On my return flight of my 2 ½ week trip to Italy, I lost my leather bound journal. Actually, I left it on the plane. I didn’t realize this until hours later, when I was at home. And my first thoughts were, I hope the person who finds the journal will be excited and use it.
I had this journal for two years, and recently found it in storage when I was in the states. It was given to me as a birthday gift from my mother, and had an inscription from mother to mother on the front. But the extra special meaning was I took it on my pilgrimage to various Black Madonnas in Italy. Inside the brown leather cover were images of the Black Madonna I collected throughout the week, postcards from various churches. In some ways, it had a dual purpose meaning. It was my biological mother who gave it to me, but the ultimate mother was also gifting it to me.
As I realized I lost it, I wished that whoever finds the journal would find peace and the Black Madonna will watch over them. Maybe this “losing the journal” was a serendipitous event that will bring the finder comfort or joy. Not just in the beauty of the journal, but the images inside.
There were no steamy or juicy secrets written in there. All that was written were reflections and insights gained, potential plans for the future. The rest of the journal had empty pages, futures unwritten. I hope the person who finds it writes in the journal, continues to reflect on their hopes and dreams, and chooses to lean on the Black Madonna for support and guidance.
As I prepare for this next part of my life, I realize I must let go of attachments to things, journals, ideas, and goals. In order for transformations to be made, we must let go and shed old versions of ourselves. In losing this, I am letting go of the old me’s hopes, dreams, and allowing space for the new to enter.
I took the photo above the day before I lost my journal in front of the Black Madonna in Bologna. I spent an hour sitting in front of her, free writing, journaling, and crying. Crowds of people would come in and out, but I remained seated in front of her. In between crying, a stranger looked at me and said “thank you for everything.” We didn’t talk before this or exchange glances. Maybe he just appreciated my energy and devotion. He was dressed in pink and maroon, and thought he was an image or reminder of the divine masculine. And after he said this to me and left the sanctuary, I cried even more. It was a beautiful chance encounter with a stranger that lasted minutes. Therefore, I hope the tears of comfort and realizations blessed in this journal will bring whoever finds it inspiration, joy, and protection.
It’s been 6 days in my 21 day journey, and I knew the time had come. I needed to go to a laundromat. This is something I have avoided when travelling. I think it’s been awhile since I travelled for an extended amount of time and wasn’t visiting family or friends. It’s not an irrational fear to avoid public laundromats in foreign countries while travelling. There was a reason. Years ago, I was robbed. Yes, in my twenties while backpacking Europe for three months, a friend and I went to a laundromat in Florence. I didn’t think much of it as I stuffed my clothes in a machine, I must have only placed my wallet down for 2 minutes. When I looked back, it was gone. Gone was the money and credit cards, but luckily the passport was in the hotel. I was so grateful my friend Crystal was travelling with me during this portion of the journey. It was a three month solo backpacking trip, but for two different portions, I met up with friends. We could lean on Crystal’s credit cards, until I could wait for a replacement card to be sent to the next hotel. Ever since then, I avoid public laundromats at all costs while travelling.
But I was now in Italy again in the middle of summer. My clothes were quite disgusting of discovery days full of sweat. The hotel didn’t have a laundry service. I had no other choice. This was the prime time to do laundry, I was on the chilled out island of Lampedusa. I didn’t dare do laundry in Naples, where I was returning to. And so viola, I headed to the laundromat.
Although it was only 930 am, it was already in the 90s. I was filled with sweat on my walk, and upon arrival at the laundromat I noted all were full. There were three machines, one was broken, and two were in use. I would wait for the remaining 17 minutes. First I waited inside, but there was no air circulation, I could only feel the hot air of the machines doing their jobs. One woman folded her laundry, with a hair wrap to keep the sweat from her face. We commented on the heat, her in Italian, me in pantomime.
This was my opportunity to reframe the experience. I brought a book to read as I used my Spanish abanico to cool me down. This wouldn’t be so bad. Eventually the time came for me to load the wash, and after I did, I sat outside waiting for the time to pass. Another woman sat outside with me waiting for her load in the dryer. She wore all white, a white fitted tee shirt and white ripped jeans that seemed to have a faint stain of coffee in the back. I had seen her earlier on the phone, talking to someone on the phone. It was most probably her husband, as she rolled her eyes in desperation and leaned over a table looking exasperated. I don’t know if her dramatic attempts were for me, if she thought her partner could see this on the phone, or it was the only way to act out with her partner in public privacy.
