El Retiro

 On the unassuming typical workday morning of March 11th 2004, ten explosions tore apart four commuter trains that had recently left from the Alcalá de Henares station in central Madrid. No one understood why, and no one was untouched. When the count was finished, 191 lives were senselessly lost and Spain was irrevocably changed.  

Upon arriving in Madrid, Carlos and I had decided to battle our jet lag by simply dropping our bags at the hotel and rushing outside to jump into the beauty of Madrid. We spent hours walking through the busy stately squares and dipping into the tiny shops, we talked each other into unnecessary purchases.. "But that lamp will look so beautiful on your piano," he encouraged as I hesitantly held a colorful orange and red glass moroccan lamp. (it does look beautiful on my piano.) We wandered the symmetrical gardens of the Royal Palace and peeked into quiet churches before taking our weary bodies back to our hotel beds. 

So, it was with some grogginess that we found ourselves on the bus the next morning listening to the hypnotic droning of our tour guide, Cristina. As we passed the beautiful train station, Cristina described the horrible scene of the bombing 11 years past in great  gruesome detail…  "there were, legs and arms, and heads…" she continued in her deep timbered tone. Minutes later, our bus stopped in front of the Parque del Buen Retiro and we all filed gratefully off to stroll through the manicured acres of the park..all except one young soul. As the bus emptied and Keri tried coaxing her young son Oliver to jump off as well, Oliver responded with big crocodile tears.  "But I don't wanna blow up!" he whimpered, his child mind wrestling with concepts that adults can't even comprehend. 

The lovely 350 acre Parque del Buen Retiro, home to the crystal palace and the sword of the legendary El Cid, belonged to the monarchy until it was opened to the public in the 19th century. As our group fanned out across the park, I lifted my camera and shifted between taking photos of the delicate flowers, the nobel statues, the stunning landscaping and the gorgeous fit Spanish men running, cycling and kayaking by. (Spain is truly a beautiful country..) Upon entering the Paseo de las Estatuas  Keri and I raced ahead to quickly lean nonchalantly in front of a statue of a man standing on a decapitated head, so to block the image from the young minds of Gilbert and Ollie as they passed innocently by. 

Spain has a fairly violent  history with the battles between the Moors and the Catholics, the Inquisition, Napoleon, the Spanish civil war, WWII and the brutally oppressive reign of Franco, all of which we noticed portrayed quite graphically in the art sprinkled throughout the country. After an independent lunch in central Madrid, we all met up again for an afternoon tour of the Palace Real or Royal Palace. The largest Palace in western Europe, The Palace Real sits on a site that has been occupied since the 10th century Moors first claimed it. (thus disproving the concept of Madrid only being 300 years old..)  Occupying just 1,450,000 square feet, the palace is packed obscenely full with a wealth of fine art, silk and brocade walls, murals and tapestries, priceless furniture, and even a complete quartet of Stradivari.. two violins, a viola, and a cello estimated to be worth more than 100 million euros (which means that they are becoming more affordable to Americans as the Euro drops..) Walking through ornate room upon ornate room, our tour finished in the throne room where we discovered little Gilbert staring up in horror at a large statue of a man eating a baby, a portrayal of the Greek God Cronus who devoured his sons to prevent the inevitability of being overthrown by them. Of course, despite his best efforts, his son Zeuss had other plans.. 

While one of our choir members, Chuck, stared longingly at the lion themed throne of Spain, (we had walked a lot and he does love lions..) I began to ponder which room in my house to convert to a much needed throne room and if I should attempt silk wallpaper... And if radiator heat is good enough for Spanish royals.. well then...

 

La Almudena

"Jen, it's been too long! It's time you come back for another visit!" I smiled as I fit my hand over the familiar shape of the stone scallop shell in the quiet humble church.  

"Soon James, I'll be there soon.. but not this trip!" 

Ever since walking the Camino de Santiago across northern Spain in 2012, I have noticed my dear Saint James turning up periodically for a chat. Upon wandering the narrow streets of central Madrid, I discovered myself in a tiny square surrounded by scallop shells and red crosses. As I wandered into the unassuming church of Santiago full of shiny faced icons and electric "candles" I smiled up at my now familiar Saint Jim. 

