Elena

Everyday, Elena sits, leaning her elbows on the windowsill of her second story flat, directly above the front entryway. This tiny, birdlike woman with sun speckled skin and pale hair, watches with open shutters as her modest world moves along on the street below. She folds laundry, mends clothes, and waters courtyard flowers from her perch. Upon catching a glimpse of a familiar face, she shouts with surprising force and clarity, holding countless daily conversations with neighbors in the street or on nearby balconies.  Despite her bonhomie and vivaciousness, Elena lives alone. She had loved and lost many years ago and perhaps as a result, she has become comfortable on her own... strong. Her nephew Alessandro visits daily, picking up his clean shirts that Elena's frail yet capable hands have lovingly washed. As Alessandro leans down to kiss Elena's papery cheek, their conversation echoes through every centimeter of the three flat building (and possibly, a few neighboring buildings as Alessandro had inherited Elena's tendency towards extraordinarily loud speech.) 

Elena was a dream neighbor for one hoping to learn Italian. My days began as I woke to Elena's voice in the next apartment. I drank my morning cafe while shamelessly eavesdropping, I waved goodbye to her in her window as I headed out, and when I came home, I looked for her and listened for her deafening "Ciao!!!"    

Sometime though, when one lets go of a dream, it is not just the obvious that is missed. Sometimes it is all the little things, like a small table on the roof, or a plant on a balcony, or the smiling bank guard and his dog at the corner, or the quiet walk to the bike path, or the garden shop two blocks away, or the smell of earth and sage or the taste of salt in the air. Or sometimes, it is simply a petite old woman in a second story window, fluttering her hands in welcome as you unlock the front gate, the woman who leaves her window to throw open her door as you race up the steps to your own door, the woman who stops you in your haste, reaching her slight hands up to cup your chin.  

"Ah, Bella!" She says, as if to say... 

"What took you so long?"

Popes and Prostitutes..

Roma is achingly beautiful with her seven rolling hills, her ornate architecture and her sweet Mediterranean air. She tugs at the heartstrings of those who visit, inspiring instant love and loyalty, and many who romantically observe her have imagined that her allure is flawless. Oh yes, she is stunning, but occasionally, our bella Roma restlessly shifts her skirts. If we happen to be looking, we catch a glimpse of a vulgar weariness that quickly disappears back under her immaculate hem… provided of course, we graciously look the other way.

Roma exists inside the circular embrace of the Grande Raccordo Anulare, known to Romans as the "Gra" or as the soul sucking infinite highway of clogged dreams. In order to leave the city in any direction, one must first drive a lethargic stretch of this highway while plotting varying means of escape with escalating levels of desperation. As the "Gra" is a large endless circle, one is never truly lost and given enough time (say, 16 days...) one is sure to reach the planned destination.

Within the circle of the "Gra" exist other progressively smaller circles of car stalling highways, causing one to imagine that Roma's city planners were actually enthusiastic students of Dante, students who euphorically modeled Roma's highway system after Dante's Inferno. Jutting out from the city center, like spokes on a bicycle wheel, are a series of smaller highways which connect the inner and outer circles in ways that seem to defy logic.  

Out of the way in Genoa

One such highway, starts charmingly a couple blocks north of the graceful loveliness of Villa Borghese.  However, Via Salaria, named for it’s history as an ancient road transporting salt from the mouth of the Tiber, has retained it’s salty reputation. Heading north from city center on Via Salaria, one eventually leaves behind well tended, prettily painted buildings, replacing them with countless car dealerships, shady motels and ironically, Italian headquarters for multiple media outlets. Nearly on the doorsteps of these businesses, exists a perpetual number of varying types of women, engaging in the worlds oldest profession. There are statuesque blondes and delicate brunettes, there are ones who are constantly tugging down their obscenely short skirts and there are those who stand tall though nearly naked, pride holding their spines straight. They are standing along the Via Salaria in the dark hours of the night, in the bright sun of the day and in every hour in between.  Some have eyes full of the knowledge of Eve and some have eyes that are far too young to have seen a loss of innocence. Some are of Romani decent, some have survived harrowing boat trips from Africa, and some have been trafficked from Eastern Europe. Many do not have papers and so, in the eyes of the world, they simply do not exist. Their pain cannot be real if they are not real.

The revered late Italian priest, Don Oreste Benzi, who in 2003 brought a Nigerian former prostitute with aids to a meeting with the then Pope, once stated, “It’s the fault of the police, it’s the fault of the caribinierri, it’s the fault of those Catholics who sleep rather than wake up as one and put a stop to the whole thing.”  But it is not just the Catholics, it is all of us, we are asleep, we drive quickly past, we look the other way and the world continues as it is.  