There were many older men hanging in the streets at this hour. I wondered if they were there because it was yet to be high noon and stores were open, or they left their homes so the women could do the house work. Maybe one of those men was her husband. This could be why this woman was acting over the top, she felt I could relate to her experience as a woman doing laundry in a hot laundromat on a Sunday.
We sat on a bench outside, she offered a cigarette. I politely declined, but thought to myself “how Italian.” We are cleaning our clothes so they can smell fresh and clean, but her laundry would then be folded with her nicotine covered hands.
I appreciated her warm gesture of the cigarette, perhaps she wanted to connect in the only way she knew how due to the disparity in our verbal communication. Maybe I should have taken the cigarette, even though I don’t smoke, to accept her kindness. This was a corrective experience from my previous Italian theft laundromat story. Now it was a moment of connection with a stranger, we sat commiserating in the heat, two women waiting for our laundry on a Saturday afternoon.
It was as if I ate a large meal, and could unbutton the first part of my jeans and breathe again.
This is what I felt when I walked the streets of Lampedusa. It was a hectic busy 24 hours flying from Malaga to Naples, going to Pompeii, and flying to Lampedusa. The day was filled with a bit of anxiety, travel stress, and tons of stress. I think my body was on guard and tense due to my strict timelines, the heat, and the awareness of the fact that I could not get too comfortable because I would have to move to the next location. I had not arrived yet. But now walking the quiet “main street” of town, I could relax. I didn’t even need to go to the beach yet to feel the chill vibes.
There was a tranquility here. The restaurants placed chairs on the center of the road and closed off the street for the night to begin. Store workers sat in plastic chairs as tourists walked by. Elderly locals looked over their balconies to observe the newest people to visit their island. These photos capture peaceful moments in this Italian Island, which was once considered a Tunisian territory.
It’s a place I don’t know much about. As I tried to youtube video clips, I couldn’t find much. I know Italians vacation here for their summer holidays. But it’s also more well known for something else. When I told a French guy I was coming here, he said “Lampedusa the place where all the migrants go?” This is true, why most people are aware of this area is it is the location that many refugees try to escape to. It’s a gateway to Europe, people from various parts of Africa voyage to Tunisia. And from there the expedition continues. As you are aware, not many people make it.
This past spring, I decided to set the goal of joining TCC (Travel Century Club), to be part of this, I must visit 100 territories, and I want to do this before I turn 50. Since I want to do this, and was flying to Naples already, why not go to Lampedusa? I also will San Marino, while I am at it. So this is what I am doing. Lampedusa marks the 65th territory I have visited.
I am staying in Lampedusa for five nights, and originally I thought this was excessive. The island is only 7 miles long and 2 miles wide. Would I go crazy, could I fly to Tunisia and check off another territory? But now that I am here, my soul is grateful for what has been planned out before me.
I have time to wind down, write, read, and catch up with myself. The slow pace of the locals and the fact that there are minimal tours here, allows me to wander or simply swim in the sea. I could allow myself to simply be, and I wasn’t aware that this is what I was longing for. Even though I am not currently working, I was attending Spanish classes for one month, and was in the midst of applying to jobs in America and going through loads of interviews. I also am taking a mythology class, which I love and was deep in reading the suggested literature. So overall, I was “busy.” It was a busy-ness of choice yes, and not of necessity, but it was still busy.
As I walk the main street, I note the muted spring colors. Things are not as vibrant as the electricity in hues of Miami or the blue white tranquility of Santorini. There’s a sense of humbleness, in the toned down colors of the building. They are not trying to be anything spectacular or Instagram worthy, they just are. In some ways this a beach Mediterranean island which would be featured in a Wes Anderson film. There are characters that exist here: in the locals that never left the island, the refugees that have fled here, and the vacationers they serve. I’m not sure what the storyline is yet, and maybe it would be a film of an everyday life on this quiet picturesque place, which has yet to been bombarded by excessive crowds.
