The Opposite of Addiction
Or: Never go in against a Sicilian when death is on the line (Italy, Part 3)
Our first morning in Palermo, May asks a server at a cafe if she should order at the counter or outside.
“Get out,” he growls.
We already have a running joke here: that Sicilians don’t care if you live or die. We mean it as a compliment. They’re not rude, they just don’t seem to do customer service the way Westerners do. They definitely don’t ass-kiss.
I find it quite refreshing.
I might feel differently if I were traveling alone. My slightly over-sensitive self doesn’t deal well with gruffness. But with May, preparing ask the pharmacist if what I’ve just bought is throat spray or nasal spray sends us into hysterical giggling. (May: “She’s going to murder you and use your body as a floor mat.”)
Due to some less than ideal planning, we only have two days in Palermo. I already can’t wait to go back. This city reminds reminds me of a regal lady whose fortune has run dry but still insists on wearing her diamonds and furs. Plus, it was founded by Phoenicians, the OG Lebanese.
And then, Catania.
I’ve booked our travel there on a ride share app, but when we follow the directions in the email, we end up at a bus station. Upon closer examination of the instructions, it appears we are actually booked onto… a bus? Confused, I leave the luggage with May and go to the info desk to ask for help.
“Where is this?” I show the lady behind the counter the the email confirmation on my phone, bracing myself.
She gives me a look that would deep freeze the Sahara.
“Next door,” she snaps.
I follow her pointing hand. Next door looks like an industrial factory building.
“Isn’t this the, um, bus station?”
I’m practically crouched behind the counter.
“NEXT DOOR.”
My heart starts pounding. We’re meant to leave in 5 minutes, and I don’t have time to risk my life again with a whole other Sicilian.
Maybe she’s misunderstood.
“For the… um… bus?”
She sighs, turns her back to me, and starts a conversation with her colleague.
I run back to May in a panic.
Within 30 seconds, she not only finds our bus, but convinces the driver to let us on at the front of the line.
We have five days in Catania, the longest we spend anywhere, and we relish the chance to get into the rhythm of life here. We find a 200-year old cafe, where the waiters won’t give you the time of day unless you throw yourself in front of them, but then act as if you’re the only person on earth—as long as you order in the next 12 seconds. Also, they serve a cannoli I will dream about for the rest of my days.
One night, walking back to our apartment after a long day out, we find the main street packed with pedestrians. Traffic has mysteriously vanished, and people are pouring out of cafes, bars, and parks.
Dazedly, we wonder out loud what’s going on. Then we spot a rainbow flag… a pair of rainbow socks… rainbows painted on cheeks. A drag queen walks by, and I’m so awestruck by her beauty that even though I’m head to toe covered with dust and sweat, I give her a huge grin. She beams back at me as if I’m the most perfect thing she’s ever seen.
“Pride!” May shouts.
She buys an ice cream cone to celebrate, and we perch on some steps to watch the parade.
I look around us. There are families here, and older people. Kids wave rainbow flags as they chase each other through the piazza. And there is enough gender fluidity to make Jordan Peterson weep.
Then, I spot this:
I’m so touched by all of it that when the people on the float start chanting—“FREE FREE PALESTINE!”—I burst into tears and scream it back so loudly that my throat instantly goes hoarse.
The parade is only three or four floats, and it moves at a snail’s pace. We watch until it’s gone.
It’s one of my favourite moments of the whole trip.
My friend Emily, who creates opportunities for meaningful connections, often opens her sessions by saying, “Everyone has something to teach us, even if it’s not something we necessarily want to hear.”
These two weeks in Italy with May have reminded me of that.
They’ve shone a light on how isolated—how lonely—I’ve been feeling.
And how much I tried to make my former relationship make up for it.
It is said that the opposite of addiction is connection. I wonder if the reverse is also true. If, without connection, we turn instinctively to addictive behaviours, especially when those behaviours give us crumbs of connection—like our phones. Every time I ask that thing a question instead of asking another human being, I’m missing an opportunity to feel less alone.
When I forget that every single person I pass in the street every single day, no matter who they are or what they are “wrong” about, is carrying heartbreak and cares deeply for something and is afraid or maybe even terrified about something… and that like me, they really, desperately want to be safe and loved… am I in connection?
It may sound inconsequential. But I don’t think it is. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that there is an epidemic of loneliness and isolation happening at the same time as a rise in fascism, violence, and hate.
In the 12-step rooms they say, “As long as the ties that bind us together are stronger than those that would tear us apart, all will be well.”
After the pride parade is over, May announces that she needs a nap so that we can stay out late tonight and pick up an archeologist. We drag ourselves along the rainbow confetti-strewn street to our apartment and pass out. When I wake up an hour later, she’s still dead asleep.
In order for the electricity (including air conditioning) in our apartment work, the key needs to be plugged into a box in the wall. If I leave it there, I’ll have to wake May up with the buzzer on my way back. But I don’t want to leave her in the darkness and heat. I make a snap decision, grab the key, and dash down the street to a food stand we’d spotted on the way home, where I order two servings of Nasi Goreng. (No, that’s not Italian food and I’m not going to defend myself about this now.)
“We don’t have any,” the guy behind the counter says, apologetically.
I look up at the menu to choose something else. He shakes his head.
“We don’t have any of those things.”
“Oh. What do you have?”
He indicates an aluminium container on the shelf behind him. “Fried rice.”
“Ah.”
“With any kind of meat you want,” he adds.
Five minutes have already passed. Fried rice it is.
This is still Italy, so they’re going to cook up a fresh batch, and that’s going to take ten more minutes. I stand outside in the breeze with a cold drink. Conscious to not pick up my phone, I watch a group of South Asian guys speak to each other in perfect Italian.
The guy from behind the counter appears next to me.
“Where are you from?”
Standard Natalie response: one-syllable answer.
Traveling-with-May response: the truth.
While backing away slightly.
He lights up. He lives in the States, he tells me, where he’s actually a cancer researcher, at the very clinic where we had hoped to send my friend’s husband before he passed away.
I have to make sure I’ve heard him right.
“I wondered if I was missing out on an experience in life,” he explains. “So I came here with some friends. I help out at this restaurant now.”
We talk about how immigrant workers are treated in Catania. (Not well.) We talk about India, where he was born. We talk about meditation, and Ram Dass.
Feeling lighter than I have in weeks, I pay for what will turn out to be the best fried rice I’ve ever had, and I race back towards home.
Thank you for this. Your timing was perfect.