Italians just love to talk. A lot

That’s one of the things I like most about them. They can’t seem to help themselves; perhaps it’s because Italian is one of the most beautiful languages in the world (thanks to Dante) and the sensation of rolling those musical syllables off your tongue simply makes you want to speak it as much as possible. Or perhaps it’s because of something Carl Jung proposed. Whatever the reason, Italians will happily talk about anything to anyone, anytime and anywhere.

Ladies exchange gossip across narrow cobblestone alleys from second floor balconies. Men in gas stations smile patiently when giving driving directions. Waiters sigh with relief that you’re not ordering gelato at 10:00 in the morning like the swarms of springtime tourists in the piazza. And no matter where I go, Italians respond to my endless questions about beaches, history, shoe sizes, the freshness of fish etc. with kindness, warmth and humour.

Years ago in Rome I bought my first Italian cell phone.  The telefonino was small and blue and cute, and I swear from the moment I switched it on just outside the shop, it started ringing. I used to ride around the city on the back of Enzo’s Vespa, and he’d navigate through that unnerving traffic helmet-less, with one hand on the handle bar and the other clutching his phone, all the while chatting away with friends. I’d often be on mine at the same time and it never occurred to us that this was weird or dangerous—we just wanted to talk.

For the last two weeks, following the advice of an ENT specialist, I’ve been travelling every day by bus from Verona to a medical spa on the shores of a beautiful turquoise lake called Lago di Garda. Once while waiting at the bus stop, an older woman dressed in a drab brown raincoat eyed me and immediately launched in about the weather (always a safe opener) and then commented on a fashionable woman walking by: “I don’t know how she can walk in those heels; it’s crazy. Do you think the bus will be on time? Usually it’s late, and I’ve got plenty to do, do you know what time it is? Well, my neighbours have cars you know, but I have to take the bus.” Bus passengers engage friends and strangers in conversation about everything from why people wear sunglasses on overcast days to how lazy their children can be, rolling their eyes and gesticulating wildly.

Once I arrive in Sirmione, I often go into the dollar store on the way to the treatment centre to pick up this or that, and the other day it was pouring out. The tall bespectacled shopkeeper looked at me conspiratorially and spoke in a local dialect I barely understood: “These tourists, all they want is good weather. They come here for sun, but we need this rain, what to do? We know differently, don’t we?” I of course just love being mistaken for an Italian. I nodded in complicity, indicating the handle of my umbrella sticking out of my bag.

That same day, I had a new spa technician named Luciano (I could tell by his name tag.) As he was setting me up with a device that squirts sulfur water up your nose (don’t ask), he was singing in my ear. “Oh, perfect,” I said, “we need a song on a day like this.” “Oh, Signora, rain is a good thing and every day is a good one.” “Ah, you’re right of course, Luciano!” Twenty minutes later, when he set me in front of yet another gizmo, he reprised his song, thereby putting me at ease and cementing our rain alliance. That same day, the doctor who uses a high-pressure machine to blast open my Eustachian tubes, grabbed my chin and accused me of playing hooky after the Easter holiday because I must have a man chasing after me, not believing my laughing answer that it was due to a cold. He then asked me point blank if Anglo Saxons like me (my chart says I’m from Canada) celebrate Easter. I don’t think a doctor in say Germany or the UK would talk to patients like that, and yet here it seems perfectly normal.

Sometimes I wonder why Italians express themselves so much more openly than the rest of us. For a long time I thought it might be due to the weather. Sunny Italy and all that. After all, in the cold, grey skies of northern countries, it seems natural that people would be more closed and inward. But if weather is the reason for such a joyful, light-hearted way of being, then how can one explain the Irish? They suffer from the same crappy weather as the English, but they definitely have the gift of the gab. And they will talk your head off in that enchanting lilt given half a chance. So, is it because of language, DNA, or what?

In theorizing how the human ego works, Carl Jung purported that some people have a more highly developed “feeling function.” Which means their way of looking at life is heart-based and empathic. I venture that this is as good an explanation as any for why the Italians are the way they are. They have big hearts, are happier than other nationalities, and simply like other people.