The days pass, and I note the same people on the street. They notice me and wave. There’s the older sailor man who sails spices, the family who opened a new restaurant serving fresh fish burgers, the Thai and Italian family selling gorgeous clothes, and the local elderly couple who probably own the hotel I am staying in who sit on the couch every afternoon to watch the guests.
The slow pace has allowed me to linger. I walked throughout much of the bottom half of the island, swam in numerous seas, laid on rocks in the style of Barbarella, and had time to write. I appreciate that Lampedusa hasn’t gotten all the acclaim yet. It’s as if I stepped back in time, and could find not just another culture but a more relaxed version of myself I have lost.
“Stuff your eyes with wonder, live as if you’d drop dead in ten seconds. See the world. It’s more fantastic than any dream made or paid for in factories.” ~ Ray Bradbury
I am about to embark on a pilgrimage for the Black Madonna in the Amalfi Coast. This begins next week, but I thought I would embark on my trip a little earlier. I flew into Naples and before catching a flight the next day to another city, I had some free time in the morning. I squeezed in Pompeii. I had been to Naples previously with my ex-husband who is Italian American. Although we loved Italy, Naples wasn’t our favorite. All I remember was grabbing pizza and staying in our hotel. We didn’t want to venture onto the streets that appeared impoverished, full of trash, homeless, mafia, and crime. Naples was a stopover on our way to go to the Amalfi Coast. For this trip, I had originally planned the same itinerary. Pizza and staying in my air conditioned hotel room.
I am a world solo traveller, and pride myself in this. But I have to admit before going to Naples I had some anxiety. This was because I had to leave my 14 year old chug Bella again. I was grateful she was going to stay with friends, but their plans were delayed and to sort it out I had to rely on another friend to offer keys to my apartment and greet them. I left four page instructions and stick it notes around the house to direct guide and answer any questions. Yes, I may be an overprotective dog mom but wanted to offer the most for my pet and my friends who would be staying in my place. Maybe the guilt for leaving was excessive, after my 15 year English Bulldog died last year the day after I returned from a trip. But Bella is healthy and a wonderful host. (Thank you in advance Mayra, Dave, and Lucy for helping with this!)
Another worry that crept in was the potential crime that Naples had, was I going to stand out like a tourist and be targeted? I was so lucky that an acquaintance Veronika was on my flight from Malaga to Naples. I was staying close to the train station, and she said there was a lot of crime there. Her warning for me was to watch my belongings because I had excess stuff. I was travelling for 2 ½ weeks, and had only a carry on and a bag. She was going to be in Italy for a month, and had only one backpack. She even thought this was too much for her. Veronika also encouraged me to “look both ways when crossing the street here, then look again.” She had lived in the region before. Although I am a world traveller, I was humble enough to welcome the advice. All was welcome and needed. She also was able to guide me to my hotel, as my phone and the new sim card was not currently working in the country.
Although I had an easy chill night upon arrival, after grabbing a pizza (in the city that invented pizza), I opted to push the boundaries and go to Pompeii in my spare morning hours the next day. I was so grateful I did, to observe with wonder the vastness of this city, the impact of destruction, and the remnants that highlight the luxury of past residents. But it was hot! July in Southern Italy is full of intense sun and heat, but I was prepared with my layers of sunblock, sunglasses, a hat, loads of water, and an abanico.
The entire day I was dripping with sweat, as one can witness in this photo. It looks like I am glistening. It started off to me glistening and transitioned to a ghastly site. I was living in my sweat throughout my exploration of the grounds of Pompeii, the ride back to Naples in a non-air conditioned crowded train, walk to my hotel and the bus stop. As I stood on the bus ride to the airport, crammed next to other travellers, sweat dripped into my eyes. I was dripping with sweat on every part of my body. It seemed as if others were not quite as soaked as I was, but they probably didn’t rush through Pompeii. I expected to be this hot and disgusting when walking the Camino and wearing hiking gear, but travelling in a city I wasn’t prepared for that. I was glad I was not travelling with anyone, because I am sure we would have been irritable and complaining. I stayed silent and focused on the current task at hand.
There was a mantra I repeated to myself throughout the day “this is part of the journey.” This week leading up to the pilgrimage, was the pilgrimage. The pilgrimage does not begin when I meet with the group, it began when I left my home. The insanity of Naples, the ups and downs, the fears, the joys, the assistance from friends, the sweat, the delicious pizza, the observation of gorgeous antiquities or sacred geometry floors was all part of it.