"This trip is not about us, Jim. This time I have come to Spain with friends!"

I arrived in Spain armed not only with my backpack and walking shoes but also with approximately sixty of my friends, confidants, and fellow singers. I have come to Spain with my community. 

Under the direction of our fearless leader, Patrick Godon, his horn playing wife and their two cherubic sons, members of the Saint Gregory parish choir and the suburban Tower Chorale have combined to sing a path across Spain, starting in Madrid and wearing a trail through Toledo, Zaragoza, and Alfajarin, before finishing in Barcelona. But we are a lusty group and have every intent of tasting the sweet spanish life along the way...

"Madrid is a new city, only about 300 years old," our tiny task master of a tour guide incorrectly informed our bus full of tired jetlagged pilgrims as we entered the outskirts of a much older Madrid. Her smooth alto voice stretched "s"s to their extreme limits and rolled "rrrr"s for obscene lengths of time, lulling her trapped patrons into a sort of hypnotic trance. Our resident award winning, double Phd holding, spaniard scholar, Carlos, dropped his head to his hands as he unwillingly listened in disbelief.     

We take for granted our Maestro, Patrick. He can convey huge amounts of information with just a nod of his head... dynamics, cutoffs, intensity, rhythm, drooping pitch, bliss or severe disapproval...He leads us confidently into the abyss. So, it was with great horror, that we arrived for our first mass of the tour at Catedral de la Almudena to discover that the choir sits one level below and completely out of eye shot of our maestro at the organ, thus requiring a few choir members to temporarily fill his role of director. I stepped up to the podium with great trepidation, my arms raised, my eyes trained above at the back of  Patrick's head, the choir in front of me, the splendor and majesty of the royal cathedral at my back, while my internal monologue sang a nonstop litany of, "Oh, dear God on high.. Please don't let me f%@k this up!!!"  Moments later, I sat down with jelly knees and relief at not being the cause of a musical train wreck. Following my unexpected, improvised directorial debut, Kim, a beautiful, perfectly dressed, vivacious woman rose from her soprano seat to gracefully direct the next song.  

Situated next to Spain's Royal Palace in Madrid, the Catedral de la Almudena is a massive structure consisting of white marble, contemporary stained glass windows, and a mesmerizing painted ceiling. Despite plans being discussed as early as the 1560s and construction beginning in 1879, due to a few mishaps (such as the Spanish civil war and WWII) the Almudena wasn't completed and consecrated until 1993. La Almudena hosts royal weddings and funerals and is home to an organ almost worth selling one's soul to the devil for (despite it being on a different level from the choir.)   And the six second delay.. well, that's just icing on the cake! As our voices blended for the final song "Heyr, Himna Smiour," we bathed in the royal loveliness of the Almudena.  

"Fancy seeing you here!" As I wandered the Prado museum, my tour guide racing three miles ahead, Saint James winked at me from a dour 17th century Ribera painting while St Roche snort laughed from the canvas beside...

Sweet Lemons

We had left behind Paestum, our cheeks kissed and well wishes trailing in our wake. Our car pointed optimistically northbound as we hugged the beautiful coast outside of Salerno. A bright morning sun lit the endless blue sky until the point at which sky and sea became one. Our hearts, though sad from our early morning goodbyes, were lifted with the sails of the colorful little boats dotting the horizon. 

As the sharp curves of our road became more erratic, we looked ahead with childlike glee, knowing that awaiting us around each bend was a new stunning panorama of cliffs towering over sea. It was with such enthusiasm that we reached Amalfi, my neck sore from straining to see everything at once. We left the car with an expensive sea front view, and with our cameras in hand, we explored the lovely corners of Amalfi. We visited the Cattedrale di Sant'Andrea and eyed the remains of Saint Andrew suspiciously, waiting for manna to appear. We sampled sweet local lemon flavored pastries, we wandered quiet walkways and followed staircases to their end. I made the purchases of a shameless tourist, flavored salts and soaps, beautiful scarves of pastel cotton, tiny jars of preserves. We sniffed truffles, made wishes in tiny fountains, weighed giant lemons with our hands, took hundreds of photos. We played, and after a few hours, we climbed back into our little car and headed to the slightly quieter, less tourist infested nearby town of Minori.