Italy is overflowing with non practicing Catholics. Perhaps they are disillusioned, resentful of the control that the Catholic church exerts over daily life and policy in Italy, or maybe they are tired of the hypocrisy.  But things are shifting and with the election of a new, more humble and compassionate pope, many lost Catholics, Italian and otherwise, are having a second look towards the Vatican...even if just out of curiosity. 

Towards the end of July, we packed our overheated bodies together under a brutal high noon sun in Saint Peter’s Square. As Pope Francis stepped forward with his signature sheepish smile, a roar rose up from the crowd at his feet. He began his Sunday homily, quietly, soothingly, and as his gentle Italian words rolled past my understanding, sweat rolled down the back of my legs. I lifted my camera to my face, adjusted the zoom and held my breath to steady myself.  

“Man, I can’t see shit!” a loud male voice stated. As shadow engulfed my lens, I lowered my camera and stared into the back of a large man taking lip smacking swigs from a bottle of Heineken. “Brutto!” I thought... and I fumed. And in doing so, I forgot that I was standing in front of the Pope, I forgot that his words were washing over me. I had stupidly allowed myself to lose the moment. 

Later, I looked up a translation of Pope Francis‘ words. 

“Let’s remember that all is lost with war, and nothing is lost with peace.  Brothers and sisters, no more war! No more war! Above all, I think of the children, those who have been denied hope of a decent life, of a future: dead children, wounded children, maimed children, orphaned children, children who have remnants of war as toys, children who don’t know how to smile. Please stop!  I ask you with all my heart, it’s time to stop! Stop, please!”     

*****

Saint Peter chuckles “Jen, how is your Italian coming along?” 

“Pah! I could speak every language and still miss the point!”

“Jen, I know that you are starting to see, but when will you start to Do?”

“Gee, I don’t know.. maybe when Pope Francis tells me where to dive in, what I can do to magically help change the world...” 

Peter lifts one brow skeptically, “Well in that case, Ms. Sarcasm, perhaps you should get back to your Italian. You’ll want to be able to answer when the Pope gets chatty..”

Kissing Pete

Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita,

mi ritrovai per una selva oscura,

ché la diritta via era smarrita.

Midway upon the journey of our life

I found myself in a dark forest,

For the straightforward path had been lost.

Dante Alighieri

Saying goodbye to my Saint Peter is always difficult. He is the rock upon which the church sits, and at times, he is my rock, but he is also my friend. I walked so far to get to him. He is my north star, my confidante, my conscience. He is not always kind, but he is always there. He stands quietly in the large square named for him and he holds the keys to heaven gripped in his right hand. He is flanked by the grandeur of the Vatican and he has stood among the millions of tourists and pilgrims who have packed the giant piazza. Ninety six saints watch over my dear Peter from the surrounding colonnade and the tiny, dark, square Sampietrini stones lay at his feet. Upon arriving in Rome, I quickly head to the Vatican to say “Hi,” and before leaving Rome, he is my last stop. 

Recently, on a cool clear summer evening, I walked quietly towards him, through the nearly empty square, prepared to say goodbye yet again. A few stars winked and the moon sat low next to the Castel Sant’Angelo. Despite a soft breeze teasing the ends of my hair, the Sampietrini stones still held the day’s warmth beneath my feet.  I looked up at Peter, shocked to find myself already saying goodbye. 

“How fast time passes!”
“You’re telling me! I’ve watched a couple millennia just slide right by!”                                       
“But Peter, what comes next?” “ 

Time races.. I can hold my breath, squeeze my eyes shut and stomp the ground, but still, time refuses to yield. I have blinked and 12 years have passed. And I never feel this more than at the start of another school year. Some of my students are going off to college, some are moving onto high school. Others are driving and discovering the joys of the opposite gender. (dear God!) My students are growing up... but am I? Friends are moving quickly through the stages of life; marrying, leaving the city, buying houses in the suburbs and larger cars, having babies and discussions about potty training and parenting methods. And yet, I am digging my heels in. I have no explanation, only questions. I feel so strongly that there is something I should be doing, but no matter how I search, I can’t discover this illusive purpose.  And so, like Dante, (only less talented,) I find myself in a dark forest, having lost my way.  But I am reminded that without his forest, without his inferno, without his purgatorio, Dante would never have stood in paradise chatting with Peter about faith.

“Peter, will I see you again?” Peter sighs deeply.    
“Jen, why don’t we start with the forest…”

I blew him a kiss and walked away.

                                                    

Calma

There is the historical Trastevere neighborhood with its narrow meandering streets and it’s plethora of trendy bars and boutiques. In one tucked away corner lies a tiny, dusty, cluttered shop full of soon to be repaired old instruments, a family of rescued stray kitties, and a retired man with small silver spectacles. There is the university neighborhood of San Lorenzo, home to La Sapienza, and filled with the buzz and energy of youth. One can frequently catch a stray scent of weed, while walking through these impudent streets. There is the excessively wealthy Parioli neighborhood with its immaculate historical homes and impenetrable gates. Chic dogs weave and chase through the upscale cars lining these streets. 

