There are days when it seems as though the whole world has conspired to close every window around us. Outside, it rains, the sky feels heavy, and even the hours seem to drag themselves forward reluctantly. Those are the moments when we fantasise about being anywhere else, preferably beneath a blazing sun and many miles away from routine.
And yet, sometimes something as simple as an unexpected phone call is enough to change the course of an afternoon. A familiar voice at the other end of the line, a conversation that begins with the weather and ends up opening doors neither person had planned to walk through.
Because some encounters begin long before two people meet face to face. And some apparently trivial conversations, without our realising it, are already preparing the ground for something deeper.
“What awful weather!” I exclaimed in disgust. “I’d give a kidney to be lying on a Mediterranean beach right now. Roasted like sunflower seeds, with a lemon granita to cool my throat and a straw hat to protect my head from the sun. Instead, what have I got? Grey days, endless rain, gales, cold, and an overwhelming urge to run away somewhere life might smile at me.”
I wanted someone to call who actually felt like talking for a while. A two-minute conversation followed by a hurried goodbye because of time or a dying battery was no use to me. That was a classic of those years, when unlimited call plans did not exist and making calls from a mobile phone cost a fortune.
For that reason, most people used every trick imaginable to make the other person foot the bill. Alongside the classic “my battery’s almost dead”, there was “call me back later”, the mysterious text message designed to make you return the call, or the shameless “the call dropped, you must have had bad reception”.
In short, there was a whole collection of tricks everyone knew about, yet people still used them without hesitation, regardless of who was on the other end. You could say it was an innocent version of “kill or be killed, you or me”.
Fortunately, landline telephones still existed and the rates were more affordable. So whenever someone felt like having a proper conversation, they called the landline and hoped somebody would answer.
I was still lost in my thoughts when the phone rang. It was as though someone had somehow picked up my thoughts telepathically.
I lifted the receiver and said:
“Fulmen speaking. Who’s this?”
“Hi, it’s Nova. How are you, Kiran? I just called to say hello.”
“Nova! What a lovely surprise. I’m fine health-wise, although to tell you the truth I was going stir-crazy in the kitchen, looking out of the window at this sky and that damned rain that simply refuses to stop.”
“Tell me about it,” she replied, her voice duller than usual.
“So, are you in Zurich?” I immediately asked.
“I am. I came to visit my parents and, honestly, I was hoping for better weather. I wasn’t expecting summer heat, but at least I hoped it wouldn’t be pouring down. We’ve had weeks of constant rain in Italy too. And on top of that, with the weather being so unstable, we have fewer guests at the guesthouse but twice as much work.”
“How is that possible? You’re saying you work more when you have fewer guests. Isn’t that a contradiction?” I replied, assuming she had simply misspoken and meant the opposite.
“No, no, you heard me correctly. Think about it. In this weather, guests go hiking in the mountains and come back with mud stuck all over their boots. If I’m not constantly watching who comes and goes like some kind of traffic policeman, they cover the whole place in mud,” she said.
“And that isn’t even the worst of it. The real problem is what they do in their rooms, because they know I can’t keep an eye on them there. They take off their mud-covered clothes and throw them wherever they please, leaving everything filthy. And don’t get me started on the bathroom towels. Some of them have to go straight into the bin when the guests check out.
“And then there are the ones who go out for lunch or dinner and leave the window open. It pours with rain, the floor gets soaked, and then they come back looking astonished, saying they can’t understand how it happened.
“I swear, it’s exhausting having to put up with so many people whose manners leave a great deal to be desired. I’m sure they don’t behave like that in their own homes. There, they watch where they step and take care of their belongings.
“I know perfectly well that they are paying for a service and that some come from countries with very different customs, but if you warn them politely and they simply ignore you, what else can you do? It isn’t that they didn’t understand. They just don’t care.
“You have no idea how difficult it is to remove certain stains from carpets, armchairs, and even the walls.
“And then, of course, they complain about every speck of dust, every tiny mark on the dining-room tablecloth, or any bit of fluff on the carpet. The very same people who leave their rooms looking like pigsties every morning.”
Everything she was telling me fitted perfectly into that careless pattern of behaviour so common in mass tourism. The problem is that when you have never experienced it yourself, you can hardly imagine what it is really like.
Until then, whenever I thought about them running the guesthouse, I had always pictured them dealing mostly with administrative matters: the typical management tasks, making payments, speaking with suppliers, organising bookings, and handling those less physically demanding duties.
But there was no doubt that somebody also had to take care of the unpleasant jobs.
Needless to say, my dear friend Nova was fuming. Something was clearly wrong.
What she was telling me about her daily life was already enough to make anyone lose patience, but I suspected there was more to it than that. There was a note of bitterness in her voice that did not escape me.
Fortunately for her — and for me as well — the many hours I had spent volunteering with a listening support service helped me keep the conversation flowing naturally, without making it feel as though we were sitting in a confessional.
She let off steam about her frustrations and tore into her guests, with every justification in the world, while I simply listened and intervened only when necessary.
It was a healthy habit that had become almost automatic in most of my conversations, and this time I was using it precisely because I understood that my friend genuinely needed it.
Nova knew nothing about my experience with the listening support service. Had she known, she might not have spoken quite so freely.
Nobody feels completely comfortable knowing that a friend is acting as an amateur psychologist, applying skills learned during training designed to support people in crisis over the telephone.
As the saying goes, no doctor should treat family or neighbours.
She asked whether I would be busy the following day, and I told her I would not.
“In that case, it would be good if we met,” she said. “As you know, I’m staying here with my parents, and I need to clear my head a little. How about we get together?”
“No problem,” I replied. “Come over tomorrow any time after four in the afternoon — assuming you still remember where I live,” I added teasingly.
“Don’t be an idiot,” she snapped. “Don’t forget I was born and raised here. Tell me, is parking at your place a problem?”
“If you can manage to drive through the garden gate without leaving half the paintwork stuck to the bars, there’s plenty of room,” I replied, making it clear that if she wanted to send strong winds down the telephone line, she could expect a storm in return.
She understood immediately and softened her tone.
Perhaps we have forgotten just how extraordinary it can be to truly listen to another person.
Not in order to reply immediately, offer solutions, or prove that we know what to do, but simply to remain there while the other person puts into words something they have been carrying inside for far too long.
Sometimes a conversation solves nothing and yet changes many things. It lightens the burden, shortens the distance between people, and reminds us that behind complaints, tiredness, or a simple phone call to say hello there may be something far simpler: the need to feel that someone is there on the other end.
And who knows? Perhaps some of the encounters that eventually become important in our lives begin precisely like this: on a grey day, when we were expecting absolutely nothing to happen…
About the author
Alfonso Corchero is the author of Between Asphalt and Incense, a work born from experience, observation, and an inner search. His writing explores the contradictions of human nature, the moments when everyday life fractures, and those experiences that compel us to look within. Rather than offering ready-made answers, his stories invite readers to recognise themselves in the journey, the doubts, and the transformations of someone learning to cross their own thresholds.