You Live Like Italians

"You picnic every night," Mario hollers to us from the beach. "You know how to live." We smile and wave to acknowledge the compliment. We don't picnic every night and we do not know Mario very well. In fact, we don't even know that his name is Mario.

M and I like to picnic at the beach in West Vancouver during the summer. We keep it simple with a cooler box, a barbeque and burgers. There's no fanfare, no printed table cloth, silver cutlery or candles. We keep it simple and easily repeatable.

One such evening we set up our chairs in our usual spot. Except, there was Mario lounging on a bench in his next to nothing sleek Speedo. His bronzed gut hung over the slip of fabric that offered some degree of public decency. I groaned. He detracted from our view of the water. We really couldn't sit anywhere without seeing him offer his aging body to the sun.

Not too much longer after our first sighting of Mario, we were down at the same spot to picnic with another couple. We hoped to score a picnic table rather than eat off our laps. The tables were all taken including one occupied solely by Mario. He lay on the bench offering his unsightly nakedness to the sun gods. I was irritated - how long was he going to be there hogging a table and being an eyesore?

Mario opened his eyes from his sun daze and, seeing me set up our chairs, called, "Are you having a picnic?" I nodded. "Come, have the table. Me, I just enjoy the sun." His accent was thick with his Italian origins. Mollified, I smiled and thanked him.

And now tonight, this our third encounter of the Italian kind, he hollers to us from the beach. Next he wanders over and strikes up a conversation. "North Americans," he says, "they don't know how to live. Look at all the balconies." He points to the apartment buildings hugging the West Vancouver waterfront. "No umbrella, no chairs, no-one enjoys their balcony. They don't know how to live. But you, you live like Italians. You picnic, you enjoy life."

After Mario leaves, I look at our picnic. I see no Tuscan sun, no vineyard, cypress trees or wicker picnic basket. The only thing Italian about it is the soda I brought as our sun downer beverage. Yet Mario has seen something else - a picture from the old country and we're in that snapshot. We may need to start practising our Italian. Ciao!