Oriental observations

I looked at the faded map and my spirits dropped like an anchor. Lost again.
Not only were the street names in a foreign language but they were also unreadable. The bus had dropped me off next to a giant traffic circle in a suburb outside of Venice.
I walked to the tanned dark-haired people at the bus stop and struck up a hopeful conversation. It had little success. It seems the further you move out of the toursisty cities the less English the locals speak.
Italians also seem to be notoriously bad at giving directions. An outstretched arm with curved palm can really mean just about anything. Your desired destination could truly be down the road and just around the next corner. Or it could be seven blocks from there, through a tunnel and behind an abandoned scrap yard (as was the case this time around). Getting lost outside the city wasn’t nearly as romantic as on the inside.
But little did I know that between this bus stop and my destination, the comfortable Camp Roma, my perceptions would change forever.
Walking on I saw old men watching football at a cafe who stood up to wave at a young, confused tourist. There were mischievous teens whispering in a tight cluster in the local park, seemingly hatching some grand conspiracy. I saw smiling parents sitting outside on broken chairs in front of ramshackle houses, watching their children play in the street while soaking up the last sunny rays.
Everything was so vastly different from Venice. There were no gondolas, no gaudy little apartments and no uncouth, overcharging shopkeepers. These were real people.
These people seemed content with a simple life. They couldn’t be bothered with the size of the Colosseum or the beauty of the gondolas, at least no more than with the price of croissants in France. I saw a focus on family, and simply on savouring life.
I have no photos of this experience. The moments and the people in them felt so genuine and fragile that I didn’t dare make a spectacle of it.
There was a couple walking next to the railway. They were completely oblivious to the crude grafitti on the walls or the rubbish lying next to it. They only saw each other. But they weren’t oblivious to me.
They directed me through the last leg of my journey and then came running after me as they saw me take a wrong turn. I was awestruck by their compassion which came so naturally. Up until then I was only a tourist and getting treated like an imposter. They made me human and showed me humanity. I saw the real Italy.