Orvieto

I

Pigeons race around tufa edge –

inventing an ancient obligation

to guard invisible fences, shooing

feathered neighbors. They cling

to the beam with prideful

waddles. Little legs grip

onto weeds growing from rock

growing from fortress. Hundredth

generation pigeons in Orvieto

defend and demand a small square

footage of stone – just because

their Etruscan ancestors formed

this place with their bare claws.

II

A lion guards the arches

at Fontana del Leone – birds crawl

over his quiet body as he gazes out

toward the landscape. He greets

runners and the occasional car

with a mild roar and his small

kitten paws. The pigeons sit on

his furry head – they’re in charge now.

Hands stretch over the cliff

to feel if this is real – to believe

the view is not simply a backdrop

with recorded sounds of car horns

and rushing trains. Mountains drop

down and rolling hills peppered

with poppies act casual, as if all

landscapes look this good without trying.

III

Time stops under the arch. We climb

up a stream of cobblestones and move

into the arched cave. Clocks freeze here,

all thoughts of home are left at the base.

Unhurried steps move through ancient streets.

Days blur together and seasons lose meaning.

The arch has no gate or bars to keep time out,

but we abandon it in the grass before entering.

It begins again. Weaving through narrow

streets, the escape through the arch brings us

back to time. We pick up our bags, stuff time

into our suitcases. Watches furiously tick as we race

down funicular tracks and onto crowded trains.

Parking lot car horns, trains in arrivo and partenza

move onto the landscape backdrop and then travel on –
bringing people to work, home, the new, the familiar.

Travel Journal: Day #12 (Orvieto, Italy)

our third gelato trip of the day

journaling by the duomo

watching the sunset at Via del Popolo

Slavik at Montanucci's

with Professor Doll!

Wednesday, July 9, 2014

I can't even begin to explain the excitement of this morning. Waking up with the light coming in through the hotel window, jumping out of bed to open the huge glass windows (without screens - why don't they believe in screens here?) and peeking out at the street below. If there's a theme for these few days in Orvieto it's déjà vu. Even the towels in the hotel bathroom smell just like the fresh towels in the monastery (they probably use the same cleaning service) and I quickly change and lace up my sneakers, tying the hotel room key into my laces. I peek in Mom and Dad's room and tell them that all be back. They look momentarily worried about my safety but they didn't want to stop me. I flip through my phone to find my favorite running playlist from a year and a half ago. It's crazy how music can just bring you back and one song can bring back memories from where you were when you were listening to that song last. 

I leave the hotel and turn down the familiar route. It's early enough that the streets aren't crowded yet with the typical July tourists. I turn this way and that, trying to go down my favorite streets, all my favorite shortcuts. Trying to see everything and take it all in while I can. Eventually I make it to Via del Popolo (see it here), the long stretch of road that runs down the entire (short) length of one side of Orvieto. This is where you can find the most beautiful sunsets, where you can sit down on the benches and look out over lower Orvieto, where you can go for a pre-dinner walk with a friend and vent about the days frustrations or say the clichéd phrases "I can't believe we LIVE here! In Orvieto! We are so lucky!" Long story short, Via del Popolo is where it all happens and I continued to jog before stopping at one of the benches, sitting down. Then I stood up and looked over the edge of Orvieto. Then I was jogging again. But then the view was so beautiful! So I took a picture. Then sat down again. Let's just say this run was more therapeutic than an actual 30 minute workout. I meandered back to the main corso eventually, feeling refreshed and giddy and excited to show everyone around Orvieto some more. 

On my way back to the hotel, I passed Professor Skillen (again), drinking a cappuccino. I was quickly reminded of how small Orvieto is. Returning to Hotel Duomo, I quickly showered and woke up Emily and Michael (how were they STILL sleeping!? Didn't they know we had exciting things to do and see?). We ate some breakfast in the hotel dining room and I had another cappuccino that was so good I could've cried. I didn't cry but I wouldn't put it past myself.

We meandered down the corso and popped into a few shops here and there. We were supposed to meet Professor Doll at Montanucci’s at 10am. Emily, Mom, and I were walking out of a shop when I heard my dad’s booming voice. Who could he be talking to? He doesn’t know anyone here. He can’t even talk to strangers because they probably won’t speak English. So why is his voice echoing through the street and what is he laughing at?! I race out of the jewelry store and there’s Prof Doll! TALKING TO MY DAD! Like they were old pals!!!!! It was the strangest thing and I was like “Prof Doll!” and then we hugged and I just couldn’t believe it! How did he know that was my dad and brother? I mean Orvieto isn’t swarming with Americans with Wernig noses in Gordon t-shirts so I guess Prof Doll quickly realized who my dad and brother were. But still. It was all very dramatic and exciting.