There is the heavily graffitied Pigneto neighborhood with its culture clash of gentrifying, young, up-and-coming Romans and its constant influx of desperate immigrants. There is the grandiose Piazza Venezia with its wide busy round-about and its massive national monument. 

There is Villa Borghese, the sprawling English style garden portrayed in Respighi’s symphonic poem, “Pines of Rome.”  There is Campo de Fiori, home to a picturesque daily food and flower market and and well known magnet for tourists. There is the southside Testaccio neighborhood, home to a large 19th century slaughterhouse turned museum of contemporary art. There is the stately Vatican, epicenter of the Catholic church and home to my beloved dear Saint Peter. 

Also...

There is a quiet road. There is no historical significance that I am aware of, only an empty curvy road surrounded by trees and connecting the city center to the northwest commuter neighborhoods of Balduina and Torrevecchia. The road dips gently into a subtle valley, just deep enough to trim a more than a few degrees off of a stifling summer day. 

After an evening well spent in drinks and dinner with friends or wandering the crowded banks of the Tiber, it takes only about 3 short minutes for a scooter to traverse this mini highway from end to end, but in that short time, cool air kisses overheated skin, humidity laden trees perfume the night, and stars shine brighter overhead while clouds chase across the face of a super moon. 

One reaches out a hand to touch these chilly dark hours, One exhales, then inhales deeply, purposefully as hair whips and curls in the wind. Occasionally, one attempts to freeze time, only succeeding in stealing precious moments. But as the road begins to climb, one leaves the brisk quiet behind and looks to the way ahead.

The Home by the Sea

In my kitchen, I am confident. I can cook a feast for 30 while only breaking into a light sweat. I can bake perfectly formed cupcakes with creamy centers and light enticing frosting at a moments notice. I have been having a life long love affair with my Calphalon frying pans and me and my knife... well, we are best friends. BUT, when I am taken out of my kitchen, out of my element, when I am placed into unfamiliar territory, such as in a tiny kitchen by the sea about 45 minutes south of Salerno, a kitchen complete with a strong Italian mama, my previously mentioned skills dissipate. I looked down in horror at the head of lettuce, the simple task of tearing each leaf causing my hands to shake. 

“Am I taking too little time to wash the salad? Am I taking to long?? When the hell was the last time I washed my lettuce?? Am I tearing into pieces insultingly small? Oh dear God, does she want me to squeeze the lemon on the salad? How much is too much? What if this is the cleanest most sour salad to ever exist in the history of all creation? Where is a tornado siren when you need one???”   

Antonietta Raffaella rules her kitchen with an iron strength earned from 45 years of marriage, raising two children now going gray and chasing after three energetic grandchildren. She is a tiny woman, not quite reaching 5 feet, with a sturdy build and patches of pale vitiligo affected skin dotting her capable hands and feet.  Her short puff of hair is tinted red, matching her cardinal colored nails, and her smile is well etched into the lines of her face. Beyond raising her own children, she dedicated her life to helping others through her work as a nurse to mentally and physically handicapped children and young adults. At the wise age of 66 years, she has well earned her summers in the little house by the sea.

Rizziero, Rafaella’s husband, endearingly known to some as “Baffone” (The Big Moustache,) is a bulldog of a man, with the arms and legs of a triathlete and the belly of one who is blessed with an extremely talented wife in the kitchen. He is the definition of a man’s man with his dark hair, sun bronzed skin and forceful personality. He spent his entire career building and inspecting cars at the end of one of Fiat’s assembly lines and in his retirement, he obsesses over crossword puzzles and falls asleep while sitting at the dinner table, his head slowly drooping into his afternoon expresso. He lives loudly, full of generous emotion and when he heads off to the bathroom, his adult children (who really should know better) snicker and say “ scimmie con le scarpe da ginnastica ai piedi.” (it smells like he ate monkeys and gym shoes.)

Rizziero is from the old guard.. the generation who knew how to find dinner in the sea, how to fix cars, how to hold a hammer, how to repair one’s house, the generation who voted for the communist party and still would if one currently existed in Italy, the generation who believes wives tales such as “wet hair will cause migraines” and “one should never open the refrigerator barefoot,” the generation whose hands don’t fit comfortably on a computer keyboard...the generation in which people spoke face to face to one another.

Every August, Raffaella and Rizziero play host to family and friends in their little house by the sea, while living by the motto that “to feed is to love.” Guests are embraced as family and are given food and drink to a near bursting point, and after a week of sun, sand, wine and quiet evenings, one cannot leave their orbit without a bag of potatoes grown in their own garden. 

However, their’s has not always been an easy path, and there were times in their many years together when one thought seriously of leaving the other. But even so, even as the breeze through the window carries the smell of the sea and they fall into a comfortable bickering, Raffaella leans her head towards Rizziero and their chairs are close. 

