I still don't understand why such an uncivil gesture is made by those who insist on leaving behind more than just their footprints. Soda or beer bottles, plastic bags and cutlery, the infamous cigarette butts, ice cream wrappers — everything crosses my path, and my hands can't resist carrying these other people's remains to the nearest bin. It has unfortunately become a tradition to pick up the rubbish left by others whenever I go to the beach.
After these acts, not even your feet deserve to walk on the Algarve beaches. May these lines be a kindling for the conscience of those who continue to throw rubbish on the ground, whether on the beach, in the street, in the garden or in that infamous gesture of opening the car window and throwing into the wind what they no longer want.
I was recently in Italy, specifically in Milan and Florence, and I don't remember finding any rubbish out of place. In fact, I was quite pleased with certain civic behaviours.
And yes, the Milanese are charming and well-groomed, with matching shirts, trousers, belts and shoes, neat hair and a subtle touch of perfume that lingers after you've passed by.
I don't know if it's influenced by the designer store windows we find in the city, but the truth is that it's easy to turn your neck to follow a good pair of pants with your gaze.
In the Quadrilatero della Moda, in addition to the luxurious shop windows and charming passers-by, I was treated to the complete commonplace: a red Ferrari roaring along Via Sant'Andrea, one of the most famous shopping streets, which, together with Via Montenapoleone, Via della Spiga, Via Manzoni and Corso Venezia, make up Milan's main fashion district.
There are no Ferraris at the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II, but the windows of Dior, Chanel, Prada, Louis Vuitton (among many others) are dazzling.
I preferred to lose myself in the shelves of Libreria Bocca, the oldest Italian bookstore, in operation since 1775 (our Bertrand, considered the oldest in the world, dates back to 1732) and in Feltrinelli, a chain of bookstores and publishing house created by Giangiacomo Feltrinelli, an Italian publisher and political activist, who died in 1972.
On the floor of the central octagon of the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II there is a huge mosaic with the image of a bull that attracts the attention of visitors. I didn't know the tradition, but I also rolled my right foot three times, with my back turned and my eyes closed, on the bull's testicles. It is said to bring good luck and that it will guarantee a return to Milan. We'll see.
Returning to the issue of civility, I was struck by the almost millimetric precision of tourists and residents in keeping to the right on the escalators, leaving the way free for those in a hurry. It was beautiful to watch that synchronized rise and fall.
I was also struck by the sight of covered shoulders at the entrance to Milan Cathedral. Whether it was an imposed gesture or the result of free will, this respect for the faith of others was still moving. That day I opted for a more discreet blouse, with covered shoulders.
When you travel with your senses alert, it is easy to find synchronicities and let yourself be surprised by the coincidences of everyday life.
From Emílio, the waiter who, speaking fluent Portuguese, English, German, French, Arabic and of course, Italian, managed to fill the terrace of his restaurant in fifteen minutes; then, changing tactics ("it's much better inside, with the cool air conditioning"), he filled the interior room in a short space of time.
The story of the Italian supermarket employee who decided to roll up his shirt sleeve to show the tattoo on his right arm, a replica of the Irish Celtic symbol that appeared on my travel companion's T-shirt.
The episode of the lady who, early in the morning, was holding a birthday cake in one hand and a balloon in the shape of a seventy-year anniversary in the other is worthy of note. Upon receiving a vigorous hug from a friend, she watched with sadness, without stopping to let out a scream, as the golden balloon burst.
Or the surprise of sitting on the high chairs in a restaurant in Chinatown, designed so that the bowl is close to the mouth and it is efficient to eat with chopsticks.
Perhaps the most striking story of this trip was discovering that the place where I spent the night during that week belonged to a Jewish family who saw their son being taken away by the Nazis on Christmas Eve and who, in the grief of his death, never returned to occupy the house.
The plaque on the floor of the entrance, with the inscription “Qui habitava Piero Sonnino, Nato 1900, Arrestato 25.12.1943, Deportato Auschwitz, Assassinato 20.01.1945”, is the silent witness to that sad story.
I later found other similar plaques in Milan and Florence, but none moved me as much as this one, which I contemplated with reverence at the beginning and end of each day during my stay in Italy.
There is much more to say about this experience, which included visits to museums, cathedrals, lakes, libraries, Michelangelo's David, Leonardo da Vinci's The Last Supper and wandering through the typical streets of Florence in an encounter with History, but also with the modernity of Milan, in its Bosco Verticale, or the intercultural reality in Corso Buenos Aires, where I was surprised by a kind of open-air El Corte Inglés.
Everything for sale in the same space: shoes, watermelons, perfumes, jewelry, detergents, brooms, tomatoes, clothes for adults and children in the colors of Sub-Saharan Africa.
I will never forget the smiling, knowing look of a mother in a black chador, a daughter in each hand, the tallest in a colorful hijab. I smiled back at her.
I felt grateful for the privilege of traveling and realizing that, wherever we go, it is the people we meet — even in a small glimpse of their existence — that leave their mark on us and make us smile or sad (like tourists who still fail to realize that public spaces belong to everyone and deserve to be valued).
It is the reflection of the other person's gaze and behavior that makes us grow.
Author: Analita Alves dos Santos is an author and literary mentor
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