Last month, I was due in Honduras for an important transaction. With a bad back, I travel ultra-light, but this time I took my laptop, just in case. It was a key decision vis-a-vis this editorial. I stayed for four days – long enough to realize that time here passes in a different manner. At first you slow down. Then you feel ineffective. Eventually, you give into the new beat. When that happens, it hits you like a train that, right under our radar, back home we run a life of persistent responsibility, of relentless liability, so pervasive we don’t even see its all-encompassing dominance. This character is noticeable only by contrast and, as you are about to read, in plain sight, it opens a big can of worms.

So here I am, in a country still largely governed by the rhythms of nature. Out of remembrances from the fifties, when Italy was a paradise on earth, I bottled up my pretence and dug deep into my second nature. It wasn’t easy. On my second day, I was poised to write my traditional editorial, this time about Italian cuisine, when I suddenly realized how rushed we are here in the U.S., how our life in the Western paradigm is tied to a mean schedule that is biased to maximize every living moment of our day. This slower rhythm reminds me of what, back in the Italian peninsula, we call “il dolce far nulla”. And so, it occurred to me that even when we are on vacation, we are restless and impatient. But does this on-edge outlook truly represent a burning desire to live intensely? What is it that drives us to exploit every instant, every idle moment, every shred of time incidentally left unplanned? Is it a carpe-diem creed or sheer apprehension? Our inability to sit still and relax? Is it blindness in front of the traditional half-full glass? Or is it a form of profound dissatisfaction we have learned to perfectly dissimulate?

I found no easy answer, although gradually, as I moved from the insane Atlanta traffic to the efficient Delta Airlines, out to the painfully slow Honduran Customs, then to an even slower, local carrier – a World War II Yugoslavian troop airplane without air conditioning – and from there to a beat-up truck; in the end, on foot, up a dirt road; I found myself slowing down to a pace I have long forgotten, a pace so unfamiliar I was self-conscious just to be sitting on a bench under a mango tree with little to do, waiting for the next event to happen. I visited Trujillo many times before, but for a few hours, I did not know what to do with myself. All this energy I am used to pour out, suddenly backing up inside. Am I striking your curiosity? If you would indulge, you may find out that this is half-glass is one that we have already filled to the brim!

In the end, my journey was everything but uneventful. But my foresight upon arrival was nil. Doing little has lost appeal to my conscience. My loss! Well, mysterious forces were at play, as it turns out that more meaningful things happened during four days in Trujillo than I could amass in my absurdly busy schedule in the U.S., so crammed with meetings, appointments, compilations of logs and agendas, administrative time, directing crews, taking notes, dealing with banks and agents – an agenda so jam-packed I don’t remember the last time I sat down for lunch and let my time slide. Time. Hum… I started asking myself: am I spinning wheels in the U.S? Surely speed is my standard modus operandi. You know the chronicle: it feels dutiful to be making something out of my time, to be producing value, to watch the bottom line – as if time is the mark of our performance in a race. Yes, a race! Second hum. Well, without pretence or rush, Trujillo granted me some of the best moments I can recall this year. An ice cream I ate as it melted on my hand. Picking up mangoes on the side of the road. A quiet dip at sunset, down at the beach. A cup of divine Honduran coffee – in my opinion, the best in the world – sipped in perfect silence while looking at exotic birds feeding right off my balcony and at the fishermen’s canoes coming to shore. Even Trujillo’s slow bureaucracy, so Spaniard, so ornamentally Baroque, so governed by a different clock, seemed seamlessly flowing, as if waiting added flavor to things. Indeed it may as well add flavor. It did to me. Unlike most legal transaction in our part of the world, which look rehearsed and are carried out in a flash, and where problems and obstacles are seen as obnoxious disturbances to a process that is expected to take place and close within the allotted time, we circumvented a couple of obstacles that, back home, would have raised red flags all over the place. We were missing a proof of ownership: not a small detail. Yet, all I heard from the attorney was: we have a little glitch, please, come back after lunch and we will sign the papers. Shortly after lunch, as promised, we were done. We went out, sat on the main square, looked at the people passing by. I had planned four days for this ordeal. It happened in two. Time was now mine. I had no plans and two days to fill up. I shamelessly napped – an old favorite I haven’t practiced since age ten. I was also having mobility problems with one of my knees, which is aging much faster than me. I took the excuse.

