Talking to Strangers

There's a  little patio bar atop the Bayside restaurant at Venetian Village in Naples that's become our local - the place we stop mid-afternoon for a glass of wine or a beer. Over the years, we've gotten to know Scott, the bartender, pretty well.  Scott's one of those guys who knows everybody pretty well. There's definitely a local clientele at The Bay, but Scott never sees a stranger, and no matter where you're from or how long you're in town, if you're sitting at the bar when Scott's tending, you're a regular.

On a nice day, when it's not so humid that your wine glass drowns in its own sweat, or so windy that the plastic sheeting surrounding the bar gets battened down, we might sit there for an hour or two, staring out at the McMansions that line the bay with regal finesse, or the McYachts moored in stately splendor. And every time we go to The Bay, we get involved in fascinating conversations with strangers.

I typically don't talk much to strangers. For one thing, I'm pretty shy and it's hard  for me to strike up a conversation with someone I've never met. For another thing, the old axiom about "never talk to strangers" has been a hard one to let go of. In the 1960's when I grew up, it was drummed into our with mind numbing regularity. But at The Bay, it's expected. Maybe it's like that at all neighborhood bars, I don't know, because we don't have a local here at home. It seems like people around here like to keep a healthy distance, even when they're drinking. Maybe they're afraid you'll steal their secrets, or gather some information you can use against them. I don't know. Whatever the reason, the few times I've sat at the bar anywhere around here, people don't generally talk much amongst themselves.

But people at The Bay are very gregarious. Everybody seems to know Scott, so we all have that in common, and we tease him about his golf game or ask him about his dogs. There are always some tourists, so we all chime in with our favorite places they simply must see-eat-shop-golf. There are usually a few older men having a cocktail after a round of golf, and occasionally (if I'm the resident cute young thing, which I often am - this is Naples, you know) they'll flirt with me a little.

Yes, I even flirt back.  It is The Bay, after all.

We once met a wonderful horsey couple from southwest England who spend every November in Naples. We exchanged email addresses and I'm under strict order to contact her the next time we're across the Pond. We met a couple who had just purchased a vacation home to be close to their daughter and her husband who were living in the area. (Sound familiar?) We've surreptitiously eavesdropped on conversations with brokers, realtors, business partners, and probably lovers.

It's just about our favorite place in Naples, and I think that's because it's an opportuity to connect with interesting people, even if only for a few minutes.

Our friend L., a world traveler whom we've been lucky enough to travel with on occasion, is famous for his habit of carrying on conversations with strangers in every corner of the world. He'll saunter up to just about anybody in the street and start talking. "I like that hat!" he'll exclaim. Or "What a great car!" If the person happens to be walking a dog, we know we might as well duck into a coffee shop because they're liable to be there all morning. I love to watch him engage people in conversation, and rarely do people fail to be engaged. They might appear non-plussed for a moment, especially in foreign countries, as if such an affable American is an real anomaly. But within a second or two they'll be smiling and gesturing, and the two will part with smiles and a handshake.

It might be nice if we talked to strangers more often. These days we often bury ourselves in our electronics rather than make eye contact with anyone. I'm guilty of that - if I'm having a cup of coffee at Panera, or waiting for my mom to finish grocery shopping, I'll whip out my phone and check e-mail, or Facebook, or the latest blog post. Instead, I could look around the room, make eye contact with a stranger, and initiate a conversation.

It makes the experience more memorable for everyone.

How about you? Do you talk to strangers much?

Retail Therapy

Once upon a time, before recessions and job losses, I shopped a lot - or at least it seems like a lot when I look back on it. In comparison to some women, I suppose it was trifling. But in my younger days, I enjoyed a good bit of retail therapy.  It was fun to get new things.  A shiny pair of earrings for instance, or a cute little purse. Some fun throw pillows for the bed, or new placemats for the kitchen table. And books. Lots of books.

I've about outgrown my love of shopping, at least in terms of feeling the need to shop to lift my spirits. I don't want any more "stuff" for my house (at least, not this house), and clothes don't excite me the way they once did. I'd usually rather spend my time walking around a nice park than a shopping mall, and I'm just as happy with getting most of my books from the library.

It's probably a good thing that age has eliminated some of my need to buy, because unless I take up online sports betting and develop a pretty good winning streak, I can't see throwing money away on needless stuff. I'd rather save it up for trips to Dallas to visit my grandson, or to the brand new Disney resort in Hawaii. Besides, someday people around here (namely my husband) are going to want to retire, and with the investment markets as insecure as they are, no matter how much money we save I have a feeling it won't be enough. Unless  our mutual fund managers also start to place bets on the Detroit Tigers while they're still winning.

So I look for "therapy" in places other than stores - in a walk around the block, a cuddle with my puppies, a nice glass of wine and a good movie on the DVR.  All relatively cheap, and very therapeutic.

Write With Your Hands

Sounds silly, doesn't it? How else would you write? Even with all the modern inventions that make it so easy to write, you still need your hands. Christopher Isherwood was once asked why he didn't dictate his work. Wouldn't that be easier than using a pen or even a typewriter? Isherwood replied, "An author doesn't write with his mind, he writes with this hands."