We headed into Montanucci’s, ordered some cappuccini and croissants and sat upstairs in the outdoor seating area. My family and Prof Doll! I still couldn’t believe it. We told him about our trip so far, my parents were talking about their newfound dream of teaching abroad, asking Prof Doll if there are schools in Orvieto (no ulterior motives here, I swear) and I told him about my senior year and what my plans were for the fall. He told us about his family's new dog and their move to the new home. I gave him a copy of my senior honors thesis and also a print from Becky's senior show that she wanted me to give him. It was so wonderful to just chat and spend time together. My dad dropped a few not-so-subtle hints about how Emily will want to apply to the Orvieto program in a few years. 

We soon made our way to the monastery, and it was probably the weirdest part of the entire trip. I kind of lingered in the back of the tour, looking at the different pieces of art hanging on the walls, from students that weren't in my semester. My group was the first group to live in the newly renovated monastery, so it was pretty empty during the first few weeks/months that we lived there. By the end, there was artwork on the walls from MY class but it was weird to see the monastery over a year later. The furniture was rearranged and there were a few other differences. I'm so glad that my family could see where I lived but it was hard to be there without my friends and the people that made it seem like home! 

Prof Doll was so busy that day as his family was in the process of moving, so he had to leave soon. My dad took a picture of us together and then we all crossed the courtyard together and barely made it to the gate before I burst into tears and could barely say anything to him. He mentioned that he was sorry he had to go and I wanted to thank him for showing us around but I couldn't even squeak anything out! I was too busy crying. Even after he left, I tried to bring my family to La Musa for gelato. Emily and I got granita di cafe which is shaved iced coffee with whipped cream but I couldn't even taste it, I was too busy crying into my cup. The whole first part of our time in Orvieto was so exciting and I was in total tour guide mode, but something about seeing Prof Doll and the monastery (without my friends and their artwork) was so hard! It's easy to feel possessive of the monastery and the Orvieto program in general which i know is so silly because hundreds of students have gone to Orvieto. But everyone want's their semester to be the best semester. :) It was just strange to think that there were other students in the monastery and other students eating granita di caffe con panna (this post is where I tried this for the first time!). Anyways, it was the weirdest feeling but I'm so glad we could spend time with Prof Doll and that my family could see one of my homes!

In the afternoon, we did a little more shopping around town. I impulsively bought this blouse while I was still crying (it's fine though because it's cute). We went back to the hotel to rest for a bit before Emily and I went to the new burger place that my dad and Michael went to an hour before and they were RAVING about it. Emily and I finished our burger and fries (you'd think we were at a McDonalds and not in Italy) and then we headed to the duomo. We took some pictures, met up with the rest of the crew, then went to on a tour of the Orvieto underground tunnels. When we got back to Hotel Duomo, I grabbed my journal and went to sit out in front of the duomo to journal. It was so relaxing to just sit there and sketch, and write down a few thoughts - sitting in the same spot that I used to sit when I would write poems for my Ekphrasis Poetry class. We would go to the duomo and take notes about the carvings, the statues, and the biblical stories sketched on the outside and on the duomo doors. 

Before heading back to the hotel, I went to buy a small bottle of wine from the nice older man that always asked how I was in Italian. I tried my hardest to exchange a few small talk phrases and I think it worked because he smiled and then helped me pick out a nice small bottle to take home in my suitcase. We would always come to his shop to buy some nice small loaves of bread and pesto for our picnic lunches. 

I went back to the hotel and checked my email to see if Alessandro emailed me back. He said that they were having preghiera (the charismatic Catholic worship) that night at 6pm and that I should come! We were supposed to get Charlie's Pizza at that time but I rushed over to preghiera and was able to be there for at least 45 minutes or so before it was time to go back and bring my family to dinner. I sat right up front and chatted with Alessandro before worship began, making plans to see him for breakfast in the morning. A few people came over to shake my hand and introduced themselves to me, and when I said "Megan" they would nod and be like "Ah, americana." Anyways, it was so good to see Alessandro and just sit in the church and listen to the worship songs in Italian, humming along and trying to follow along when Alessandro's mother handed me the lyric book. 

I picked up my family at the hotel and we ventured to Charlie's Pizza, each ordering our own pizza to go. We started to walk toward sunset park before we realized that they didn't cut the pizza and we couldn't find any napkins or knives! So we bought some napkins and drinks at a shop and then continued to walk toward the park. We relaxed, ate pizza, and enjoyed the view. There was a high school couple making out and they were probably peeved that we set up camp with our pizzas right next to them. Nothing could keep us away from the sunset. I changed my mind mid-sunset and decided that it might be nice to watch the sunset by Via del Popolo too (can you tell that I'm obsessed with Via del Popolo?). We raced over there to catch the second half of the sunset, and it was just as beautiful. When you're only in Orvieto for two days, you have to catch the sunset multiple times to make the sunsets last longer! :)

We went to get gelato for the third time today (first we had granita di caffe during my sobfest, then Emily and I went again after burgers, so this was defffffinitely the third time). We went back to the place where we saw them make gelato the day before. We walked back to the duomo to see it at night again, then went back to the hotel to pack up our stuff. Dad, Emily, Michael, and I went out to see the World Cup game since Federico had mentioned that we should go see it. We tried to find Federico but didn't see him, so then we went to Montanucci's and chatted with Slavik and I ordered a mojito (I've never found a mojito as good as Slavik's!). We sat for a while before making our way back to the duomo and took a few MORE pics of the duomo. Seriously, it's so beautiful at night! I was so glad that we stayed in Hotel Duomo and we could see it all the time. I finished up packing and set my alarm to get up early to go to meet Alessandro for breakfast. Such a long day but our time in Orvieto was so short! 