Dangerous Ciambelle!

my downfall...

I knew as soon as I saw the little ciambella, that I must have it, but I also knew that to have one would likely cause great physical distress. However, one must weigh moments of true happiness carefully in comparison to the potential resulting pain..

We were strolling one cool summer evening, through the final night of a Partito Democratico festival (the left leaning political party of Italy’s current fresh faced leader, Renzi.) We passed by stalls and tents full of used books, incense, free Tibet info, pizza, assorted sweets and hippy clothes (otherwise known as ‘clothes I like to wear.’) I stopped to watch at one stall as a man shaped dough into hand sized rounds before dropping them into a giant deep fryer. On another counter, hot, golden fried orbs glistened as they cooled. Two woman then liberally doused each doughy bite of heaven with sugar before arranging them as a display to tempt ravenous pilgrims such as myself.  

Unfortunately though, there are two types of food that, without fail, cause a nearly immediate need for a toilet... ‘Deep Fried’ and ‘Creme.’ But there are two types of food that I truly love... 

After walking by the ciambelle stall 3 times, I decided to ignore ALL past experiences with my digestive system. As I lovingly picked my very own sweet ciambella, the server woman gestured to multiple pastry bags full of potential filling... chocolate creme, vanilla creme, limoncello creme, Nutella (holy mother of GOD!!) I gestured to the simple vanilla and watched as she stabbed the center of my ciambella, inflating it with euphoric amounts of fatty goodness.

I picked up my newly adopted ciambella.. now weighing in at at least a kilo, and I bit through the golden crispy outside, tasting the soft warm spongy center. Oil dripped onto my fingers and hands as my lips became coated with sugar. My eyes rolled back as I sighed rapturously, thanking the gods in all forms.

Ten minutes later...

“Oh No, we need to go home NOW!”

“We are about 30 minutes away. Can you make it?”

“I think so..” said haltingly while breaking into a cold sweat..

Italy’s Florentine 13th-century poet Dante (otherwise known as Il Sommo Poeta,) devised many gleefully imaginative punishments for woeful sinners in his Purgatorio; the envious had their eyes sewn shut, the proud crushed under rocks, the slothful forced to run incessantly. However, I propose a change to his punishment of the gluttonous. Rather than having the overeaters starve while surrounded by overly tall trees full of succulent fruit, I propose that the punishment for a life lived stuffing one’s self silly must include a lengthy (years long) ride on the back of a scooter, over painfully uneven cobblestones while one’s intestines are trying to turn themselves inside out.   

SamPietrini is the endearing name of the heavy, square volcanic stones that pave the tiny streets of Rome’s city center. Sharing the namesake of the basilica that centers the catholic church, these little Saint Peters add character and loveliness to an ancient city. They also add misery and torment to the life of those who head downtown to overindulge in the culinary joys of Italy. We raced home over the crooked bumpy streets while I prayed to a sadistic Saint Peter and tried to internally manage the waves of abdominal cramping. Despite the unimagined closed roads, despite backtracking, despite catching every red light (which is only a suggestion to stop...) despite getting stuck behind not just one but TWO buses on narrow streets, We made it home before digestive armageddon.. just..

Twenty minutes later...

As I sat exhausted on the couch, the cold sweat and spasms receding, I reflected on the night’s events.

“I really wish I had another ciambella right now ”  

Mangiare

Sometimes I am asked why I keep returning to Italy. However, I usually just shake my head slightly and smile to myself. “Pfft.. silly question!” 

Alessandra, Mimmo and their son Tommaso, live in a fifth floor apartment about 3 miles north of the Vatican.  While no bigger than my old Andersonville apartment (which is HUGE by Roman standards!) Alessandra and Mimmo’s upper class home is filled with warmth, plants and beautiful books. Located on the top floor of the building, this lovely home boasts a stunning patio that extends the entire length and width of the apartment and overlooks a garden shop below. With multiple chairs and tables, a swing, a well loved foosball table, a plethora of healthy growing herbs, a couple fruit trees and enough plants to rival the garden center below, it is clear that life is lived on the patio. 

I arrived to a mixture of family, friends and work companions.. some of whom fell into all three categories, mingling on the patio. Luca, a confident, middle aged, fit pilot with impeccable english, cut limes and mixed drinks with the intensity of a nuclear scientist. I sipped a shockingly potent Caipirinha, a Brazilian drink made of lime, sugar cane and Cachaca (a liquor distilled from sugar cane,) and as the level of my drink slid lower, the warm tingling in my fingers and toes became more prominent.

L’aperitivo (or the meal before the meal,) consisted of drinks and little bowls of nuts and crackers placed strategically throughout the patio. People chatted happily while heaping salsa di salmone and tzatziki onto their crackers and children raced and weaved between the adults. Men gathered loudly around the foosball table, their overly enthusiastic play gradually shifting the table across the floor. 