But time – the way we use it in the Western world as a universal gauge – is a straight jacket and things hardly happen within its rigid limits. We have grown accustomed to evaluate how long is going to take to accomplish a task. We plan our schedule around it. I am in construction, a very imperfect world, and if I don’t add a good 30% to my most pessimistic timetable, I will be regularly disappointed. But we all hate interruptions of process. We curse to obstacles and mishaps as if they were little devils. Yet, it is proven that they are an intimate part of any pathway to glory. And, with the removal of pain and sufferance – let me rephrase it – with the sanitization of pain and sufferance, the reward is greatly demeaned. In our world, it’s either pain or pleasure, never one leading to the other, like working is to shopping, or dating is to… well, you know. And when we get to the finish line – oops I did not mean it that way – we don’t even know how blessed we are, how wealthy beyond belief… Our mind has already moved to the next thing! Consume, consume, and run, run, instead of slow down, taste and savor the moment.

The problem resides in the way we treat time, not in the way events tend to develop, each with its own independent dynamics. If we believe that there is a divine order out there, then why can’t we just relax and let things happen with their natural process? We are pathetically afraid of the worse, like that Druid king who was so afraid that the sky was going to fall on his head that he was constantly followed by two esquires, holding a shield over his head (Asterix & Obelix by Uderzo & Goscinny). If you come to Honduras, you will immediately realize that we humans do not govern the planet, that we did not make trees and birds, stars and beaches; that we are guests and that there is a much Higher Design and Order that takes care of things, and that is, whether we push the envelope or not. This aspect is not so visible from the observation point of city life. We are hustlers of anything, including God. On Sunday, most of us remit to His will, then we quickly forget. Why do we get so nervous when there are minutes left to our next appointment? Who is waiting for us on the other side of the hour? All it takes is a kind phone call to indicate that we are a few minutes late. Who is judging our actions but ourselves? So what is this self induced neurosis? What is it made of and who is the beneficiary? Production? Personally, I produce far better quality when I am rested. But time-neurosis, I don’t have to go far to see a sample. I just need to watch for five minutes anyone who is possessed by time, namely every well-westernized American, coarse Atlanta drivers in the traffic, ready to honk you out of your existence for a moment of hesitation (this peculiar phenomenon is unknown in civilized cities like Boston), angel mothers who can turn into a mean tyrant if the kids are not in bed on the hour. Of course, these are not our best acts. But time is surely the master of many – coarse and sophisticated alike – a seeming new form of religion.

Don’t get me wrong, I am no saint with time. From eight to six, I live on a tight schedule and it irritates me when people are late at an important appointment, or at a formal dinner. I find it quite disrespectful. But after six in the afternoon, I don’t want to hear about the clock. I don’t give a hoot about it. I was born in Sicily, where time is like a red light at night, an option to stop, an invitation to cross it – in lack of incoming traffic ¬¬– not a deadly sin that can cost you your license. But late or early, time is a flexible indicator in the entire Italian peninsula. Nothing runs on time in Italy. A famous acronym dubs our infamous airline as Always Late In Takeoff, Always Late In Arrival (just read the capital letters). In Latin cultures, all schedules are slightly humanized. The bus is late because the driver took a detour to bring medications to his sick mom (true story I witnessed in Roma, Stazione Centrale). Same custom in Honduras: a local airline will wait for a late passenger, the van will sway out of its path to pick up stranded passengers, or to get a refreshment; a restaurant may stay open after hours if you are announcing a late visit… Time is made to serve the individual, not viceversa.

I know, schedules are important and without them there would be chaos, but why must we take this paradigm of precision and performance to the extreme consequence? It seems to me that narrow mindedness and strict interpretation of the Law should remain the privilege of Atlanta policemen and Italian Carabinieri, not the imperative of the higher orders of society. Time should be regarded as a convenient tool, not as a cruel ruler. But everyone seems to endorse the exploitation of time, and the problem with such extreme maximization is that time itself seems to vanish when we use every fold of it; whereas time seems to float everlastingly, when we let go and leave it alone. But is it our perception of time variable? Or could it be that time is flexible and warps. Too bad old Albert Einstein is not around to answer this riddle. Fear not, for my considerations are hyperbolic. I am not asking that you to drop the equation of time. I am suggesting that, once in a while, you balance the act with a grain of the opposite type of attitude. You may start from abolishing time’s worst black hole: your TV set, a real time-vacuum! Let me tell you about the beauty of not having a TV set regurgitating its nonsense. Peaceful! Heavenly! Celestial! With dinner served just after sunset and little to do afterwards, except sipping the incredibly scented Honduran Rum, Flor de Caña, on the rocks, the evening is seemingly endless. You can read up an entire book and, when you are done, it is still eleven. In addition, a night of sleep in the Tropics is deeply restful and satisfying, even with the distant local disco playing Punta and Merengue into the owl hours. I don’t remember anything as relaxing in the U.S. where the typical night is short and somber, filled with preparation for another day of intense labor. This economy is the source of many preoccupations. Are we going to be able to bring food to the table? Small wonder we don’t sleep well. Not even the thought that competence and brains may return to the White House this November comforts me as much as a brief return to the aboriginal sounds of our blue planet – I mean to say, before TV and rap became loud and the ubiquitous background noise. In front of such compelling immanence, with the comforting company of Mother Nature a step outside my window, even the vagaries of governments and their mistaken objectives look shallow and temporary. You don’t even have to read Ralph Waldo Emerson. Try nature once!

