Look at that girl, I imagined the other patrons saying, So sad that doesn’t she have any friends! To quell my shame and discomfort, I slapped it on the table immediately and proceeded to turn the pages loudly and make exaggerated motions of interest to show how deeply absorbing it all was. Nodding. Underlining. Sighing.

Oh, yes, I wanted to shout out. I’m important and have important things to read over here! It’s okay if I’m alone!

I don’t know how I managed to choke down my millet pie.

This memory returned to me a few months ago while eating al fresco on a warm summer evening in Turin, Italy. I was lazily browsing through a copy of the New Yorker as I enjoyed the Piemontese fare. Pasta di gragnano in a spicy tomato sauce with crumbled boar sausage, a half-litre of barbera red and for dessert, two chocolates – each no bigger than my thumbnail – flavoured with local hazelnuts and coffee. I looked up once to help some American tourists order, but I was otherwise happy to let the residual heat of the day and the wine make the magazine page increasingly fuzzy.

The difference between these two experiences is the difference between eating alone and eating solo. And this shift was not caused by the beauty of Turin or the accumulated effects of a well-deserved vacation. Instead, it came from an internal shift – or rather, a gradual shift in how I perceive this mad, tilting reality of ours.

I was not alone at that table in Turin. There may have been only one person sitting at my table, but I was not alone or lonely. I was surrounded by food and other people enjoying a similar experience. Even if someone at another table was judging me for eating alone – who cares? Chances are, they weren’t enjoying the moment as much as I was – and were probably feeling very much alone.

Trans-Atlantic flights tend to leave Canada in the evening so that you arrive in Europe in the morning. The efficiency with which the attendants feed you dinner and get you ready for sleep (whether you like it or not) reminds me of long ago school days when my mother rushed me through the evening routine so that I’d get to bed early and be fit for school in the morning.

Attendants, like your mother, even let you watch a little TV before bed. But then sure enough, the lights begin to dim, they begin to move a little more quietly. One last cup of water is distributed, she gently encourages you to pull the blind on your window and then, quite suddenly, the lights will be assertively turned all the way down and you must finally attempt to sleep. Even though you really want to stay up and read. Or watch TV. Or just because you want to make sure that you don’t miss something exciting.

You nod off, drifting in and out of sleep. Maybe you get up to pee and sure enough, the attendant is awake and there if you need her, but quietly reading or playing a soundless game of angry birds so as not to disturb the rest of the house.

And soon, louder noises are eventually heard, as plates and utensils are being herded. The smell of coffee brewing. Then the gentle (but firm, always firm) rousing begins. As hesitant as you were to fall asleep in the first place, now the prospect of waking seems too cruel. But the flight attendants know best. They know how to keep you in the cycle of your day, to make it easier for you to function once you’ve been catapulted into the world once more. They make the rounds, this time encouraging you to open the blinds and let some light in. Breakfast is efficient, as is the clean-up and then before you know it, you’re standing at the door, squinting at the sun, bag slung over your shoulder and a flight attendant is wishing you a good day as she waves you through the door.

All that’s missing is a kiss to the forehead.

Missed the Italy posts? Click through to read about my stops on the Adriatic coast, and in Milan, Turin, Cinque Terre and Rome.

“Oh! You speak English!”

At least this time, this reaction does not come as a surprise. I started my trip in the less-touristy region where my parents were born, but with every new destination since – Milan, Turin and Cinque Terre – I have been encountering more tourists and fewer locals.

I suspect that In the eyes of the tourists, I am the local-with-a-friendly-face. And when I see myself reflected in the window panes of the Rome Metro, with tanned arms, dark, curly hair and relaxed body language, I can understand why I stand apart from the droves of pale, camera-laden tourists that cast a worried glance at every sign.

Despite the beautiful sensorial overload of Rome, questions of identity, the importance of travel and, as one friend put it, “what am I looking for out here” persist, and I have come to the following conclusions:

By definition, I am a tourist in this country and yet, I don’t think of my myself as being a tourist. Not because I have romantic notions of being a global citizen or a born nomad. Simply, I see travel as, being Adriana, just someplace else. It is then my individual experience of that place that enables me to imagine new possibilities. Simply, travel is another tool that I use to ensure that I keep evolving – to ensure that my creativity continues to get fed.