As the day's shadows lengthened we walked unhurried, pushing aside thoughts of limited time, instead embracing an aimless afternoon next to the sea. Before accepting the inevitability of the day's end, we sat at a tiny seasonal pop up cafe, overlooking children playing loudly in the water's edge. I picked up the dainty spoon in front of me, dipping into the bowl of smooth lemon ice. I held the spoon languidly in my mouth as sweet warred with the intense sour of the lemon. My lips pursed as my taste buds sang, my tongue cold as my skin was warmed by the summer sun, and my heart took a photo. Moments later, I furtively glanced about  through lowered lashes, and seeing no one looking my way, I quickly slipped the small spoon into my purse.  

Today, I am on the other side of the world. Today, my thoughts may be full of students, Handel, Fauré and a head cold, today Chicago may be frigid enough to freeze damp hair and explode water bottles left in the car, today may be happening too quickly, smacking me already into tomorrow. But today, as I stir my tea, I do not forget. Today, I am holding Amalfi as a tiny spoon in my hand and for this moment, the lemons are so sweet.

My Husband has Skin of Brown.

Mary Grace has skin of white tinted gold, hinting at her Italian heritage generations back. Her skin tells a story of long summer days in her youth spent on the warm beaches of the Connecticut coastline. In her mid thirties, after discovering that she could not have children, she opened her heart and home, and she saved me. She stepped in as a mother at a time when my own was unable, and from her I learned the meaning of the words unconditional and compassionate. I also learned that one must always finish all of the cereal that one pours into a bowl. Mary Grace is a Christian in the most literal sense, following the bible as closely as she can. She fears many things, avoids many things, and often times, her fears are inconsistent with the willingness with which she has accepted my husband. However, when we sit down together at the dinner table, such things are irrelevant. Mary Grace is, has always been and will always be, the mother of my heart 

My husband has skin of brown. He is quite possibly, the same exact shade as the gingersnaps I bake each year for Christmas. He was born into the crowd and color of India but only a short year later, his family relocated to Bangkok for his father’s work. He had a childhood of freedom and mischief, running around the neighborhood with friends and basking in the constant love of his mother. He came to America for school, and quickly learned about the harshness of a midwestern winter while suffering from a lack of Thai street food. As a physical therapist, he has worked hard to make his patients stronger, and has become a friend and means of encouragement to the many who have been in his care. Though not quite American, he is most definitely American, and can often be found on his couch shouting at a football game.

Genevieve has skin of white, a flawless complexion to go with her stunning smile and long brown hair. She is thinly built, but with a deceptive strength. She has been hurt and she has been afraid, but she is so strong. She lives near Switzerland in the east of France and when discussing her hometown, she speaks with a pride similar to that of a proud mama. Upon asking her where to visit before a trip to Paris, her eyes focused far away and her voice grew wistful. “I had a moment,” she said, and proceeded to describe  emerging from a train station in central Paris, while a delicate snow blanketed the city under the soft glow of twilight street lamps.  She did not simply tell me a place to go, as most people would have. Instead she gave me her moment, an infinitely more valuable gift. 

Jim has skin of olive, dark hair and a perpetual mustache. As an ethnic Muslim Albanian, he came to America from a country that no longer exists. He worked as a line cook and through the years, worked his way up to being a contractor. He learned English quickly by simply trying and failing over and over again. He was a wonderful father to my younger brother and brought a sense of calm to a home that was so desperately in need.  From him I learned that mac 'n' cheese need not come from a box, that bread is not always sliced, but torn, that there is integrity in hard work and that though life may spin out of control, one can have the strength to build anew.  