As Alessandra set plate after delicious plate onto sturdy tables, we drifted happily towards our seats. I sat next to beautiful Isabella, the perfectly poised and kind wife of Luca who laughed and said “this is Italy,” while gesturing to our unconsciously gender segregated seating. I reached forward to giddily load my plate... pizza di ceci (chickpea pizza made by the talented Teresa,) pasta with smoked salmon, sesame seeds and cilantro, salad, and mozzarella di bufala (mozzarella the size of softballs.) I unwittingly asked a friend how to say “fresh mozzarella” in Italian and received a look of horror.. “but mozzarella is ALWAYS fresh!?”

Multiple bottles of rich red wine were passed around as Alessandra set the next course on the table, Pasta con ricotta, cherry tomatoes, basil, and black pepper.  While I ate to bursting, yet another course appeared, flavorful roasted zucchini and eggplant. The children, three adolecent girls and two boys, having no interest in vegetables or the adults lingering over them, slipped off to find their own amusement. Rather than rushing off to computers or Ipads, the kids had instead set up a store in Tommaso‘s room, selling little unwanted knick knacks and assorted hotel lotions. Lacking cash, I traded a Chicago button pin for an owl bracelet.  

I returned to my seat, gleefully accepted a glass of Vueve Cliquot and settled in for the dessert course(s).. I dipped my spoon into a tiny cup of sweet, light watermelon jelly and fresh creme, while recognizing that I would HAVE TO try the little cup of apricots and creme. I drooled over a plate of delectable beautiful pastries filled with an assortment of pistachio, creme, chocolate and fruit, and I nearly wept in gratitude as the profiteroles appeared in front of me (profiteroles are tiny little balls of pure blissful joy… one who eats them immediately attains nirvana) 

I ate until my stomach filled to my esophagus, while people drank expresso in the cutest daintiest little disposable cups I have ever seen and bowls of cherries and plums were passed around. As I waddled to the front door at the end of an evening of irrepressible gluttony, a bag of profiteroles and plums, fresh from the patio garden, was handed to me.

Sometimes I am asked why I keep returning to Italy.  "Pfft…"

        

Mac & Cheese and Jose Cuervo..

The problem with trying to have an emotional breakdown is that often times, the mundane details of life interrupt. I simply want to hide in my bed and cry, I want to forget everything, I want to drink to numb off the edges, I want my mind, for one moment, to be quiet. But just as I am pulling up my covers and letting myself sink into melodramatic despair... “Jen, you idiot!  It’s now July and you forgot to buy your car's city sticker!”  As I shut down that overly practical thought and reach for a glass of alcohol, my phone beeps..”Jen, did you go to Rome? If you are here, there is a funeral..Can you cantor?”  Life, it seems, doesn’t allow time for wallowing. 

Right now, I should be on a plane crossing the ocean. I should be hours away from warmth and my dear Saint Peter, but because I am a coward, I am in my bed with mac & cheese and Jose Cuervo. I miss my Saint Peter, but he would likely be ashamed of me right now anyway. I can’t make decisions and yet I can’t keep trying on different choices like the day’s clothing. I can’t expect people to be there for me when I am unable to be there for them. And so, I try to take myself out of the equation, to stop from failing myself and everyone around me... I make choices.. and then I panic that I made the wrong choice.. and then I am back where I started.. in bed with mac & cheese and Jose Cuervo. And just as I finally feel the tingling warmth of the second shot, just as the circles in my mind slow...

“Jen, buy your damn city sticker!”
“Oh, Peter..” 

Life Tastes like Wine...

An entry for the DaVinci Storyteller Competition...

I had walked for hours, sweat and dust caking into areas that I had never really given thought to before; my eyebrows, my salty upper lip, behind my ears and knees. I had passed row after endless row of celery green grapevines and I had begun to obsessively plan my first swallow of evening wine. As my mind fixated on thoughts of full strong flavors and the resulting warmth of dazed limbs, my body reveled in the dry heat of the Rioja sun.  After nearly a week of walking the pilgrimage across northern Spain to Santiago (Saint James) I was moments away from reaching the fabled wine fountain at the Bodegas Irache. I stumbled up the last remaining steps, already tasting the heady wine, and I gleefully turned the lever, my hand posed to catch the precious drops. And…? 

Nothing!!
"Son of a B%@$#!!!!"  

I had been thwarted by the many pilgrims faster than I, who were at that moment carrying camelbacks full of wine. (as a side note, rubber flavored warm wine drank from a camelback is truly foul.) 

While I suspect that I would have difficulty discerning a $15 bottle of wine from a $100 bottle of wine, I have come to the conclusion that the world occasionally stops to collectively take a sip and who am I to refuse?!  Wine has marked so many moments; a smooth glass of red with an old man in Genova, an exploding bottle of cheap Cava among laughing friends in front of Saint James,  A bottle of Lambrusco shared with a sunset viewed from the top of a mountain, a plastic cup toast of expensive Prosecco in Saint Peter's Square, a sacred taste of holy communion, a crisp white wine while staring into the eyes of a new lover... Occasionally, life tastes like wine.  

