Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror. Just keep going. No feeling is final. 

So spring seems to be happening here in Montreal, and my body too is awakening from our coldest season. My joints creaking like the ice in a thawing pond. My muscles lengthening like new green stalks pushing through the warm earth.

I feel as if I am getting taller lately. Taller and stronger. Some days, I wake up and it still feels like winter in my joints, but it’s getting better and I think it’s all about patience. Or at least, the willingness to be patient.

For the last month, I’ve been doing postural re-alignment work with Jérémie at aeküus. The exercises he’s been teaching me are familiar (thanks to my background in yoga), but they require deep work and getting in touch with the tightest parts of my anatomy. Not surprisingly, this kind of deep physical release has been triggering emotional release as well.

One particular exercise he introduced for spinal extension had me verging on feelings of panic I hadn’t experienced since before I had my breakthrough with backbends.

But much like with the backbend experience, I decided that the only way through those sensations is through. Staying with the sensation, breathing through the sensation, until it abates. Sometimes it’s as simple as reminding myself that I’m in a safe place and asking my senses to confirm the fact that there is no reason to feel panicked or scared.

You’re right, the Missus Eyeballs, there is no grizzly bear attacking, thanks for noticing. On se calme le ponpon, alors!

And frankly, I’m happy to do this work because every time I make it through to the other side, I have always been rewarded. Each experience has led me to a better place. Trying to detour around the sensation or pretending that it isn’t there might be easier, but it has only led me to increased frustration and sadness, not growth.

This realization came to me again this morning while taking a yoga class with Bram Levinson. Before launching into our practice, he talked about “what’s left when the details cease to matter”. Turns out, when the physical sensation ceases to have its hold on me, all that’s left is my breath and a feeling of deep, authentic joy.

And that’s worth the effort of my patience each and every time.

It’s all perceptual, really. While you’re on a flight (and you’re able to relax), you become accustomed to seeing the same faces, the same expanse of cabin, and your senses dullen. Even if you’re watching the in-flight entertainment, you’re not being stimulated. You’re being lulled into passivity. It’s like the present moment has been put on hold.

Understandably, when you emerge from the plane and you’re in a different city, it takes a little while before everything kicks back into action.

This became even more evident to me this past weekend on a road trip to Toronto. At least while travelling in a car, you have to time to register your movement through time and space. You eyes observe the landscape as it changes. Your brain and your body can note differences in temperature and altitude. You stop from time to time at rest stops to stretch your legs and scan a new set of travellers’ faces. To continue the metaphor, a car trip feels more like a necklace that threads together a series of present moments.

Am I the only one feeling this? Do the rest of you just hop off the plane with a spring in your step?

You’re so beautiful and intelligent, capable of doing so many things with little or no effort from me. Sometimes, when I wake and first spot the arc of your calf or the sleepy slump of your toes, I am almost overwhelmed by how well-designed and lovely you are. How strong you are as we walk down the street or push back into downward dog. You’re even amazing when you are at your most fragile, curled and shaking with fever in the middle of the bed.

Yes, darling dearest, my love for you is unconditional and complete!

I know that you are not perfect, but neither am I. We’re just doing the best that we can everyday and I love you for always being there for me even when you don’t feel up to it. And I hope you know that I’ll always be there for you. You have never been more amazing in my eyes and yet, I worry of what will happen as the years wear on, as you begin to change and grow more fragile. I can’t pretend that I will always be patient – goodness knows I’ve been guilty of losing patience with you in the past (as you have lost patience with me). All I can do is promise that I’ll always do my best to respect your needs and listen to what you’re saying. If that isn’t love, I don’t know what is!

Thank you, thank you a thousand times, thank you!

adxx

Here are three more reasons for loving Instagram.

1. An app that teaches us to look at the world in a different way.

I now find myself walking through the streets consciously looking for interesting subjects I might capture. And my friends who also Instagram have admitted to doing the same. Whatever my eyes happens to fall upon becomes a potential subject, and the more I look, the more potential subjects I find.

I have this bad habit of walking with my head bowed, but when I’m looking for a subject, I hold my head high so that I’m more aware of what’s unfolding right in front of my eyes.

Imagine what the world would look like if you lifted your eyes more often…

2. An app that helps you learn something about yourself.

Using Instagram has revealed new patterns of thought or new insights into how I see the world. I am (apparently) drawn to street art, brightly-coloured skies and the layering of old buildings against new. I also like to document shafts of light (natural and artificial) and how they touch objects, as well as mannequins, sculpture and other echoes of the human body. Bright colours. Words (obvious!). Things in a row. More parts of myself are constantly being revealed without my even being conscious of it.

3. An app that compels you to get up from your computer.

Yes, you do have to spend some time looking through (and at) your phone, but to participate in the Instagram experience, you have to go outside. Unlike Facebook, which just wants you to spend more time on Facebook, Instagram wants you to go out into the world and report back on all the beautiful places, people and things you have seen. And anything that gets me out and about Montreal in February (the month of a thousand greys) has got to be a good thing.

I’m gushing, right? Okay, I’ll stop, but it you have anything to add to this, please do.

And if you want to be Instagram friends, my handle is apalanca.

Boîte Gourmande. Laïka. Café Neve. Café Falco. Caffé Mille Grazie. Ellefsen.

It’s not uncommon to run into other freelancers I know. We exchange nods or maybe even share a table (with the express understanding that interruptions are okay, as long as they’re kept to a minimum). I oftentimes check Foursquare to see if anyone I know is working nearby.

I was sitting with a designer at Café Neve the other day when I experienced what I called “café confusion”. That is, when I got up to get some sugar, I reflexively went in one direction, not realizing that my brain was following the map of another café. And I brought my cup with me, forgetting that at Neve, they have packets of sugar that I could carry back to the table. Later, it also took a moment before I could remember where they keep the pitchers of water and when I went into the bathroom, it took a second to connect with the lay-out in front of me.

My brain, it turns out, is stuffed with maps of other cafés and images of other interiors. I suspect, however, that I love working in cafés because that jolt I experience when I walk through the door reinvigorates my mind. It breaks with the familiar movements and perceptions of working at home and breaks thoughts that may have become stalled or stagnant. It forces me to re-orient my body in space and time. To re-orient the direction of my thoughts too

What about you? What do you like about working in cafés?

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…