The Fantail

I met Luciano in the room with a view of distant snow-capped peaks. His back to the window, shrouded in black puffy down, crouched studiously over his computer, he was ready with a welcoming nod for all who entered the hostel's dining room. After a brief "hello," I quietly went about the business of setting up house (the near-daily ritual of unpacking, packing, and re-packing goods carrying the scent of familiarity), and preparing lunch. I didn't know it then, but Luciano was starving. Not for food. No, Luciano was resourceful. After all, he knew how to make espresso in the Australian Outback for Italian newlyweds gifted with bush walks courtesy of well-meaning relatives.

No. Luciano was starving for conversation. Or at least a chance to loose his verbiage on any willing ear. And what a bunch of words it was: full of wonderings, insight into the underbelly of international politics and friendships made and lost. His words were the equivalent of Huka Falls, fast, clear and bright. The cadence of his tongue lingered long after meaning faded.

I don't think that Luciano really cared if anyone was listening. I think that most people were charmed by his smile, his genial nature and his eyes: deep, black pools that might swallow you up in an act of merciful kindness. Others (myself included) were often willing to withstand a few extra minutes of chatter in light of his charm. And I was, indeed, charmed. And fascinated by this 25 year old Italian man in search of a life unrestricted by the confines of his homeland, which for him meant marriage, and having to answer to his father, the Doctor.

Luciano was searching for another way. A way that was honest and ideal and true. It's no wonder that we got along so well in spite of the years between us. Or maybe because of them. Because in that span of time I have learned at least one thing: how to listen. To others. To the river rippling over rocks. And to my heart.

So I listened to Luciano. And I offered a mirror so that he might see himself clearly, because he was a bit lost in a blur of daily worries. He didn't yet see what was plain to the rest of us: his talent for making people smile.

That Luciano was searching for love, there is no question, but he knew full well that love would find him regardless of the search. More pressing than love was his need for a job. His working holiday visa was used up during his year in the Outback and now he needed sponsorship. The local Presbyterian church was offering as much in exchange for elder care, but he doubted his ability to deal with the messy bits and was flat out unwilling to "sell his soul" to the church. He had only known the stigma of Roman Catholicism and was loathe to be part of any organisation wielding such vast socio-political power. All attempts to explain theological differences fell on deaf ears. 25 is an uncompromising age. I remember it well.

It was at 25 when I decided that I'd had enough of the seemingly endless cycle of love and heartache and a life defined by partnership. I cut loose the bonds of love and went into free fall, flitting about like the Fantail, and diving deep into the real of the unknown and into un-knowing. I have yet to land because, like Luciano and the Church, I am highly suspicious of the power that love wields. That, and I'm in search of a wider definition of love, one that doesn't involve selling my soul.

In Luciano I recognised familiar searching, longing for partnership and a mutual understanding that love can be found even in fleeting friendships like ours. I also recognised the price that we pay for our uncompromising natures: our stubbornness can blur the lines between the forest and the trees. Often what we seek is standing there, right in front of us, clear as the Waikato River, if only we choose to clear our sights of the ideal and focus on the real.

Yesterday, as I returned to the hostel in Taupo for my belongings, I met Luciano on his way out. Momentarily distracted by a text from a girl that he met the night before, he expressed worry about how to proceed, not wanting to confuse her with signals of friendship. With a twinge of jealousy, I told him to take it slowly (advice which I've never heeded). Then we embraced, momentarily compressing fluffy black down, and wished each other well.

On the way to gather my bags, the hostel caretaker, a woman about my age, asked if Luciano was putting the moves on me. "No," I replied, not wanting to limit the sentiment of our parting. "He's quite charming," she said with a mix of genuine concern and a hint of judgement. And for a moment I wondered about what might have been had I been willing to cross a straight and narrow line for the blurring of social norms. And left content with this unknowing.

I hope that you find what you are looking for, dear Luciano. I hope we all do.