How many times have you felt completely barren of any idea, felt you had nothing to say, and then picked up a pen or sat down at the keyboard to find the words flowing onto the page as if directly from your mind into the tips of your fingers?  Or sat in a meeting trying to write a proposal or letter and needed to grab a pen and write out some sample sentences?

Madeleine L'Engle says that "inspiration does not always precede the act of writing; it often follows it. I go to my typewriter with reluctance; I check the ribbon; I check my black felt pens; I polish my collection of spectacle; finally I start to put words, almost any words, down on paper. Usually, then, the words will start to flow; they push me, rather than vice versa."

There seems to be a tangible connection between the writer's mind and the act of writing itself - as if the sensation of pen in hand or the feel of fingertip on the keys starts the ignition and sets the creative process in motion.  Practicing the craft means actually writing, setting the words on the page in black and white. Out of this tangible process, comes the intangible power of creative thinking.

Recovery Mode

Yesterday was an "old school" kind of day that involved a long rehearsal in the morning followed by grocery shopping, early dinner preparation, and then helping out at evening auditions for a new community theater group. I'm moving a little slower than normal this morning, but after doing a three mile walk with my buddy Leslie and downing a 10 ounce bottle of water, I'm well on my way to a solid recovery. For many years, when days like yesterday were the norm, I'd slog an extra cup of coffee into my empty stomach and head out the door. At 55, I'm finally learning to listen to my body and honor what it's telling me about its needs.  I have to credit my daughter-in-law with inspiring me toward a better diet, and toward developing a new attitude about the body's powers of healing and rejuvenation.  The Asian culture has ancient wisdom about the body and how it works, and how to use nature to help it work better. Having been raised in the latter part of the 20th century with all its advances in medical technology, I was steeped in the outside interventionist mode of treatment.  When something is wrong, you take a pill for it. If it doesn't get better, you go to doctors who can blast it with chemicals.  If all else fails, they'll happily cut it right out for you.

Now I'm more inclined to give my body a chance to heal itself, and to do what I can to help that natural progression along.  I've made exercise a part of my daily life, I drink a lot of water (from a BPH free plastic bottle, or even an actual glass!), and I eat smaller portions of healthier foods, I try to get at least seven hours of sleep.  I'm not perfect at any of this, but I'm getting better.  For the past 18 months I've not been sick once - not even one of the chronic sinus infections that have plagued me for years.

Like so many things in life,  self-education and responsibility are key. Dr. Andrew Weil, a long time advocate of natural health care practices and integrative medicine, wrote something that makes a lot of sense to me. "We are too occupied with managing cases of established diseases, most of which are lifestyle related and preventable. The essence of prevention is not colonoscopies and mammograms; it is understanding how our life choices reduce or increase the risk of disease." Obviously there are times when modern medical treatment is necessary and valuable.  But I'd like to do everything I can to avoid that situation in my life.

At the Table

On Friday noon I sat at the table with three very good friends whom I hadn't seen in far too long. In the course of our friendship, we've spent a lot of time "at the table"...more specifically, the six-foot tables from which we played handbells. The three of them were my teachers in the art of handbell ringing, the ones who taught me everything I know about that very beautiful yet very challenging instrument. Our gathering that day was purely social, a chance to catch up on each other's life in general. And catch up we did, sitting down at noon and not getting up until almost four o'clock, letting the lunch crowd ebb and flow around us until the restaurant was deserted and the servers were starting to set up for dinner.

The next day I sat at the table with some other friends whom I hadn't seen in a while, and we chatted about life in general. But we also talked at length about one life in particular, that of a friend whom we had come to memorialize, a friend who had died much too suddenly, much too soon.

It was a planned surgery she was having, one which in the world of surgery is not minor but not normally considered life-threatening. The surgery was a success, we heard - her son sending the message on Facebook. Her family, assured that all was well, went home to sleep.

Yet somehow, sometime in the night, death came creeping into the room and stole her away.

Away from a husband who had counted on her presence beside him as they continued their retirement together. Away from the three young men she had raised with great love and devotion, away from little granddaughter who loved to watch Disney movies and sing-along with her Nana, away from the new baby not yet born who would never know this grandmother's love. Away from a dear friend fighting cancer who had relied on her strength in this great battle.

So much happens around the table, the place where we eat and drink, but also the place where we find communion with our family and our friends. Something I regret about my younger life is that we did not, as a family, spend much time around the table. My husband worked long and erratic hours in those days, and it simply wasn't practical to wait meals for him. Now I would like to have memories of those missed times at the table, would like to know that the three of us had spent hours in communion with one another sharing sustenance for our bodies but also our spirits. It isn't a coincidence that one of the most important sacraments in the Christian religion, one of the most momentous occasions in the life of Jesus Christ, involved sitting at the table with his disciples. In this commonplace activity, there is an element of the sacred, a sharing of life's elemental need which creates a bond between those who partake of it.

I want to think that lunches like the one on Friday will happen more often, that we four friends will make the effort to step out of our busy lives and sit down together at the table. Realistically, I know it probably won't happen and once again too much time will pass before we meet in that setting.

In the long days of grieving ahead of them, I hope that my friend's family will often sit at the table together, to share memories of her, to gather strength from one another, and to find their way into life without her.