I know that’s a gross generalization. But there are kernels of truth in stereotypes, and the eyes see what they want to, don’t they? How could you not love a people who use the same word for hello and goodbye, thereby creating a never-ending loop of communication? And, who, when they are saying goodbye, never say this word less than two times in a row as if they are loathe to part?

Yup, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

(BTW, I often wear sunglasses on overcast days because I was brought up in a rainforest and my eyes are therefore light sensitive, but those people weren’t actually talking about me–I was just eavesdropping.)

Ciao ciao!

Verona, Italy

Every day at 7am, I walk over to a small park in the Hyderabad neighbourhood where I’m staying to get a bit of exercise

It’s a neatly arranged square, with connecting hedges and pathways made of red and grey terra cotta blocks that border the perimeter, and divide the park into equal quadrants. It’s still pleasantly cool at that hour; the sun is still rising and the air is fragrant and refreshing. I could walk briskly instead through the mostly empty streets, but this is my favourite place because of a small group of ‘regulars’.

By the time I get there, most of them have already arrived, and there is a tacit understanding of how it’s done and how to join in.  We all walk clock-wise around the outside edge, and although most are focused and silent, there’s a noticeable feeling of camaraderie as we go through our paces. I trudge around in an old pair of blue Birkenstocks, yoga pants and a white linen shirt, but others wear trainers or flip flops, or even bare feet. There are a coupe of ladies in Punjabi suits, a wizened man who shuffles along, a young athletic type in a tee shirt and striped track pants, an older man with that unmistakable bright orange-red Indian hennaed hair (I feel like showing him a picture of Richard Gere or George Clooney to let him know that grey is okay in men of a certain age, thereby encouraging him to back off on the orange thing, but of course I wouldn’t dream of it), and then there’s the distinguished Sikh gentleman. He is always dressed in whitish trousers, a white polo shirt (which doesn’t hide his slight paunch), and a white turban. He walks around the park a few times at a good clip and on the one occasion his two young sons were with him, he challenged them to a short race. But the best part is when he leaves the path and steps onto the lawns. That’s where people are meditating, playing badminton, or jerking through those outdated calisthenics that personal trainers in North America warn us can lead to injury. Everyone vies for space with the white egrets bathing in the sprinkler-fed rivulets of water and the small boys who chase them with miniature cricket bats.  The Sikh gentleman prepares for the second part of his exercise regime by whipping off his turban, which remains perfectly formed and in tact (I thought you had to unravel them), and placing it on a stone bench. With his upswept topknot of grey (N.B. not orange) hair exposed, he joins the other men already gathered there, chitchatting, laughing, and flapping his arms behind him with elbows bent. I can tell that this is a happy highlight of his day.

This lovely park holds also holds a bittersweet memory for me. Two years ago, when I was last in Hyderabad, I sat on one of these same stone benches and called my parents on my mobile phone to tell them I was extending my trip by another month and a half, as I couldn’t bear to leave India. My father, who’d spent an important part of his youth in in this amazing country, was happy for me. Sadly, he died last year, and each time I pass that bench, I’d give anything to be able to sit down and call him up to let him know how much I miss him.

He would understand why I’ve come to love these walks. My father knew that routine and rituals are a crucial part of life. It’s very reassuring to slip into a pattern that lends a comforting shape to my days, even thousands of miles from home. And although I’ve never really spoken to any of them, other than smiling and saying thank-you to the slower walkers who let me pass them on the paths, I’ve grown rather fond of this little group. Sometimes I see them looking at me, perhaps wondering who I am, where I’m from and why I’m here. But they seem to accept me, the lone foreigner, as just another human being who enjoys the early morning air and the feeling of walking freely amongst them.

This morning as I was completing my last lap in the park, I looked up into the canopy of trees that arches over the path and watched some beautiful birds in the soft sunlight, jumping from branch to branch as if following me. They are black with just a wisp of turquoise on their wings, and their song is exquisite. As I headed out the east gate, I found myself thinking that I’m really going to miss this park and my walking buddies when I leave India in a few days.