I have a good life. I live in a beautiful city and teach music to a bunch of overly precocious kids in Chicago's north shore. (I will not admit to the amount of times that I have been coerced into playing "Let it Go" from Frozen.) On the weekends, I tutor English as a second language, cantor for masses and play gigs. But sometimes, the cold of the Chicago winter seeps below my skin, permeating through my bones. In these moments, there is nothing for me to do but to pack my bag, grab my ukulele and my passport and head off in search of a new adventure. 

When there are moments in which practicalities prevent me from escaping Chicago's hectic cold, I must simply stop to take stock of the memories I have made and the stories I have brought home to share with my students, family and friends. These moments are jumbled together into one solid blanket of warmth…Buying pounds of chocolate and overindulging with giggling orphans and nuns in Peru, petting a sheep at 2 am one rainy night in Ireland, Sharing crackers with a donkey in Liguria, watching socks dry next to the sea in France, incurring the wrath of an Italian mother in Rome, blowing raspberries with a family in Riomaggiore...  

I have hugged haystacks, sang Edelweiss with german nuns, peed in fields, won an ugly ceramic chicken while playing Tombola, experienced delicious street food in Thailand (and the unfortunate intestinal response..) I have counted stars, fallen in and out of love, chased saints, hugged gods, slept with bedbugs, stolen fruit, and sang Puccini while crossing the River Arno. I have built and breathed dreams . Oh yes, I have lived. And at the end of each day, I have raised a glass, or a bottle, or a box, or a plastic cup (or a camelback) and I have toasted to the warmth of this beautiful world.

"So Jen, what will your next adventure be?"

"Well…hmm…"

Shared warmth..

Each Sunday before the 8:30am mass is set to begin, an elderly couple comes in through the side door. The grey moustached husband quietly leads his wife to the front pew, sees her settled and then heads to the back of the church to attend to his duty as an usher. The wife's appearance hints at a life lived with grit, joy and fullness, as she has tattoos on her arms, dark mascara around her lovely blue eyes, hair that will eternally be blond, faded jeans, and a smile that lights the air around her. On many such morning, she has pulled me in for a hug, or given my hand an extra squeeze and I have discovered that these little moments are so important to me. 

Lately though, she has been moving a bit slower, standing a little less tall, seeming confused a bit more often. She grips her husband's arm a little tighter and he holds her a little more carefully. With each Sunday, a little more time has passed, taking cruelly from us and returning to us things which we don't realize we need. But as Sunday's mass begins, I step up to the podium with  my normal sweaty palms, shaky knees, and rapidly pounding heart. However, as I look past the sheet music and useless anxieties in front of me, I see her smiling from the first pew. She beams up at me, her warmth a welcome benediction.   I share in her smile, take a deep breath and … "Good Morning and welcome to Saint Gregory.  Today the Church celebrates Palm Sunday…" 

True religion is real living; living with all one's soul, with all one's goodness and righteousness.

Albert Einstein

Too much is not Enough..

When I was in grade school, my family spent a year living in an apartment complex of about 20 large three story buildings, interspersed with parking lots. The long hot summer days, generally found me locked out of the house and left to discover my own means of entertainment. This included such things as finding a swing set, playing hide and seek with neighbor kids, searching the grass for four leaf clovers, reading under a tree or just generally, allowing the imagination to take over. However, there were many days that stretched overly long... endless days when I would scour the parking lots looking for lost change while the sound of the ice cream truck ceaselessly taunted. I kicked at the litter and bent to look under cars, always with the hope of finding a simple coin or two. My family never had spare change.

When I was 15 and in foster care, I owned just enough clothes for two loads of laundry, one load of lights and and one load of darks. One afternoon as the sun slanted through the laundry room window, I pulled my warm light load out of the dryer only to discover that I had forgotten to take a wayward cherry chapstick out of one of the pockets. Everything was stained with pink greasy spots. In one careless moment, I had ruined half of everything I owned.   

Two years later, I had told a girlfriend of mine that I could not go to a school dance because I had nothing, no shoes, no jewelry, no way to be pretty. A few days after, she handed me a delicate pearl necklace and bracelet set that her mom had bought for me and though I don't have memories of the actual dance, I do still have the pearls. 

My sophomore year of college, I had used the last of my spare change to buy a $.39 box of elbow macaroni and an even cheaper can of tomato paste at the local Aldi discount store. (It's frightening that I still remember the exact cost..) I stood in my kitchen, cooking my poor man's meal and as I added pepper, the lid of the shaker came off, dousing my entire meal. As I ate my foul tasting dinner, helpless tears filled my eyes, brought on by thoughts of my empty bank account and exacerbated by an abundance of pepper in my sinuses. 