But slaves of time, we are. We constantly look at the clock, unhappy if things that were supposed to take place did not go on, frustrated by the same amount of unattended tasks or endless to-do lists, which never shrink, no matter how wickedly we attack our schedule in the morning, promising to ourselves “this is the day I am going to get rid of the entire back log”. It never happens, does it? Have you asked yourselves why? Because we compile the list, update it and fill it with more than is humanly possible to attain, just in case we have a minute to spare. Then we wonder why we feel so underachieved. We are after ourselves, we don’t let ourselves relax and go with the flow. We operate as if we were machines and we are not. Stress is killing us, not lack of exercise or poor diets. The result I can only describe as a functional neurosis, as a collective psychosis – a willful distortion of time, warping our existence into a meaningless, endless sequence of responsibilities that come and go, without bringing profound fulfillment to our inner core, without inner praise for having done well. Without such moment of realization, we can never allow ourselves to rest. Only those who go to Yoga classes or practice Zen meditation can understand what I am talking about. The rest will nod, then turn around and latch onto what they have for dear life. Time is a tricky comrade. Time is a legal drug that induces an insidious kind of dependency.
Now, Aristotelian logics enlightens us that, hardly an individual who doesn’t rest is a fully awake individual. Fine, a cup of coffee gets us going in the morning. But are we really there? My ellipse, my stretched theory is that we are caught in a trance, a collective hallucination, good enough, long as the majority of the sheep follow it without questioning it. I gather the unquestionable part, the participation. The problem is that there is no shepard leading the sheep to rest, thus no particular direction we are heading to, no finish line either. And, if you have handed the management of your life over to our current leaders, let me tell you, they are a joke – they couldn’t herd a kitty cat to cat nip! Besides, they don’t care about you. At best, you are a casualty of time – or war, depending who you are serving. So, without anyone but our egos pushing us to the limit, forcing us to a robotic life, I am asking myself what are we truly doing? Why are we punishing ourselves to a lifetime of chronic underachievement? Who did we sell our souls to? We are hounding the Western dream of success – that’s our excuse – collecting some rewards here and there, but are we truly happy? Why do I see happy faces all over the place in Honduras? By our standards, these people have nothing – hardly, a shelter over their head. Yet, they look content and in the right place. By contrast, in the U.S. I often get the feeling that we are not fully present. Our bodies may be in the room, but our minds are somewhere else, worrying about something. Time has got the first row, while contentment waits outside – our very existence set on the back burner. Why?

Time is an artifact, a human invention. And – rest assured – happiness is neither a measure of time nor money. Italians have known for centuries this cardinal tenet of life: happiness is achieved with modesty, consideration and thankfulness. Do these stances require time? The answer is no! They require abandonment, which is the opposite of measuring time. To my account, until the late fifties, calmness was part of our grandparents make. The sixties disseminated ambition to every fringe of society and, as far as I am concerned, that was the end of tranquility. It took four days in Honduras for me to notice that there is a different reality out there, that there are places where accomplishment is measured by character, reputation, good spirit, outlook and similar impalpable matters.

Modern society seems to have forgotten about these principles. They sound like relics of a primitive past. Everyone is in the rat race, no matter where you look. Every modernizing nation – think of India and China – is trying to create its own version of the American dream. Nothing wrong in coveting good education, moderate taxes, a cozy home and a bank account, but may I remind you that a true Italian would never put ambition in front of happiness, of course, except Berlusconi and his brigands. They are happy looting Italy while they make us believe that we cannot govern without their kind. Their clones are everywhere. They are geniuses and villains at the same time – interesting combination. But uninfected Italians seem to know that a day without a chat at the bar with a perfect stranger, an extended lunch break, a nap and other meaningful pauses, away from the work place an its demands, is no life. This surviving bunch intentionally attack any seriousness about work before work enslaves them, even if, deep down, they know that making a living is an inescapable reality, a bare necessity. They will live longer than their cunning peers. That’s a fact. American travelers, especially Italophiles, are perfectly aware of this equation. They can’t wait to book a trip to Tuscany, rent a car and go footloose to the countryside, in search of small-production wines and home-made cuisine. They fully embrace this character of Italy and cannot wait to return to it.

