I know all about me, I’m feeling 33.

This isn’t exactly true yet, but it’s catchy and Taylor Swift inspired. It’s been 11 years since her song 22 and now we’re singing 33.

I had a break from the stares. I almost forgot the feeling of being a foreigner on display. It reminds me of walking around in the United States, keenly aware of being eyeballed by men, but floating along showing no sign of having detected their direct but shy gaze. If I looked at them, I knew they would quickly pretend to be preoccupied with something to the right or left of me. Completely harmless, and often flattering.

That feeling and the Middle East/India version are very different. The stare here is unbroken. With eyes meeting, displaying an awareness of being watched, has no effect on the watcher. Direct and self-justified laser beams of attention. As long as you are in sight, they remain firmly attached, scanning for, what?

It is hard to tell sometimes if they are watching with curiosity, perhaps with the intensity of a forensic detective examining evidence, or with lustful eyes. Often, it feels like the type of eyes you’d don if having viewed a goddess combined with some scorn over me having broken the rules, hair out, flowing freely and being twirled compulsively between my second digit and thumb. It doesn’t feel threatening, and in fact, it makes sense. No one has a say over what you can and can’t look at, at least in America. I’d be a hypocrite in my expectations if I didn’t allow the same freedoms to people around me. Mostly, it is nice to be secure enough to be comfortable being the minority; as in the only one.

The women are also consistent. Extremely polite, excited and friendly. Eyes wide, and arms wider, figuratively. It is easy to be adopted, even waiting in line for the airplane toilet. So proud to share themselves.

I’m on my way to Bangladesh. I’m meeting a group of 50 European doctors to serve the people of a more remote region. When I met the crew on zoom the other day, I felt comfort in realizing that they were 50% Italians. I’ve been learning words piano piano (slowly, slowly), but haven’t practiced having them come out of my mouth. Right now, what I can say lacks…beauty, flow and grace; foundational requirements of speaking the language properly.

Not coincidentally, the universe, after a groan from me as I walked towards the gate at seeing I had a middle seat for the 6.5 hour flight from Bangkok to Dubai, responded almost instantly. My ticket was rejected at those new, and seemingly unnecessary ticket scanners with the little glass gates separating me from the attendant just beyond who could also easily scan my ticket. Apparently, my seat had changed: window seat. SCORE.

The universe again put me right where I would get the most out of the flight: next to an older Italian man. I have never met Italians while traveling. Not even in Europe where it is easy for them. Now, I’m meeting them left and right. I guess the frequency of Italians is in my field.

This man was very successful, although when I asked what he did he said, “niente,” and he was very Italian. Italians have a different way of viewing the world. They eat what they like, not what they can. Simple pleasures go a long way. History is very important to them and they are quite proud of where they came from. They don’t get excited, they don’t get anxious, they don’t have favorites. They live now, and if now they want orechetti with some vegetable I can’t remember the name of, that’s what they’ll have. Life is filled with romance.

Most people have been impressed that I am traveling alone, but he, without tentativeness, told me it was strange.

“If you are going to prove to yourself that you can do it, ok, but if not, you need to check what is wrong inside. Maybe some gears aren’t turning right”

I was doing this alone for learning purposes, however, I had had many opportunities to have someone travel with me, welcomed it, and then the other person wasn’t available. Nonetheless, he was right. I was still associating companionship with limitation and loss of freedom.

This week, I had finally gotten some enthusiasm for meeting someone new, in a romantic sense. Somehow I released some fear (well, it was because of the BHC30) and energy was expanding inside me, rather than shrinking back into the darkness at the thought of meeting someone who may actually hold the potential of being a worthy candidate for my long term affection. I am starting to remember how fun it is to give someone a chance. Still, no one has crossed my path.

I felt compelled to tell the man my age. At that, he replied, “the year of Christ, a dangerous year”

Dangerous? He said it was the year of Jesus’s “accident.” I don’t view his death as an accident at all. It was a carefully planned event meant to open humanity’s eyes. The preparations had started hundreds of years before his birth. He came into the world knowing his specific mission and went through “initiations” to prepare. So to me, the year of 33 represents the year of realization of what all the 32 years of prior preparation was for. It is a year of completing missions or at least finally taking solid action towards what we come here to do.

33 started in India. I don’t know where Jesus was when he turned 33, but for me, I was moving from knowing to doing to being. I guess he was already at the point of being.

As I head to Bangladesh, 33 is coming to the halfway point, and when I return to the United States, it will be two days before exactly halfway. In the past week, Jesus and the year 33 association has come up three times. As usual, something is brewing. Right now, I’m on my way to help people heal. Seems parallel. Symbolic. Aligned. Not to mention that this Italian man was returning to Milan, while the medical team is leaving Milan around the same time he arrives.

As we taxied along towards the Dubai airport terminal, and theorized that the length of the taxiing may have been due to someone stealing the airport, he offered me his email.

“When you come to Milano, you write to me. I’ll take you and your companion to dinner. If you don’t have one, I’ll still take you. But, when you come with one, we’ll go.”

Now that I’m in Bangladesh, the stares aren’t important. This is what happened in India. It is the politeness, sincere caring and level of respect that the people give that erases any need for diverting attention to other people’s curiosity, unless they ask. I’ll welcome curiosity over something that is different over distaste for, or rejection of, something that is different any day.