When I arrived in Rome on Friday, I had two and a half days to explore one of the greatest cities on earth. I was a little concerned that I did not have sufficient time to explore the essence of Rome, but when I spotted the hundreds of people clustered around the Trevi Fountain, cameras a’blazing, I realized that it did not matter. I did not travel to Rome to satisfy a checklist. I travelled to Rome out of simple curiosity. So regardless of whether or not I experience all the “must-sees”, as long as my curiosity has something new to feed on, then the trip has been worth it.

And this trip has been everything that I wanted it to be. But more on that soon. I have to get to my boarding gate!

The trail draws a wavy line along the coastal mountains of the Italian Riviera, sometimes rising to skirt the top-most boundary of a leafy orchard, other times diving into shady, cavern-like corners fed by secret springs and hung with ivy. The path itself changes too, alternating between wide stretches, shaded by natural leafy pergolas and freshened with a mountain breeze, and narrow ledges of hard, dusty rock made even harder by the relentless heat of the sun. But always the Mediterranean ocean twinkling far, far below, the deep turquoise becoming more textured with every change in the wind’s direction, the waves never ceasing.

To help get me going, I listened to music at first, knowing that if I sashayed and sang my way up the rock staircases, I wouldn’t feel the effort in my legs as much. It worked and within a half hour, my body became accustomed to the pace and I took off the earphones to better enjoy the physical experience of walking the path.

The sound of my own breathing. The splash of the waves below. The skittering of rocks as tiny lizards dashed across the path. The papery sound of leaves fluttering in the wind. The mingling of voices from travellers ahead of me, behind me, below me.

The other people I met on the trail were as engaging as the view. Families being led by excited children, evidently undaunted by the dangers of running too fast on a cliff path. Groups of sturdy middle-aged German women, their thighs reddened with exercise, their walking sticks firmly grasped. Older British women with wiry arms and jaunty Tilleys calling out a mirthful, Maggie-Smith like “buongiorno!” in response to my greeting. Enthusiastic, young American men inevitably trailed by disgruntled-looking girlfriends wearing the wrong clothes and clutching a water bottle…

With such entertainment to be expected around every bend, I hardly felt the time time go by.

When I reached Monterosso, I immediately walked around to the harbour and dipped my feet in the Mediterranean, laughing to see that the green polish on my toenails matched the colour of the sea. Having procured myself an ice-cold Birra Moretti, I then found a rocky perch and let my feet dangle, alternating reading The New Yorker with watching a group of pink-backed Australians celebrate their swim over from Vernazza. I swallowed the last of my beer in their honour and retied my shoelaces, ready for the walk home.

I am now so fully absorbed into the Italian landscape that whenever it comes out that I’m actually Canadian-born, I’m met with confusion and a sputtered, “Comé. Non sei italiana?” It happens every day now. From the Italian B&B owner. From the American tourists I helped in a restaurant. From a Milanese who stopped me on the street to ask about my tattoo. The best was a harried father who approached me in a supermarket to ask if I knew where the female hygiene products were. He looked very miffed when I said I didn’t know, his eyes accusing me of being unhelpful on purpose.

I have blended in beautifully. A perfect result without even trying. My features and skin have given me an all-access pass to this country. Although my spoken Italian has improved dramatically in the last three weeks, it still remains flawed. But no matter – none of the Italians seem to notice.

And I have also (unconsciously) internalized this belonging. I walk down the street with confidence, not worrying about getting lost. I order my morning coffee with the same drowsy indifference as everyone else. I exchange smiles with people on the street. I’ve even started swearing at careless drivers in Italian. “Ammazza! Fai attenzione, stronzo!”

Also, my body type truly is the average figure seen in Italy, so those exaggerated body image issues I sometimes suffer from in Canada have almost entirely disappeared. I sauntered up and down that beach without the least worry about my backside.

Whenever faced with that question, I typically answer, “Non sono Italiana. Sono nata in Canada.” This statement is only half-true. I am Italian. This is where my ancestors were born, lived and died. It is only circumstance that I was born in Canada. The land of my origins still has a role in the fabric of my life, and I am only beginning to understand this truth now.

Also, how do I take this feeling – of being completely at home in a country that I was not born in – and carry it back to Montreal, where I sometimes feel so totally out of place? How do I reconcile these two states of being?

