Story #6: Lost in Translation

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Lost in Translation

The physical space of the inside of the cathedral, the duomo, swallows up the frequent tourists. And I guess that’s what we were then – just tourists. Our first weekend in Italy begins on a Sunday at Mass, and we are unprepared for the temperature of the duomo. At home in the States, it’s appropriate to wear a nice dress to church with maybe a cardigan or a scarf. In Orvieto, one dresses for church as they would for a ski trip: hat, mittens, parka, maybe some long underwear. The lack of indoor heating in the stone buildings require a nice big sweater or two, but the massive duomo is even more arctic than any home or restaurant we’d experienced so far in Italy, only three days into our one hundred and ten day sojourn.

A man opens the door for us, giving a hurried buongiorno as we enter the space. Becky whispers something in my ear but it echoes around us. She hushes and our chilled cheeks blush. We shuffle to the back and sit down in the hard, cold plastic chairs. No one takes off his or her coat.

The priest is absent and older women in parkas continue to filter in through the heavy doors, taking seats in front of us. Metal chair legs screech across ancient stone flooring. Becky tries again to whisper in my ear, probably hoping that the murmurs of the two hundred people around us would drown out her voice this time: “How long do you think this is gonna last?” I turn and shrug, only thinking of every Sunday Mass I attended between birth and age fourteen. Catholic Mass lasted for eternity – and that was when eternity was in English. I pull my scarf around tighter and tuck my nose in, breathing deeply.

Incense. The priest files in with a line of deacons. The procession moves to the altar and the thick smoke of the incense filters out slowly and moves higher and rises into the vaulted ceiling.

A call and response, a prayer, sitting and rising from the plastic chairs that seem oddly modern in the marble and gold plaited cathedral. We follow along and play the part, shivering the whole time. The Lord’s Prayer: Padre nostro (che sei nei cieli sia santificato il tuo nome). The words are lost on me but the pauses, the rhythms, sound familiar to what I’d memorized in Catholic Sunday School. My second grade self stepping into my First Communion dress, Mom quizzing me on the Lord’s Prayer as she fixed the crisp white flowers in my hair. Our Father… who art in heaven. Heart in heaven? Art in heaven? Hello-ed be thy name. I never really cared whether it was art or heart or a new word, heartinheaven. I knew that First Communion meant money and a party – two things that seemed even better than heaven.

The echoes of the Padre Nostro carry on long after the priest continues in the service. Hundreds of amen’s drift throughout the duomo and are lost in the towers, the high windows, and the side chapels. I shuffle my feet, rub my mittened hands together. Is indoor heating really not a thing here? Although we were told of the frozen temperatures, I thought “below zero” would be reserved for walking around outside, not sitting in an enclosed building.

Although this wasn’t just any building – a cathedral, built in the center of this hilltop town to house a relic. I thought relics were just body parts and clothing of Catholic saints – but my mediocre Sunday School knowledge proved wrong. This relic, the “Miracle of Bolsena,” displayed in one of the side chapels, is a cloth stained with the blood of the Eucharist from 1263. An ancient priest didn’t believe in transubstantiation, but when the wine turned to blood in the shape of Christ’s face on the cloth, he instantly became a believer.

My teeth chatter and I clench them – hoping no one can hear. Communion, the Lord’s Supper begins. Our program director motions for us to stay seated. A few students look peeved; annoyed that Catholic communion is reserved for Catholics only – a detail that was briefly mentioned to us during breakfast at the monastery this morning. I wonder if my Catholic baptism and first communion make me special. Maybe I could go up for communion. Fear of the wrath of the older Italian ladies in front of me and the possible judgment of my peers, I remain seated.

The priest and his procession move down the altar and exit. We stretch, shake our frozen arms and legs, then gather together for a quick tour of the side chapel with the relic. We shuffle – in tourist fashion – toward the front and lean in. The tanned cloth is framed on the altar. But, no blood. I look around for another framed cloth. This can’t be it. But I thought… I thought… Everyone else listens to our director’s whispered explanation about the relic and how the blood is stained in the shape of Jesus’ face. I glance over to Becky and then back at Laura. But… where is the blood? Doubt seeps its way from my mind to my face as I feel my eyebrows and my disbelief rise. No one looks at me, though. They all look at the face of Jesus while my blind eyes see nothing but a rag in a frame

Our professor’s whispers carry through the small space and suddenly the guard appears, ready to reprimand the noise in this silent place of reverence. We disperse and pause here and there to admire, appreciate the ancient art. I lap around and approach the Miracle of Bolsena again, squinting harder this time, searching for the connection that I must have overlooked. But everyone else understands, nods, and moves on. More cold air rushes in as our group heaves open the stone doors, ready to leave. I tuck my hands into my coat pocket and follow the believers.