Much time has passed and life has changed. I can now buy a pair of pretty earrings without too much thought, I can afford things that were out of reach when I was younger... olive oil, shoes with support, cheese NOT made by Kraft, Italian coffee, honey, soft toilet paper, Lindt.. I have a closet full of clothes and I no longer suffer sinus infections and sore throats for weeks before gathering the funds to go to a doctor. And a dead battery in my car no longer sends me into a depressed downward spiral as it it now easily addressed. I am by no means, rich, but I no longer feel hunger pangs. However, my life is full of reminders...

Before heading down to Peru as a teacher when I was 27 years old, I packed my bags with school books and 60 packs of crayons as the school had requested. Upon settling into the dusty Andean town, Puno, I headed to the school with my massive bag of crayons. As I handed a pack out to each student, I watched in amazement as something so ordinary was worth it's weight in gold in the excited eyes of my young students. 

Years later, I was leading a youth choir rehearsal which had just finished as one young member passed around a couple boxes of addictive girl scout cookies. I watched as another member, a preteen boy furtively took one entire sleeve of cookies out and clumsily slipped them into his pocket. Another singer noticed as well, a young girl who generally says Everything, yet in this particular case, she held silent. We didn't want to say anything as our young cookie snatcher had spent years as a refugee and his life had held difficulties that we couldn't fathom. However, I could perfectly imagine him, safe yet insecure in his new world,  home alone and unwrapping his cookie treasure. He and I would eventually have a chat, but that would come later. 

While completing my TEFL certification, I began assisting with an English language class at Centro Romero in Chicago's Rogers Park neighborhood. I help out on Thursdays with a classroom full of incredibly intelligent warm immigrant adults who generally work too hard for too little. A few weeks ago, the teacher, a beautiful vivacious middle age colombian woman, brought in mexican sweetbreads for everyone. As I thoughtlessly bit into mine, I looked around the class, noticing how some students meticulously wrapped napkins around their bread, to save for later, while others carefully split theirs in two, some for now and some for another time.  I thought about the differing value of such a simple item, and the unexpected pleasure of receiving a quiet gift. 

Saint James and Saint Peter are all about simplicity. A pilgrim agonizes while packing for the Camino since each item in one's back pack will have to be carried for over 500 miles.. "Do I really need a phone for each country AND the corresponding adapters, Do I really want to carry makeup through the Pyrenees, How much bug spray do I really need?" (I rethought that last one after I had left my bug spray behind only to later be devoured by devil's spawn tiger mosquitos..) "Will I really wear that extra dress? Do I really need a solar charger? Will I really carry a little ceramic owl ornament all the way to Rome?" (yes.. and back to Chicago..) As I left certain things along the way and acquired other things to carry, I realized that what was in my back pack was quite irrelevant, as irrelevant as the contents of my closets and home. 

After all, sometimes when I have everything, 

everything is not enough and other times, when I have nothing,

 I have everything I need. 

The Hunt for Baby Jesus

I am having vivid dreams about building a nativity scene...and I don't mean simply placing little figures of Joseph, Mary and Jesus and the other supporting characters. I mean that I am having dreams about buying and sawing wood, hammering and painting, imagining and creating. I have never really given much thought before to the construction of such Christmas time scenes, but circumstances have changed.


Tucked away in a quiet residential corner of the lovely Andersonville neighborhood in Chicago, sits St Gregory the Great Church. This beautiful church is not overly well known, nor a tourist destination. There has been water in the organ pipes and perpetual fundraising for tuckpointing projects. But Saint Gregory is community. One enters from the west into warm cream painted walls and pillars, rich mahogony wooden pews, red flickering candles, and a stunningly painted beamed ceiling. The air smells of sweet candle wax, wood polish and incense and the radiators bang and clank to life in an effort to heat those who arrive on the many cold Chicago winter mornings. To the left of the altar is the Marion altar where young brides stand to offer prayers and flowers to Mother Mary. and built into the wall next to Mary, is the church's scene of the Christmas birth. Children stare in fascination at the 12 inch figures of Mary and Joseph, sheperds, angels, animals and the Magi. However, if one looks closer at the pretty wooden hand carved figures, one notices that some of the animals are missing legs, there is misspelled latin on the angel, and baby Jesus, while lovely, is an oversized replacement for the original Jesus that had been stolen a few years before. The sheer size of the baby Jesus head in comparison to Mary's slight frame would imply that the virgin birth may have been even more of a miracle than we have previously thought.

