Go outside

I was invited by a childhood friend to spend the long weekend in a chalet up north, but as my rib-shuddering cough shows no sign of letting up, I declined in favour of spending a slow, mending weekend at home.

What I would have really liked was go camping. I've never been and everyone I know is seemingly too-citified to consider it. Powell, for example, refuses to go anywhere without an electrical outlet for her hair dryer. One of my colleagues at work, at the mention of camping, snortled and said, "People only go camping because they think it's romantic, but it isn't."

And my parents get wide-eyed and worried when I mention camping. They grew up in tiny mountain villages that electrical wires did not reach until the 1950s. Scrambling around in the dark, washing up with cold water and eating dried berries is not fun - those are the main reasons why they escaped Italy and emigrated to Canada.

"I break my back to give you and your brother a good life, and you want to go and live in the woods? You crazy? Here, eat this. It give you some sense."

Do you see the negative attitudes that I'm surrounded by? Even if I hate camping, how am I supposed to know until I try it? It's very unfair.

I love my urban life with its random, unexpected beauties. The sound of church bells on Sunday morning. The statue of Athena in my neighbour's yard. The ever-permeating smell of pizza in the Berri metro. The taste of hot samosa. The texture of my bicycle handles.

But with so much to see in the world - so many natural wonders - can you blame me for being restless?

Until then, I will treat my TB-like cough with tea, movies, Mary J and Wyclef Jean... (has anyone told that guy that he looks like Jean Destiné?)