Pilgrimage and some forms of travel are not for the faint of heart. It requires grit and persistence to embark on such a thing. To be a tourist, is to glide from one air conditioned vehicle to another, stay in an air conditioned hotel, be escorted to safe locations, skip the ugly façade of cities, minimize walking and public transportation, have tasty elaborate meals, and witness only the beauty of cities. This is what you pay for. It’s a luxury and it is why retirees vacation like this. They deserve it. There is nothing wrong with this, and at a certain age I would only want to walk through the world in this way. But for now, I am reasonably young, healthy, and have an overall positive mindset. I can handle the fluctuations of a journey. I know the struggles can only enrich the story. And so far there have been no “bad” parts, just really uncomfortable.
I have such appreciation for the kindness of my travel guides and friends who assisted (and continue to assist) along this journey. I value the wanderluster in me who opted this time to get out of my Naples hotel room and head to Pompeii to walk through the ruins. There’s such gratitude for being safe, interacting with friendly people, and having the luxury of time to do this. Whenever you may be going through difficulties in your travels, after getting out a little complaining, pause and reframe. It’s all part of the journey.
Currently I am visiting my 54th country and 64th territory: Bulgaria. I didn’t know what to expect from this Eastern European location. But I find, whenever I don’t expect much, I am pleasantly surprised. Sofia, the capital of Bulgaria, currently caters to the cosmopolitan traveller. The digital nomad millennial influence has impacted this space, with new cutesy cafes, brunch spots, and instagrammable restaurants popping up throughout the city. It’s a recognition that many of us are longing to linger in places that are beautiful and welcoming. The outdoor relaxing cafes are no longer solely reserved for the streets of Paris. They can exist anywhere, and this includes Bulgaria. Why not?
What I found truly interesting, was today when my friend Isabella and I, ate breakfast at a local creperie. One of the staff members chatted with us for at least an hour. Although Daniel is Bulgarian, he spent the past twenty-two years in America, and recently moved back to Bulgaria for family reasons. The three of us never embarked on small talk of the weather and “tourist things to do in Sofia.” We talked of “American” values of overworking to pay for our consumeristic lifestyles. We explored getting lost in the worlds of what we thought was important to us, and therefore losing our health or time for proper relationships. Collectively, all three of us intentionally made a shift in how we lived and worked to lead more balanced lives. We did and are purposefully continuing to do this in different ways. Although we were born in different countries, we had an American upbringing in our late teens through thirties.
Having a conversation like this, in a land I never thought I would visit, is refreshing. It’s the Law of Attraction. Like attracts like. One finds you attract people of similar minds and lifestyles. It felt “random” that our middle aged Bulgarian server, was drawn to the works of Yogananda and SRF (Self Realization Fellowship). We bonded in talking initially of this Indian guru who set up shop in California to spread spiritual principles in the world. All three of us had visited one of his SRF places of worship in California. Here we were living it, and having a discussion about it in Eastern Europe. In the end, it doesn’t matter the type of job or title you have or the amount of money you have in your bank account. What matters is the experiences you choose to have in life, and living in alignment with your values. These values are not those placed upon you by your culture, family, or media, but those that you fully chose. But what is required to do all of this is to step outside of your hometown, see parts of the world, and see that we are more alike than different. We must unlearn to learn.
What makes a trip memorable isn’t always the destination one arrives at, but the assistance one receives from strangers along the way. This was the case for me this past week. I have been in America for two weeks. Although I am from America, I haven’t lived here in nearly 10 years. This trip had many facets to it, and was tightly booked. I had planned that each component would go according to plan. Family visits in NYC and Philly, an energy psychology conference in Maryland. In addition, part of my journey included heading to Arizona to empty out my storage via donations and preparation for shipment to Spain. Going through one’s belongings of items you have put aside for years is a difficult feat. It’s physically and psychologically draining. But I had assistance from some strangers.