Amelia has skin of brown and dark eyes that reflect kindness bred from a difficult past. She and her husband come from Guatemala and work incredibly hard to break a cycle of poverty in order that their children have opportunity and happiness.  Amelia struggles daily to live life in a language not her own. She and I met in an ESL class and conversed frequently in a mixture of horrifyingly bad Spanish and rapidly improving English. She has moved up to the next class, but each Saturday afternoon, her two children stampede like little elephants, up the steps to my apartment to learn piano, and to color pictures... pictures which are now taped to my fridge.

Esther has skin of white with a hint of olive, a gift from her mediterranean father, and her face shares features with her Jewish American mother. When she moved to America, she left her family in Brussels and Valencia and her boyfriend in England. She moved into my spare bedroom and from that point on, we learned. She learned that, no, she could not put me, her roommate, on her work health insurance, and I learned (or attempted to learn,) how to cut potatoes without a cutting board. I followed her to sushi shabbat as she endeavored to find a home synagogue in a new city, and she followed me to mass, where I cantored.  Together, we made Christmas cookies and Hamantaschen, we set up a Christmas tree and lit candles on the Menorah. (which the cat loved to sleep next to as we had decided to raise her Jewish) We went kosher for passover, eating far too many macaroons and we watched Fiddler on the Roof while singing along. We married within a year of each other, she to a Catholic man and I to a Hindu, thus permanently confusing the cat.

Sister Barbara has skin of white with a rosy rouge on her cheeks, Her white hair is closely cropped and her stride has slowed to a shuffle as the years have added to her wisdom. She wakes each day to do battle, to demand better of herself, her church and those around her. She slays her enemies not with hate, but with her heart and kisses cheeks indiscriminately. She kisses the dying, the healthy, the clean, the dirty, the strong, the fallen, the young, the old, the happy and the devastated. And if while kissing my husbands cheek, she happens to ask him, ”Do you works out?!”   Well... 

Samira has skin of brown with large kohl lined eyes. She is a strong, beautiful, independent woman with a loving husband and two adorable imps for daughters. She works hard to keep her family on track and reads every book she can find on raising children. She is confident in her career, and she balances time with skill that any planning manager would envy. She and I talk of our faith, comparing quirks and anecdotes of each and she wraps her love of God and freedom of speech around her in the form of a beautifully colorful hijab. After all, her religion is not the same as the one we hear of on the news.  As I look at how lovely she is, I wonder if I would be so brave were our roles reversed. 

I have skin of white, the kind of beige that if I leave off makeup for a day, people inquire after my health. I am Catholic, though I have a heretical view that God can be found in many names, through many paths. I adore my church, my community, my music, my students. I have everything I need, but still everyday, I fight my own battles. I battle fear and anxiety and I fear that the events of my daily life are small and shallow. I fear that I have no power to change anything in myself and in the world around me. I fear that I won’t write, that I won’t stand up for my opinion. I am afraid that my freedom of speech wouldn’t need to be taken from me, that instead I would toss it aside out of fear of disapproval. I fear that in the wake of recent events, there are those I love who may be less safe because they may pray in a different way or have skin of a different shade. 

We have freedom of speech, and so many have died to gift us this right. We have the right to speak hate and divisiveness and we have the right to speak love and unity. The choices we make point to our own true color. And so as time speeds and I find I may have more years behind than ahead, It becomes vitally important to me, that I use my gift of free speech to spread love. This is my personal war with fear and I am stepping up to the challenge. Each day I will work to be brave enough to smile and say hi to those who may be different from me. Each day, I will acknowledge that I do not know everything, that every person I meet can be my teacher. I will fight to make sure that the words from my mouth reflect the combined knowledge and grace of those I love. When I reach the end of my life, I want...  No... I NEED to look back and see that the story I have written is one full of love. This is the war I choose to wage. 

After all, 
Nous sommes Charlie, Nous sommes Ahmed, Nous sommes Mary Grace, Nous sommes Jim, Nous sommes Genvieve, Nous sommes Amelia, Nous sommes Esther, Nous sommes Samira and so on.. Nous sommes tous. 

We are everyone.

I am everyone.

Je suis tout le monde.

 

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..”