Tag Archives: happiness

Friendly Italians

A whole country full of friendly people. That’s Italy. Besides the beauty of the countryside and beaches, the outstanding history, the scrumptious food, the satisfying wine, the awe-inspiring architecture and art, the people of Italy are incredibly welcoming, social, hospitable, approachable, and responsive. I visited Italy last August and I can remember so many encounters with friendly Italians.

The Limoncello Merchant

First, there was the shop-owner in Sorrento, Gino, who sold limoncello and other liquors. He started a conversation with me as soon as I entered his shop. I learned that he had a family in Naples and he rode a scooter to work every day, even in the rain. He thought it might be time to buy a car.

As I wandered around his miniature shop, I enjoyed the brightly-colored bottles of limoncello, meloncello, and other treats. He kindly pointed out the advantages of each size of bottle. Some were small enough to tuck into carry-on luggage so they wouldn’t break. Some were sold in sets with one bottle of three different flavors. As we chatted about the liquors, I told him I was from San Francisco, and he said that he visited there with his family a few years back. They also went to Yosemite and loved the hiking. We talked about the different trails and the gorgeous views in the City.

Finally, I chose some bottles of cello, and he wrapped them up for me in brown paper to protect them. We smiled at each other when he was done, and then he reached out around my shoulders and gave me a hug.

“I can tell what a nice person you are,” he said. “I will never forget you.”

I know that I will never forget Gino.

The Florentine Woman with Beautiful Hair

Then there was the day in Florence when I got lost in the warren of cobblestone streets. I had started out from The Basilica of Santa Croce where I had visited the tombs of Michelangelo and Galileo, and walked north on Borgo Allegri, knowing that I’d have to turn left on a street in order to find the Mercato Centrale. I turned left onto Via Sant’Egigio and walked and walked until it turned into Via del Pucci. Unfortunately, Via del Pucci ended at Basilica de San Lorenzo, and I was lost. I couldn’t even tell the direction of the Arno River which would help me get back to my hotel. I walked, and turned, and walked, and turned, and finally stopped an elderly Italian woman to ask for directions.

This olive-skinned beauty with graying but lustrous hair wore a black pencil skirt, a maroon cardigan, and a white blouse. I was worried that she would be bothered by my question, but she smiled at me right away.

“The river is that way,” she pointed. “You’re not too far. Just keep following this street and you’ll see it in a few blocks.”

“Grazie, grazie,” I repeated to her, and her smile became even warmer. Her eyes twinkled in the shadow of the narrow street, and I felt so much better. We gave each other a lasting smile and she waved to me as I walked away, following her directions.

The Venetian Painter

I met a painter in Venice in front of my hotel, the Danieli, which was situated on the waterfront of the Canale di San Marco, right across from the island of San Giorgio Maggiore and a few steps away from the Doge’s Palace and Piazza San Marco.  His miniature pop-up stand stood in a row with the stands of two other painters, their paintings hung on every side of their stands’ frames and propped up on the sidewalk.

The old painter, with white hair, a scruffy T-shirt, and paint-splattered trousers, welcomed me when I stopped to look at one of his paintings—an impressionistic portrait of a café with colorful tablecloths and umbrellas that sat on an island between two canals. I loved the flashes of paint that let my imagination wonder about the details that were elusive to the eye. 

The old man gave me a tour of all his paintings. He described where they had been painted by pointing in all directions of Venice. Most of the paintings were realistic, and these took more time to finish, he said. The impressionistic one, the only one in his collection, took less time since the detail was left up to the viewer’s imagination. 

My eyes kept trailing back to the impressionist café, and I paid for it, but this painter wasn’t done with me. He held out the painting and made suggestions as to how to frame it, how to make the picture look like it continued beyond the canvas. We stood in the hot, September sun and discussed color and materials, technique and effect. Finally, the old painter rolled up my canvas, slid it into a thick, cardboard cube, and handed it to me with a bow. I walked away feeling that I had purchased not only a painting but a cherished memory.