I was lucky enough to have my mom join me for this adventure, and used miles for our flight from Philly to Phoenix. Because we were using miles, the layover I landed was a 6 hour wait! I reckoned this would be do-able with my annual one day passes to use with United, but when we got to the United Club a sign was posted stating “no one day passes.” I thought I would risk it, and an exception would be made. A staff member obliged and offered a simple “why not?” He let us in. As we sat in the lounge and grabbed breakfast, I conjured to further chance my luck. I asked a staff member if we could be bumped to an earlier flight, and she squeezed down our six hour layover to 90 minutes. She warned us there was a possibility our luggage wouldn’t make it. But luck continued and our luggage arrived on time. Travel blessings were abound. With each small level of assistance, I thanked the universe for all the help along the way from these everyday angels.
After landing in Phoenix, grabbing lunch, we headed straight to work at a storage facility in Tempe. I had zero plan of where we were going to donate all these belongings and furniture. Our hybrid rental car was only mid size. The local Goodwill took all donations, but they did not have the availability pick items up. I didn’t know how people sold or gave away items anymore. Craigslist? Facebook Marketplace? There wasn’t enough time to list each item and sell it.
But on our first day at the storage facility, a fellow storage neighbor walked by and chatted with us. My mom offered her a massage chair I was donating. She responded with a quick and exuberant “yes!” We informed her, I had numerous other items I would be giving away. She said she would take all of them, and she did. Throughout the week, Roberta was there at moments when we needed her. My mom said in some ways she was like an angel, you asked for her and she was right there in the storage facility ready to pick up an item. In total we spent 20 hours in three days sorting through this storage, and this would have been even longer if we didn’t have Roberta’s assistance.
It amazes me how help can be there when you need it, and it comes from the unexpected. With each person we met and assisted us along the journey, I gave them one of these Gratitude Puzo/Bella Cards. It’s a small simple way to offer gratitude, but it is tangible and memorable. I stayed in that positive zone: offering kindness, receiving kindness, offering gratitude. The cycle continues.
Life may not always work out as smoothly and seamlessly as this, but sometimes the kindness of strangers may surprise us. All we have to do is ask, be willing to receive. And also know that it is our mission as humans to pay that back forward with others, in one way or another.
Last week, my mom and I had visited a Buddhist Stupa in the town of Benalmadena. I had heard so much about it over the past several months of living in Spain, but finally we had a car rental and so it was easily accessible. This Stupa is high in the hills of Benalmadena, surrounded by expensive newly built modern white homes.
As I left the parked car, I passed a tiny gift shop. The shop attendee stood outside holding her mala beads, repeating silently prayers. I knew her presence here was an act of service. My gaze was then are pulled to the Tibetan flags that surround the exterior of the temple. The flags blow in the wind as you are mesmerized by the view of the sea, town, and temple.
My mom was with me, as was my 14 year old dog Bella. We had planned to take turns holding Bella outside as we visited quickly the Stupa. Another volunteer monitoring the visitors noted our struggle and signified we could both come in with the dog. I thought of what an act of kindness this was and appreciated the gesture of brining my pet to this sacred space unannounced. After a doing meditation, giving an offering, and walking around the Stupa, we left. I headed back to the gift shop, and wanted to buy a beautiful shawl I saw inside the Stupa. The volunteer noted this could only be purchased inside the Stupa. I ventured back in, this time leaving the dog with my mom. I thought it would be a quick money exchange.
As I entered, the volunteer was talking to another woman about the Stupa and the history of it. There were several other visitors present, this included one woman there with a young child around age 4-5. This child began to cry, and automatically the mother headed out of the door. I knew she felt shame, embarrassment, and didn’t want to disrupt the other visitors. Yet, the volunteer walked towards them and welcomed them back in. She gave the crying child two oranges, she said one could be for her and one was to be offered to the Buddha in front of the temple. The child stopped crying, and made her offering. She then began asking for a piece of chocolate, she saw by the offering area. The mother and volunteer laughed, as she offered the child a piece of chocolate.
I witnessed the essence of Buddha with this volunteer who was so welcoming towards this child, mother, me, and my dog. She was exemplifying Buddhism versus trying to follow “rules” of being the keeper of the Stupa. I knew with me entering the temple again and purchasing that prayer shawl, I was meant to observe this act of kindness that was so beautiful. It will stay etched in my mind.
If we are slow enough to observe our atmosphere, we may start to notice acts of kindness popping up everyday. What have you seen recently?