I leave these ideas to simmer. The rain seems to be letting up and I can hear fresh movement in the streets of Torino. All this thinking has made me hungry…

1) Seeing da Vinci’s The Last Supper
While standing in the first of two sealed chambers, I placed myself quite deliberately at the back of the group so that I would be the last to enter. In my mind, this was going to be a sacred moment and I wanted my encounter with one of the most famous religious artworks of all time to be as intimate as possible.

Someone once described seeing The Last Supper as being akin to visiting a dying man. And they were right. The painting seemed to be fading right before my eyes and I wanted to take it all in before the images were totally vaporized. It took great will to stop my hand-wringing about how fleeting the moment was and just concentrate on fully experiencing it instead.

And what a moment it was.

What I loved about da Vinci’s painting is how it is simultaneously realistic yet symbolic, religious yet secular. It is both a meaningful representation of an episode from the Bible, as well as an exceptional piece of art. Even as my mind registered the iconography of Jesus’ hands and the knife symbolically placed behind Judas’ back, I also marveled at how clear and distinct were the facial expressions of each apostle. Disbelief. Anger. Guileless.

My eyes noted the knot at the end of the tablecloth and all the creases where it had been folded. I noticed the sandaled feet under the table, as well as the glasses placed upon it. In the window behind them, i could clearly make out rolling hills and a bell tower.

It’s the amount of detail that amazes me. It’s the obvious effort that was put into the piece that fills me with awe. This wasn’t art-by-committee. This painting was the result of a talented artist allowed to practice his craft by his own rules. A rare circumstance making for a thrilling result.

2) Buying a new fragrance at La Rinascente

La Rinascente is a posh Italian department store chain featuring many top designer labels and the most impressive cosmetics department I have ever seen. At the airport in Montreal, I stocked up on my old stand-by (Amarige), but I wanted a new fragrance and I wanted something by Jo Malone.

Oh, the loveliness!

A beautiful young man walked me through the process, patiently waiting while I evaluated each scent – first on paper and then on my arm. The beautiful packaging. The ribbon. The courteous service. And oh, the weight of the bag on my arm as I walked away! The smile of the doorman as he opened the door for me. I was positively bursting with happiness as I left the store.

Why?

Although some may look upon the act of buying a new fragrance with derision or condescension, a woman’s choice of fragrance is a very important ritual – and has been so for as long as there have been women. It becomes part of our signature – like a delicate spiral of handwriting left in the air after we leave a room.

As I left the department store, I felt invigorated – as if I had just opened a new space for new memories (and new conquests!) in the months to come.

Did you miss my other posts about Italy? Catch up here.

The ocean is the place from which life arose and it is a place that we long to return to our whole lives through. Look at the excitement in your children’s eyes when you take them to the beach. Think about your own fascination with the sea. Remember the flush that creates sensations all through your body whenever your eyes meet that strip of watery blue. Observe how often in books or movies, the main character reaches a turning point the first time they see the ocean.

Adriana on the Adriatic

I was reminded of this truth again last week, when my cousin and I spent six days in Porto d’Ascoli, a resort town on Italy’s Adriatic Coast. I waded into the water and instantly felt my body release as clouds of sand billowed upwards to create muddy clouds around my legs. This sea, with which I share a name, gave me a cool welcome as I fell back into a star-shaped float. My hair began to float in waves around my head and I could feel the water lapping over my belly and thighs with the same gentle, but indifferent touch it uses to smooth over rocks and shoreline.

With my ears underwater, I could tune into the sounds of my own body – the bones of my skull creaking and whining like the wooden planks of a ship.

And that’s when the music started.

As it always does. It’s not music in the traditional sense of the word. But the sounds and frequencies I hear when floating with my ears underwater, I have only ever heard reproduced in electronic music, and so music I call it. Rhythmic static. Thunder rolling somewhere far away. Electronic rain drops. Glass straws being rolled against one another. Sounds, I have decided, perhaps not unlike those we might have heard in a mother’s belly, as we swam our way into life.

After a while, the seawater began to seep into the creases of my closed eyes and I had to tune out, flip over and ripple through the water with my feet and arms instead. But the music is always there. The ocean is always there. Waiting. Calling.

1) Intimate.