Rome is overflowing with baby Jesuses (Jesi??) There are large shiny faced human sized ones, there are tiny glow in the dark ones, there are ones in which it seemed that Jesus was born as a twelve year old, and there are others which do not portray Jesus as being a very pleasant child at all. But in Italy, the nativity scene, or 'presepe' as they say, is serious business! Families spend years creating their personal presepes, lovingly adding pieces with each passing Christmas and rather than Christmas trees, many public buildings display ornate nativity scenes. The figures can range in size from a centimeter each to nearly life size. They can be any level of quality from cheap plastic to hand painted terra cotta or stunningly carved wood. There are sought after makers such as the cherub faced Fontanini pieces from the north in Florence, but the more I learn, the more I hear that the true artisans lie to the south in Napoli.

One day was spent in Rome touring the dusty, though well loved, Museu Tipologico Internazionale Del Presepio. Despite being surrounded by hundreds of nativity sets from all over the world, the scene from Napoli commanded attention with it's vibrant colors and life like expressions. However, since a trip to Napoli was not in my near future, a frustrating afternoon and evening was spent searching through shops of religious articles surrounding the Vatican, in order to acquire a new baby Jesus for St Gregs. As I stood nervously in one shop while an older pushy man tried to sell me a fake Fontanini Jesus, I realised that the pieces of quality were not to be found amidst the made-in-China tourist junk surrounding St. Peters. I caved under pressure though, bought the plastic Jesus and quickly left the store, barely in command of my sanity.

*****

The sky was a forboding shade of grey and a tolerable mist alternated with a cold heavy rain, but Piazza Navona still echoed with the voices of a hundred Italians with their bright cheery colored umbrellas. The wet, dangerously slick, dark grey cobblestones of the square sofly reflected the lights and surrounding buildings as men on either side sold roasted chestnuts. The center of the square  was dominated by the ornate 17th century Fontana dei Quattro Fiumi (fountain of the four rivers) and the beautiful church of Sant'Agnese in Agone faced inward. To one side of the piazza sat a whimsical two story toy store, selling incredibly detailed high quality wooden, metal and stuffed toys. The square itself was full of  little temperary stalls selling everything from candy to leather purses, from deep green plants to Tibetan singing bowls. But what drew me in were the stalls selling delicate hand crafted miniature figures for family presepi.  I stood for extended periods of time at each stall, studying the tiny wares and trying the patience of those around me. I stared in fascination at the larger moving pieces.. a woman washing her clothes, a man chopping wood, and I couldn't resist touching the smaller pieces.. little pots and pans, mini baskets full of painted fruit or fish, petite wine bottles..

After studying the offerings of each stall and devouring a delicious, sugar coated ciambella (massive donut) my companion and I circled back to the first stall where I had previously spotted a lovely terra cotta sheep. We chatted a while with the man running the stall and despite my disappointment at learning that all the baby Jesuses had long since sold out, he assured me that he would be happy to ship to anywhere in the world. (seriously though.. How does one refer to 'Jesus' in plural???)  The older man looked on nervously as I clumsily inspected the delicate sheep and upon purchase, he carefully wrapped it, giving special care to protecting it's legs, while instructing that the sheep only return to Chicago and my church via carry on.  I bought a few additional little pieces to be used in terrariums, had one last longing look at all of the beautiful, gorgeously painted terra cotta figures and went on my way, dreaming of my own brightly colored future presepe.  

http://www.presepipampa.it/it

Tombola Chicken

I won a hen while playing Tombola. Well...no, I take that back.. I actually won a lovely little pair of expresso glasses, but I couldn't resist gleefully trading them for an atrocious, ceramic, chicken sugar bowl. (at least I think it may be a sugar bowl...) I sat with twenty or so people, around a large, festively decorated table, cluttered with wine and soft drink bottles, enough food for a small village, huge quantities of shredded orange peels and a pile of terribly wrapped "gifts" in the center. I listened intently, holding a tiny bit of orange peel in my hand, as a young boy shouted numbers out to the room. I purposefully searched the Tombola cards in front of me before setting my orange peel over the number I hoped was called. Occasionally though, I lost my focus.

I sat back in my chair and memorized the scene around me. Warm yellow walls covered in beautifully framed art surrounded us. A merrily twinkling Christmas tree filled one corner while a lovingly placed nativity scene sat nearby. Blissfull smells of pizza, arancini and sweetbread floated in the air as a baby was passed around. Children unabashedly tugged on the arms of adults, demanding piggy back rides or an impromptu wrestle. People touched.. a kiss on each check, a warm hug, an arm around a shoulder, a hand on a leg, a teasing shove. I caught snatches of conversations, talk of work, of dinner, of new shoes, of a new engagement... but sometimes, I stopped hearing words. I simply listened as waves of beautiful, lyrical Italian washed over me.  Just a few hours earlier, I had not met any of the people around me, but yet, I was seated at their table, devouring their food, sharing their Grappa, teasing their children, and cherishing their joy. I was not out of place. I was welcome.  

I reined in my sentimental thoughts, turned my focus back to my Tombola cards, placed my last orange peel and proudly made the chicken mine...