The secret to life is really quite simple.

I figured it out while napping on a stranger’s bed shortly after arriving in a newly adopted city. In moving to Dakar, I didn’t know a soul; as such, I was grateful for any connective tissue at all—no matter how tenuous. My introduction to Soukeyna came via a friend living in Harlem who had a friend whose sister was Soukeyna. I had her name and phone number; all I had to do was pick the phone and reach out. Which of course, I did.

This is the secret that I have learned: Life is a series of awkward interactions; as soon as you accept this, life becomes more manageable.

The afternoon spent experiencing the teranga of one Senegalese woman was many years ago. Since then, I’ve found it much easier to bump the about towns where I have lived or visited. I have met friends and colleagues via crossings that were often unlikely and unconventional. It has happened so often that I no longer think much of it. Take my life in London: I routinely text my dairy guy in the pre-6am hours. While he’s taking out the cows, I’m taking my ass to work. We exchange crappy songs on YouTube or discuss the state of Ukraine. In this way, we’re friends.

To me, there is joy in encountering new people with whom I share a parallel yet unscientific perspective. I used to be intimidated by the thought of arriving sans clue in a new place—but these days, I manage to foster satisfying and new connections. I believe that I do this because I am no longer afraid of making an ass out of myself. Life is messy and indeed awkward…and we are all mere passengers on the conveyer belt of coming and going.

Last week I spent Thanksgiving away from my family and instead out on duty in a country that was not my own, surrounded by a language and culture where I had few reference points. Just as when I arrived in Dakar, I didn’t know many people, and here,  almost everyone around me neither knew nor cared about American Thanksgiving. But still, to me the day held some significance. I wanted to mark the occasion, even if I would be obliged to spend 10 hours floating from one meeting to the next.

On Thursday the 22^nd of November, I woke up early in southern Italy and accepted a lift into town by one of the obliging Italians. After explaining that I wanted to bring some Thanksgiving-inspired food into work, I quickly realized that I’d have to rephrase my vision. This was, after all, southern Italy—the thought of procuring turkey or a pecan pie never entered into the realm of the possible. So instead, I asked if we could find something homemade that could be shared with ease. Some type of “finger food”.

The thing about traditions is that you make them your own—which means that we frequently adapted to suit the place where we stand. Here on this early morning, we drove up to a “panificio, or bakery. The protective storefront gate was still rolled down and the street was still quiet from the night’s inactivity. The clock said just before 7am, and I surmised that this early morning run was beyond the realm of the possible. I was ready to call it quits and just head to work, but my companion of Italian extraction would not be deterred. He walked around the side and strolled into the kitchen where the industrial door was tipped open. I stood back and held my breath.

I tend to take a shine to people who favor operating on the brash or even adventurous side of life. And I really like that I can find these people just about everywhere I go. On this morning, my colleague disappeared into the kitchen and I half-expected to hear shouting in southern Italian dialect that would cast him back into the street. But that didn’t happen.

“They’re opening,” he said, as he gestured for us to walk back around the corner. Sure enough, the grate lifted right up and we stepped inside as the clock struck 7 o’clock. Inside the bakery, Christmas was already in full swing with a tree and various tinsel decorations. Again, Thanksgiving serves as no natural barrier to the Christmas season here in Italy. As the cases began to be filled with loaves of warm bread, the woman behind the counter proposed a tray of small rolls filled with various savory objects. I looked at my Italian translator and we both nodded that this would fit the bill.

As the woman wrapped our tray in a paper wrap that bore a branching tree, I glanced at a framed photo on the far wall. It was an image of Pope Francis sitting just above the work counter. My friend, who saw my looking at it, gave me a nudge and said, “See- you have Trump….and we have the Pope!”  I looked at him with daggers in my eyes, but he had already shifted back to speaking with the woman in Italian. It would appear that there were other specialties coming out from the kitchen.

Thanksgiving this year landed on the feast of Saint Cecilia. Here in Taranto, on this day people prepare fried balls of doughy goodness called pettole. As I stood there and watched my holiday come to life, we decided to order a tray of those too. Once the warm pettole were covered in sugar and carefully wrapped into another paper package, we paid and headed back onto the street. Thanksgiving, for whatever that meant, would be celebrated with strangers here on the Med.

I didn’t really expect anyone to know or care about the reasons behind the provision of free food. My thought behind procuring some eats was to simply express my appreciation for being in a place where, in a relatively short space of time, I had enjoyed this interaction in Italian humanity. From the people who spoke limited English but still managed to share the common language of coffee or perhaps giving a knowing smile that said “I recognize that this is ridiculous too”, I just wanted to show my thanks being a part of the overall significance. Say what you want about the foundations of Thanksgiving—but to me, a person who travels probably too much to places old and new—this was the perfect way to do it.

We carried the trays into the workspace and cut open the paper. Since I work under the employ of defense rather than arts and crafts, I did my best to procure office supplies and create some harvest worthy signage. I found a half sheet of paper and traced my left hand, 7-year-old style. As every American knows, this is the correct way to draw a turkey. I also scrawled “Happy Thanksgiving” across the top—but also, because I knew that my artistry would produce many Italian question marks—I drew a line to identify the animal, and also to note that this was not “Santa Cecilia”.

The food did not stick around for long, and soon we were well on our way to working towards the afternoon and finally arriving at another day’s end. You could argue that Thanksgiving was a non-event here in the south, and it was a waste of time to buy snacks for strangers who wouldn’t care one way or the other if I had done it. But I like to think that there’s something to be said for setting adrift some extra kindness into the world. I appreciated the assistance, humor and patience shown to me by many of the Italians as I worked amongst them in southern Italy. It might not feel so awkward to be a part of such experiences anymore, but I don’t ever want to forget to show my gratitude for always being included. Life is just way more fun this way.