Oh those Italian gente (people). They clearly believe that happiness is found in relationships most of all. I believe, they’re right. When I think back on my Italian trip, I remember the people I met more than anything else.

The Yellow Rose

Friday was the last day of class, and Profesora Casti lead her students to Almagro, the part of Buenos Aires known for its flower vendors.  First, the group wandered among the flower stalls on Acuňa de Figueroa where baskets of roses filled the air with intense fragrances.  Leonie bent over the bunches to breathe in their perfume, and she took turns saying their names out loud with her classmates.  They chatted with the vendors who told them where they grew their flowers and how they worked from early in the morning until late at night planting seeds, hand-watering, and pruning in order to produce the most beautiful blooms. 

The vendors chatted about Mother’s Day, weddings, and baptisms for which they sold the most flowers.  Some stayed open 24 hours a day.  The best time to buy flowers, they said, was late at night or early in the morning.  These really were the most romantic times of the day anyway. 

The class meandered to Calle Sarmiento where even more vendors had their shops.  One shop, filled with tuberose and jasmine, perfumed the air outside its door with heady floral fragrances.  Inside, the vendor was wrapping flower bouquets in cellophane paper for a woman and her two daughters. 

Leonie wandered away from the group to admire the lilies of another vendor.  While she was reaching out to touch a petal, a woman dressed in a green apron came out to greet her. 

“Your lilies are gorgeous,” exclaimed Leonie.

“Thank you.  My grandfather used to sell flowers on the streets of Buenos Aires.  My father sold flowers in the old market in stall 8, and, now, I rent this shop here to continue our family tradition.”

Leonie moved under the shade of the willow tree that grew right in front of the storefront.  “I love flowers,” she said.

“I love flowers, too,” replied the vendor.  “I’ll sell them until I’m old and frail.”

Leonie paused in thought, running the woman’s response through her mind.  Forever was a long time to do just one thing.  Leonie didn’t know that she would ever find something that she wanted to do for so long.  The woman in the green apron smiled at her, her face flushed with the essence of intense happiness, her eyes like shining opals. 

“So,” Leonie asked, “You don’t ever wish that you could do anything else?”

The woman smoothed down the front of her green apron with hands crusted with dirt, chapped from years of digging and planting.  “No, never. I never wish to do anything else. Each day in my flower shop I get to express my creativity, and that gives me intense joy.  Besides, I know that I like to be around beautiful things, and what could be more beautiful than a shop full of flowers.”

“You seem so content.”

“You see this willow tree that’s giving you shade?  A willow tree symbolizes fulfilling wishes of the heart.  It also symbolizes inner vision.  I’m lucky to know what fulfills my life.  That knowledge is my inner wisdom.”

The vendor showed Leonie around her tiny shop, identifying the names of all the flowers and inviting her to smell their fragrances.  Leonie told the vendor that she was about to take a trip to search for her life’s purpose.  As the woman listened to her story, her eyes glistened and a whisper of a smile set upon her lips.

Before Leonie left, the woman held out a yellow rose.  “This rose symbolizes our new friendship,” she said.  “Friends are one of the most precious treasures of your life.  From now one, you and I are lifelong friends.  I wish you success on your trip and hope that you find your version of life fulfillment. 

That night, just before Leonie went to bed, she sat at her desk to write in her journal.  I know what fulfills me, she wrote.  After setting down her pen, she felt anxious.  But I don’t know what fulfills me, she worried.  I don’t know what I want to do with the rest of my life.  I don’t know what makes me happy day after day after day. 

Leonie looked at the yellow rose that the flower vendor had given her.  Its yellow petals brightened up the shadows of her room.  She remembered how gently the woman had picked up each flower and described its characteristics, moving among her flowers with grace, touching each blossom with respect and admiration; her movements were filled with love. 

Now Leonie knew.  The woman had been a messenger from her own soul to teach her how to find her own purpose.  Love was an integral part of finding fulfillment.  When she found out what she loved, she would find her contentment. 

Leonie touched the yellow rose, and her heart filled with joy when she remembered that the woman promised that they would be friends for life.  Friendship, she thought.  I have love already.