Duty – another double-edged sword – is the primary ingredient of Western society. And duty is as old and ubiquitous as presidential illiteracy – which I have given you some samples hereby – against which idealists like me hope that there is a cure. Even these migratory birds I am watching know duty. They are not on vacation, like I am. They are restlessly looking for food. They are nesting. They are looking to impress the next female bird. But I see peace and brilliance in their readiness. Are they immune to westernization? I’d like to hope that someone out there is.
Well, no long after I was done with the primary purpose of my trip, with two full days left at my entire disposal, I came to the decision of doing something practical about it. Speaking about restlessness! Managing a location resort, like the one I built here fifteen years ago in this remote village, has been a frustrating endeavor. You can trust me about it. But having found the perfect owner-manager, like I did this time, and having just dropped off a truck load of responsibilities, opens up all sorts of possibilities. I don’t mean to sound commercial here, because I am really not trying to sell you anything, but this peaceful and luscious bay is the anti-Western vacation par excellence. I have been coming here for ten years. This is the opposite of Cancun, although the sheer beauty of it will infect every one of your cells. This is a place where you may wait an hour for a meal to be cooked for you exclusively, but then will marvel about it for weeks to come. Everything tastes different here, from mangoes to eggplants, from limes to lobsters. I decided to strike a deal with my beneficiary. My side: I will talk around about the beauty of this bay. Her side: she will live here, take care of things and be the perfect hostess. I was only half-way through my proposal and she accepted.

Another day has passed, and as I am rambling on about the wonders of this part of the world, my lovely hostess just brought me a platter of fresh-cut mango and pineapple. The scent of freshly-harvested fruits is intoxicating. Bananas are so fragrant their perfume lingers with you for hours. It’s seven in the morning. The air is still cool and the day is glorious! An enormous fire-tree is in full bloom right next to me, attracting all sorts of hummingbirds. The nanny bird high-whistle brings the sounds of the Amazon forest. Roosters are still crowing, making sure that you remember where you are! Civilization surrounds you, but in an integrated way. A man is cutting the grass beneath my terrace with a machete. It will take him two days, but he has got all the time he wants. There are no lawnmowers here, no TV sets, no fancy restaurants (though some of the natives are amazing chefs, like the legendary Orleis Ramos). There are no Jacuzzi’s and no fast food. Yet, you get room service, fresh towels, hot water (though who needs it in this heat!), taxing anywhere you want, pristine beaches and the unique life of a village, with its markets and small venues. Vacationing in Trujillo is far more rewarding and genuine than one week at the Ritz-Carlton in Saint Tropez. It also costs twenty times less. Oh, less than that! The most expensive meal on the coast is fifteen dollars a person and a cold beer goes for a mere dollar. I always come back with money in my wallet. Try to do the same in Paris or New York.

I warned you that this is not a dissimulated selling pitch. I hate sales and I am no traveling agent. But if you are curious to see with your own eyes this glimpse of paradise on earth; if you are yearning to read a book in perfect peace, shove your watch in a drawer, lean back and enjoy a real vacation, you should consider Trujillo as a destination to your next escape. After my suggestion, my hostess is planning to make her fabulous house available to selected visitors for the amount you would spend in the U.S. for dinner. She can only accommodate a group of five or six in this moment, but she is building more room next door. She is discrete, prompt, straightforward and extremely resourceful. She is also very attentive to details. You won’t miss anything here, not even air conditioning, and if you are one of the first visitors to uncover such a well-kept secret, you will establish a tradition and reap the benefits of a dedicated, personable service that has no peer in this area. Now that I passed the baton to her and have been the recipient of such attention for four days, I am completely spoiled.

As far as the equation of time goes, I don’t have a recipe for you. I am only raising questions. What shall govern your existence is up to you. I have been wondering how to conclude this article. Now I found out how: with an open invitation to these calm and unspoiled shores of Central America. And if you get me pumped up, who knows, I may be escorting you and your group to Trujillo to partake and witness the best time of your life. Oops, did I mention time again? Yours truly, A.G.P.