“An encounter with a Stupa is an encounter with myth – or as Carl Jung and Joseph Campell might have phrased it, an archetypal truth. What may at first seem only to be an artistic and perhaps nostalgic arrangement of brick, stone or wood may eventually come to be seen as an elaborate vessel, transporting the teachings of the Buddha – Buddhadharma – across three millennia.”
– Buddhist Stupas in Asia: The Shape of Perfection. 2001
It’s a time of dating apps, where one can swipe right or left to determine your worth to them. Love seems elusive. It’s a time where people can unmatch or ghost you if you don’t fit their ideal in the moment. One feels disposable. Love is a condition so many of us strive for, but feels far from reach.
And all we need to do to witness love is put down our phones and observe it. This is a new practice I have been trying. If I am striving for love and all the aspects of it, not just romantic, but also communal, friendship, familial, and universal, then I am practicing witnessing and being love. It requires one’s presence.
Today, as I sat in a local town square to be in the sun with my dog, I was present. I observed a woman crawling on her knees to move a cigarette butt so her baby wouldn’t grasp for it as he crawled the same park. I saw a single father, pushing his slightly tween daughter on a makeshift swing. I observed two friends catching up, as they were on holiday. I saw how I shielded the eyes of my dog when a razor scooter zoomed by so her bark wouldn’t ruin the mood of the moment for those around me. I interacted with a stranger as our dogs met, and although her dog was barking, she knew her pet was curious and only wanted to smell out my dog and greet it. None of these people were on their phones. They were present and patient. And this is where I observe the lines repeated so often in weddings from the Corinthians: “Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonour others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, and it keeps no record of wrongs.”
We don’t have to wait to hear those words to be read as people exchange their vows, to see them play into action. It’s a reminder that love is more than one’s romantic partner. Love is how we interact with other beings in the world. Love does not have to be saved for special moments, it is possible in every moment. So in a time of swiping, impatience, and greed, we can remind ourselves love still exists and is all around. But it requires us to observe. And when we can observe love wholeheartedly, there’s a contagion to that. We want to pass it on. Don’t pass on the bitterness, frustration, or stress. Pass on the love in the little acts you engage in with those in your atmosphere.
Today take note of the love you witness. Pass it on.
“Carry out a random act of kindness, with no expectation of reward, safe in the knowledge that one day someone might do the same for you.” – Princess Diana.
Why do I do this blog? I am asked this question frequently, and it’s something I often wonder do I keep up after over a decade of committing to it. I’ve given these positive quote cards (which may have led you to this blog) to baristas, celebrities, homeless people, airport security, store assistants, friends, ex romantic partners, family members, favorite authors, or more recently children who are enamored by my dog. The business card which leads to the blog, generally has an inspirational quote on top of a beautiful backdrop and an image of my dogs.
Initially I did this blog and quote cards as a way to offer a tangible form of gratitude to a passing stranger. I copied the idea from author Cheryl Richardson, who said in a workshop that she leaves these positive quotes with her from one of her card decks she created as a form of positivity. I liked the idea, and wanted to do a variation of it. I wanted to make people smile too, because I knew that people tend to spread their negativity frequently, just as easily they could spread positivity. I wanted to be part of that movement in some way.
What has happened to these cards over the years? What has been the impact? I do not know. They may have been thrown away, re-gifted to a friend or stranger, or forgotten about and packed away in some shoebox forgotten about. Once I had returned to a store in Arizona, and saw the staff member have placed the card under glass with other important pieces of memorabilia from fellow customers. In London, I visited one psychic in an esoteric store a year later and he had the card I had given him placed on the wall. After Puzo died, a friend took a selfie of him and the card to show me he still carries the sweet words and image in his wallet. Most recently, after giving this to a store associate at a high end Parisian department store, she found me on Instagram and sent me the following sweet message offering her gratitude, here is a snippet:
“It gave me joy in my day and reminded me why I am doing this job: to meet nice people like you.”
Her finding me and taking the time out to say how this made her day, made my day. To know such a small simple act of kindness can impact others means the world to me. Often, we think our purpose in the world has to be something grand. Our purpose must equate to making millions of dollars, attaining a high degree, being famous, and making a newsworthy mark in society. But our purpose could be to simply bring smiles and joys to strangers. We can brighten their day without much effort, and this impact will overflow in their interactions with others. It doesn’t take much.