The subjects that I choose to photograph using the Instagram app are chosen viscerally. They are the people, objects and places that make my heart leap, my stomach get fluttery and my mouth widen into a smile. There are some common threads – like my yoga skeleton adventures for AYM and another looking at how the setting sun touches the tops of buildings - but most of them simply capture whatever my wonder fell upon in that present moment. Like the red rubber boots opposite.

I cannot tell you why I was affected or identify which strings deep inside my brain were strummed. They just were.

Consequently, I feel as if I know my Instagram friends on a more intimate level, as if every photo gives me another glimpse into their deeper selves. And vice versa.

2) Authentic.

I was recently speaking to a girl pal who, after having tracked down all of her old boyfriends on Facebook and browsed through photos of their weddings and babies, sobbed, “Everybody is so happy on Facebook!” My only thought was, “Well, of course they are”.

Facebook is a great platform for sharing details about your life. Unhappy people (for the most part) are too busy being miserable and have little they want to share with the world. For Unhappy-People-Pretending-To-Be-Happy, FB is a great place to lie about how great they think their lives are. Some truly miserable people will happily drag you through their misery, one status update at a time, but they constitute a small slice of the FB population.

In short, Facebook does not give you an accurate portrait of what’s actually happening in someone’s life. Nothing short of regular and direct interaction with that person will do that. But I do think that Instagram more accurately confirms what kind of mood someone was in when they took the photo – especially when you consider the filter they chose.

It’s harder to lie about what makes you happy on Instagram because your motives for photographing such-and-such are often deeply embedded. It’s like a Freudian slip. It will manifest. You can’t really stop manipulate it.

3) Uncluttered.

My Instagram feed is not glutted with corporate pages and promotional offers. I launch the app, do a quick scan through the moods of people I know, check for new comments and then… out! And because I don’t follow many people, I’m able to follow the threads that run through individual streams.

Do you use Instagram? Why do you like it?

Although I love spas and agree wholeheartedly that bodywork is necessary to general and long-term health, I was anxious about the enclosed nature of Ovarium baths. Even if I knew that I wasn’t obliged to close the lid. Even if my friends had assured me that it was a blissful experience.

But when I received a gift certificate from my dear friend Geeta Nadkarni, I decided to just face this silly fear. And it was a good thing.

First of all, I probably have a light case of claustrophobia, but I definitely have difficulty unplugging from my senses (for my yoga peops: still working on the pratyahara, you know?). Before my session began, the lovely attendant who took care of me explained about the epsom salts that made the water so silky and  how the temperature was controlled inside the pod.

I nodded thoughtfully at each piece of information, while inside thinking, “I ain’t closing that door!”

Once I slipped into the water and let it support my limbs, my anxieties began to soften. After the first 10 minutes, I glided over to the edge of the egg and pulled the lid halfway down. A mere 10 minutes more, when I realized that the air coming in through the opening was cooler than the air inside the egg, I dropped the lid a little further, leaving a two-inch gap.

And if I hadn’t fallen asleep, I may have dared to close the door all the way. (Yes, I fell asleep!)

If you’ve never tried a floatation bath – or if it’s been a while – contact Ovarium and book one.

The gift that will last longer than pictures or notes. And I insist on calling it a gift, because I don’t want to walk away from this with the usual regret, or the lingering suspicion of all Sagittarius men, or panicked tics set off by a pair of hazel eyes.

I finally found it today on the street, as I left my mother’s house. I turned the corner and spotted Joe standing in front of the fruit shop. Collar of his orange windbreaker perked up. Plastic shopping bags weighing his arms down. Eyes cast upwards, nose and chin jutting at the same angle. Skin taut over his Adam’s apple. He was reading the specials in the window.

This, I said, is what he looks like when I’m not around. What he must have looked like in the beginning, when he was “my” Joe… What he might have looked like later had his face not been changed by anger and bitterness. Had my eyes not filtered everything through suspicion and jealousy.

In that unguarded moment, I glimpsed the universe inside him, of tenderness and passion, fear and courage, history and truth. Things that I could never see beneath the push-and-pull that defined us. Things I could never admit he possessed for fear of losing the strength of my so-called convictions.

I did not approach him on the street or try to say hello. I simply retraced my steps, folding this gift into a square as I walked and tucking it into my pocket.