They say that once we are free of all attachments, we become Enlightened. But I like being attached to such sweetness; it gives my life meaning and makes me happy. It’s been fun to become a regular, even if just for a short while. This is life, here and now, one day, one rhythm at a time.

So I’m left wondering about two things: if I’ll be lucky enough to get Enlightened nonetheless, and if my park friends will notice after Wednesday that I’ve gone….

Hyderabad, India

On March 1^st my stylish neighbour, Tripty, dressed in a bright yellow and brown Punjabi suit, leaned over her garden gate and gave me a solemn warning

 “It’s going to get even hotter after Holi,” she lamented. “And they throw eggs at you,” the thought of which, being a staunch vegan, horrified her. Oh great. That’s just what we needed in south central India: more heat. Holi is a Hindu holiday celebrating the arrival of spring. Spring? It was already 35 degrees Celsius out–in the shade.  My eyelids were sweating. I’d almost lost the use of my brain. Even the normally chirpy crows were sounding a bit glum, although that could be my imagination.

I’m currently staying in a leafy suburb of Hyderabad in Andhra Pradesh, India, getting a tune-up at an Ayurvedic clinic. One of the treatments calls for the technicians to bind your head in a Nefertiti-style black rubber hat and pour hot oil on your scalp. As I sit there fantasizing about an iced drink (ice is an ayurvedic no-no,) I tell myself that it’s all good; what’s a little heat anyway?

Actually, I have a long-standing relationship with the heat. During one of my first summers in Iowa a long time ago, it was so hot that I sat around the house thinking I might just die. There were no lakes, oceans or rivers nearby to cool the town down, and my housemates and I didn’t have air conditioning, so I more or less sweated it out panting, my tongue lolling about in my head just like the neighbourhood dogs splayed out on porches. I could picture my own demise announced in the local paper: “Delicate Pacific Northwest Rainforest Girl Dies of Heat in the American Midwest.” One stifling Friday evening, my housemates took pity on me and bought one of those Mr. Turtle swimming pools for tots at Wal-Mart. “This’ll cool you off,” they promised. Oh goodie. Relief in sight. I wasn’t going to die after all! The next morning they ceremoniously filled the pool with water from the garden hose, which had been coiled up in the backyard. I was all set to plunk myself in for a refreshing soak and carefully placed my sunglasses, hat and iced drink poolside. As soon as I dipped one toe in, my hopes plummeted. By 10:30 am, the hose was already so hot from the blasting sun that the water came out the same temperature as the air. Sadly, Mr. Turtle quickly became a large drinking bowl for those neighbourhood dogs, and I went back to dreaming up my own obituary.

Holi took place yesterday, and Tripty, predictably, was nowhere to be found. Originally a festival commemorating good harvests, Holi also became a way of honouring the hero Prahlad, a Vishnu devotee who miraculously escaped unscathed after the Demoness Holika forced him into a fire. During Holi, societal structures loosen up somewhat, and people from all religions, castes and age groups attend bonfires on the eve of the full moon in early March, and pelt each other with perfumed powder the next day in celebration of springtime colours. It can get a bit wild. In our neighbourhood, gangs of errant children roamed the streets giddily, blasting anyone in sight with powder and coloured water from plastic bottles or pistols. They got me good, smearing me with pinks and blues and greens while I tried to take photographs. It’s virtually impossible not to burst out laughing as you’re being slimed, and if you try and escape, they either hunt you down, or stalk you, waiting to catch you off guard. The ayurvedic doctor thoughtfully advised me that morning: “It’s better not to participate in Holi; those colours they use are harmful chemicals.” He was right of course, but his own devious employees–beside themselves with glee–covered him from head to foot in bright, beautiful toxins just when he thought he’d escaped the mayhem of the day.

