afterwards. The first memory that comes to mind: Family. Home, voices, conversations, my loved ones around me. A taste or scent: The aroma of my mother’s cooking. A scent that, wherever I may be in the world, has the power to take me home instantly. A piece of music: Albanian polyphony. There is something in those voices that connects me to a very deep, almost ancient memory. A person you associate with that place: I could never choose just one. Every member of my family is part of the Tirana I carry with me. What would you write on the postcard?: “This is where my dream began. The farther life takes me, the more I understand that my roots always travel with me.”

GJAKOVA

The place: Gjakova Why it has stayed in your heart: For its hospitality and unconditional love. It is a place where I have experienced an extraordinary sense of human closeness, a warmth that needs very few words. The first memory that comes to mind: The stories of the mothers of Gjakova. Mother Ferdonija and the grave of Mother Pashkë. Women who carry within them pain, memory, strength and an unforgettable dignity. A taste or scent: The aroma of coffee served slowly, amid long conversations and doors that open to you as though you were already part of the family. A piece of music: The traditional urban music of Gjakova. A person you associate with that place: The Mothers of Gjakova. To me, they are far more than an individual memory; they are a portrait of love, loss and resilience. What would you write on the postcard?: “There are places you visit and places that embrace you. Gjakova has taught me that love and memory can be stronger than time.”

ROME

The place: Rome Why it has stayed in your heart: Rome is one of those cities where art and life never seem to be separate. History is everywhere, yet the city continues to live with an energy entirely its own. For me, it is also inseparably connected with Italy, opera and an essential part of my artistic journey. The first memory that comes to mind: Walking through the city, between monumental history and everyday Roman life. That feeling that every turn might reveal another scene. A taste or scent: The aroma of coffee. A short, intense Italian espresso — a small ritual amid all the grandeur of the city. A piece of music: Opera. In Rome, even silence sometimes seems to contain music. A person you associate with that place: The artists and theatre people I have met throughout my journey — people with whom I have shared the stage, the emotion and that extraordinary world that exists only around opera. What would you write on the postcard?: “Rome, you remind me that beauty is not simply meant to be admired. It must be lived — with a coffee, a melody and a little time to lose yourself.”

SYDNEY

The place: Sydney Why it has stayed in your heart: For the extraordinary harmony between the city and nature. There is light, water, sky and a sense of space that somehow makes you breathe differently. The first memory that comes to mind: The Sydney Opera House. It has always seemed to me like an extraordinary white ship, poised to set sail towards the horizon. And the memory of singing La Traviata there makes that image even more personal to me. A taste or scent: The scent of the sea. Salt in the air, mingled with that particular freshness that comes from the ocean. A piece of music: La Traviata. Because there, the music and the place became one memory that I can no longer separate. A person you associate with that place: The audience. Sometimes a city becomes connected with one person; at other times, it becomes connected with hundreds of unfamiliar faces who, for a few hours in the theatre, breathe with you. What would you write on the postcard?: “On the other side of the world, I found a new horizon. And facing the sea, I understood once again that music knows no distance.”

NEW YORK

The place: New York Why it has stayed in your heart: For deeply personal, family reasons. Amid all the energy, noise and extraordinary rhythm of the city, New York also has an intimate dimension for me: it is connected to the person with whom I share my life. The first memory that comes to mind: The skyscrapers. Looking upwards and feeling as though the city is constantly challenging you to think further and dream bigger. A taste or scent: The aroma of morning coffee on the street, mingled with the air of the city — that feeling of a day that began long before you stepped out of the door. A piece of music: Broadway. The music, the theatres, the lights and that energy that continues even after the curtain falls. A person you associate with that place: My life partner, my husband. What would you write on the postcard?: “New York, you have taught me another meaning of freedom: to be among millions of people and still have the space to be yourself. And, above all, to know that home can also be a person.”

“INSIDE ERMONELA’S SUITCASE”

A quick conversation about life on the road

The airport you know best?

I could never choose just one. After 33 years of travelling, airports feel like different rooms in one enormous house. I know some of them so well that I almost know what is waiting for me behind every door.

A city where you are always happy to wake up?

There are many. I have been fortunate enough to wake up in wonderful cities, and each one has given me a different reason to love the morning.

A hotel you have never forgotten?

There is no particular hotel. Most of the time, I prefer apartments for the comfort and privacy they give me during productions, which usually last one or two months. When you stay somewhere for that long, you need the place to begin to feel a little like home.

Always in your suitcase?

Everything I need professionally, a clothes steamer, any medication I might need, and my workout and fitness equipment. My suitcase has to be ready for the stage, but also for everyday life.

Always in your hand luggage?

My documents and a notebook. I still love writing by hand — thoughts, ideas or things I do not want to forget.

The first thing you do when you enter a hotel room?

I unpack. I want a hotel room or temporary apartment to lose the feeling of being a transient space as quickly as possible and begin to feel familiar.

The food that reminds you of home?

My mother’s cooking. Without question.

A city where you would like to get lost without your phone?

It is not a city. It is anywhere I am surrounded by the people closest to my heart. There, I can forget my phone, time and the rest of the world.

A destination you have not yet visited that is calling you?

There is no particular destination calling me. After so many journeys, what calls to me most is not a new place, but the chance to be with the people closest to my heart — with my family. Today, the destination I desire most is time with them.

The place you always feel you are returning to, no matter how far you travel?

Albania. I can travel to the other side of the world, but somehow my return is always there.

“ARRIVAL”

After so many years of travelling, I have come to understand that, for me, arrival is no longer an airport, a city, a theatre or a destination on a map. Nor is applause, however precious, the final point of the journey. Arrival is that moment when you can set your suitcase aside, forget your phone and simply be with the people you love. A place where you do not need to be the artist or the traveller, where you do not need to think about the next flight or the next premiere. You can simply be. Perhaps, after 33 years spent between airports, stages and cities around the world, I have understood that you can travel very far only to discover something remarkably simple:

“Arrival is not a place. It is the feeling of being where your heart is. And for me, my heart is always where my loved ones are. ”

ermonela jaho