So this new year, as we contemplate what goals we want to achieve, perhaps we can step back and simply smile at a stranger, open a door, leave a nice tip, or give someone an unexpected compliment. It doesn’t take much, it only takes a smile.
“Community is not an ideal; it is people. It is you and I. In community we are called to love people just as they are with their wounds and their gifts, not as we want them to be.”-JEAN VANIER
I’m living in the midst of a holiday season in a metropolitan area. It’s a time when cities feel frenetic. Locals are shopping for gifts for loved ones. Tourists inhale the Christmas spirit each store window has to offer. And often we may feel overwhelmed and exhausted. Being an outsider who is residing in a foreign country, where I don’t speak the language, oftentimes I just observe. Paris seems in some ways like any other big city. Many people live alone in their tiny apartments, and interact with their romantic partners or close friends for lunch or dinner. It doesn’t seem as if people go outside their own little bubbles. I’ve accepted this, as it what I am used to. But last week I had two experiences which warmed my heart and reminded me a sense of community can exist anywhere.
I was in my favorite gluten free boulangerie last week, which was crowded. There was minimal seating available. I asked a woman in a communal table if the space across from her was free. She nodded. I began to sip my coffee, and she tried to speak to me in French. My French is horrible, so then she began speaking in Spanish. This happens often. I am mistaken for being some type of Latin. I answered in Spanish that I was from the United States, and she transitioned to English. Claudine was this woman’s name. She hailed from Morocco, but who has been living in France for years. A mask covered her face, and a cane graced the table. As we spoke, she noted how lovely the lattes were. She stated she should know because she came to the Chambelland boulangerie daily. Claudine began to tell me she lives in an apartment behind the boulangerie, and each day a staff member will help her walk the steps to her home. I could have closed our interaction and typed on my computer, as I had planned. But I welcomed in the moment with this stranger. As our conversation continued, workers would stop and check in on her. Claudine created community in this popular establishment, with her loyalty and regularity. As she was about to be escorted by a worker, she asked me to visit her house. I agreed. All three of us walked to her apartment, and thirty minutes I was a guest in her home. She offered me another coffee, as I continued to eat my pastry from the store. As we bid farewell, she left an open invitation for me to return to her home.
Later in the week, I went to a tiny Vietnamese restaurant where I had a similar experience. My friend Isabella and I grabbed lunch, after a macaron making class at The Galleries Lafayette. We sat at a table next to these two older women. At first, they seemed shock that we would sit next to them. The restaurant was tiny, and they appeared as if they didn’t want to be bothered. There seemed to be an apparent free spot at a table next to a woman dining alone. After time, their energy settled. The older woman sitting next to me attempted to start a conversation with me. Again it was in French, and again, I simply smiled and noted “Je parle un peu francais.” I only speak a little French. She offered to transition to English, and queried where we were from. When we shared that we were from California, she noted that her grandson lived there and she visited once. As she spoke about it, it appeared as if it was ages ago. This woman than said she’s nearly 100 years old, and whispered to me her real age of 98. We continued to politely chat, and they received their meals first. Her and I ordered the same dish, a shrimp stir fry.
At one point the woman got some of the stir friend noodles she was eating on her shirt. I didn’t notice this, but the waitress did. The waitress came over to her to wipe it off her shirt and then placed a napkin over her shirt like a bib. The elder woman told her “Toi es gentille.” You are kind. At first, I thought this was strange. I didn’t know how I would feel if a stranger did this to me, wiping me down, and doting on me. But then the older woman stated she comes to this specific restaurant daily. “I live above here and I’m too old to cook,” was her response. When I inquired her favorite dish, “all of them, I rotate,” was her response. What I was witnessing in this moment was another act of kindness. Two days after my interaction with Claudine, I observed this. It was another older woman, who made this Vietnamese restaurant her third space. Her home. The staff member cared for her like a family member. It was beautiful to witness this.
These two single older women lived alone in Paris. Their family members did not live in the city, but they created family. They created community in third spaces. The staff members at these food establishments went above and beyond their duties and job descriptions and offered support, care, and love to these women for small moments each day. It was beautiful to observe these warm acts during these cold Parisian days. And it wouldn’t have happened if I wasn’t present enough to chat with these women in my poor French and be willing to go with the flow and engage in conversations with strangers.
It Only Takes A Smile 