The power of the mind is amazing, isn’t it? During those fun paint-tossing hours, I didn’t think about the heat for even one second. Guess I’m a survivor after all. I think I’ll go brag to Tripty that Holi was fun, that I don’t mind the heat, that I’m okay, that I’m above it all, and that not even one egg landed on me.

Today’s weather report: a balmy 37 degrees Celsius. And I wouldn’t trade it for anything. Oh wait! I think I hear an ice cream truck coming. Gotta go…

Although that could be my imagination.

Hyderabad, India

According to the controversial English naturalist, I have about a one in three chance of surviving (at best)

A few days ago I was sitting in the airport in Dubai in the middle of the night, waiting for my connecting flight to India. Oh my, what a place: a decadent, sprawling, gleaming, teeming modern day bazaar. The marble floors were so squeaky clean and polished that I felt like taking a running slide in my stocking feet to see how far I could go, just like I used to when my Mom waxed the floors at home. There were fountains and steel elevators and shiny stores and people everywhere. And what most of them were doing was shopping: dignified, white-skirted Arab men in red-checkered keffiyehs, mysterious kohl-eyed women in black niqabs, affluent Japanese business types in dark suits and fancy watches, efficient Americans in polo shirts and khaki pants, stylish Europeans with coloured scarves wrapped jauntily around their necks, and serious-looking Muslim pilgrims all filing through the shops in buying mode. You can find anything there, even at 03:00: perfumes, cosmetics, chocolates, alcohol, tobacco, leather goods, pearls, diamonds, and the latest designer labels, pricey and oh-so-desirable.

The surroundings are opulent, cosmopolitan and…soulless. There I was literally at a junction point where East meets West; the veil between two worlds, and something was definitely missing. In my romantic traveler’s heart, I was hoping for something else, and if I squinted my eyes just right, I could almost see it: vague traces, hints and flavours of a bustling palm-lined oasis along the ancient Silk Road. Not too far from that very airport in fact, at the head of the Persian Gulf, once lay an important historical port named Charax, famous as a meeting place for long strings of camel caravans traveling that extensive network of interlinking trade routes connecting Asia with North Africa and Europe.

In those days, meeting points of East and West looked and sounded a lot different than Terminal 3. For one, people gathered outdoors under date palms bordering pools of shining water, not in a climate-controlled mall where you can barely tell if it’s day or night. They call that airport a shopper’s paradise, but back then, the merchandise was different everywhere you went, not like now where it’s the same in every single duty free shop worldwide. Luckily globalization hadn’t hit yet; agents from faraway places transported exotic goods that people in other countries had never seen before; things like silk, glassware, perfumes, tea, hemp, medicines, carpets, satin, jewels, spices and even rhubarb. Over mint tea and cooking fires, voices would rise animatedly as travelers shared meals and exchanged passionate views in dozens of languages about religion, technology, philosophy and politics. Camels spit at each other, working out territorial issues with other herd members, and musicians filled the starry night skies with melodies from strange, plaintive instruments. People would stay at these crossroads for days or weeks, not a few hours’ layover.

Sigh. Back to reality. I was reminded yet again, as I sat near a potted palm, that I was born a few centuries too late. Today, we’re all in a hurry to get where we’re going with barely a thought as to the landscapes we’re hurtling through or over. We’ve traded camels for Air Buses, and buy and eat the same stuff everywhere we go. We use laptops to communicate digitally instead of writing words on paper that people can touch and feel, and iPhones to get our points across instead of sharing conversations around the campfire. And I admit to being one of these new travelers, jetting from one continent to the next,  checking emails via Wi-Fi in the “Zen” garden of an airport that could almost be anywhere.

Oh yeah, Charles Darwin.

Darwin said: “It is not the strongest of the species that survive, nor the most intelligent, but the one most responsive to change.” Well, I’m not that strong, nor am I the brightest bulb in the chandelier, but I more or less manage to adapt when I have to. However, I don’t necessarily always like it.

Hmm. I admit to moseying over to one of the shops to have a look round; you know, in the name of survival.

Insha’Allah.

Hyderabad, India