Travel Journal: Day #11 (Orvieto, Italy)

inside the duomo

my phone took this quality picture while I was running

view from the clocktower!

gelato with Emily :) 

Orvieto streets at night

Tuesday, July 8, 2014

We woke up at different times during the night – no one slept well at all! Dad was looking out the window and said “Meg! Is that it?” Orvieto was in the distance. I smiled and nodded, “Yes, that’s it.” It was so surreal – the whole day was. We took the funicular up from lower Orvieto to upper Orvieto, walked up Corso Cavour, immediately ran into Professor Skillen, his wife, and Nathaniel. We dropped our bags off at the hotel and went to Montanucci’s for cappuccini and pastries. We then bought carta unicas (“Keys to the City”) and walked to Federico’s shop. Federico did a double take when I walked in and then said, “OH! Ciao bella!” He had my bag all ready for me (I had emailed his wife, Hannah, a few weeks ago and ordered another leather bag). We chatted for a bit and he told us to come back later for a gelato run. We went to the palazzo, did some shopping, went to the duomo, and then ate pizza in Sunset Park. We went up the clock tower, went back to Federico’s shop for a gelato break, and he took us to the new gelato place. We got to go in the back of the shop and watch Zora make the gelato! Federico and Nathaniel had to go but we stayed for a few minutes and got to eat a cup of the fresh strawberry gelato. It was soooo good. Normally I love the chocolate/coffee gelato flavors and I don’t like the fruit ones as much (I mean, there’s still delicious but not really my go-to flavors).

We went back to Federico’s to ask for a few dinner recommendations before returning to the hotel. Mom, Emily, and Michael took naps while Dad and I sat outside and talked with an older couple. Soon it was time for dinner and we went to the place next to the duomo. It was kind of awkward because we were the only ones in there but the food was good. Dad and I unintentionally split a bottle of wine, Emily and I had cacio e pepe (MY FAVORITE!). Dad, Emily, and I then went to the cat park – just a grassy area with ten cats just hanging out. It was a little chilly by that time of night but still comfortable. We then sat on the hotel balcony for a while before watching a little of the Germany/Brazil game (7-1) before going to bed. Seriously, the whole day was a sort of surreal dream! 

Story #1: Roman Exile

Orvieto train station

Roman Exile

            I am lost in a world known as the Roma Termini train station – two months into my semester abroad, still posing as the ultimate stranger in a country of foreign words, customs, and clothing. Feeling alone on a train filled with people traveling from Rome to Florence on a Sunday night, I leave my seat to shuffle down the aisle, searching for my Orvieto group. We were split up amongst the train cars after a frantic run through Roma Termini to catch the last train home after a long day at our first Roma football match.

            I make my way through the narrow aisle, self-conscious as usual, concerned that I might bump into the wrong old Italian lady. But even with my valiant efforts to avoid touching anyone who may be spilling into the aisle, I still had to dodge the glares and condescending glances at my running sneakers and inappropriate running tights. I mean I knew these tights would bring the normal amount of Italian judgment upon me but the combination of a monastery laundry schedule and my lack of pants options left me no choice. I continue to stare at the ground, praying that Laura and Becky might be in the next car so my unfashionable walk of shame could end – or at least I would have the company of friends for the journey back to my seat. I try to squeeze by a family, only to be stopped by a shout: “ROMA! Roma!” A boy crawls out of his mother’s lap to stand on the seat next to her in order to get a better view of me. He waves his hands wildly, grabs his jacket and rips it open in the most Superman-like way, holding it wide, then pointing at me, with the top of our matching maroon shirts showing under my jacket.

            I smile back, ignoring the stares as I gesture to my shirt as well: “Sí, Sí! Roma. Roma. Sí!” He jumps up and down on the seat (which unimpresses his mother even more) and the boy’s friends peer over to grin at me as well, all saying “Roma!” I continue down the aisle, grinning like an American fool in running tights. I find Becky and Laura, and the three of us continue back to my original seat. We pass my little friend again and I’m unsure, uncertain as to whether I should smile or wave at him again or if his mother would be concerned that I am not only unfashionable but perhaps a kidnapper too. He doesn’t see me at first but his friends poke him and they point at me, whispering “Roma, Roma.” He jumps up again to smile and wave as I pass. Again, I can’t think of anything else to say other than “Sí! Sí!” I know I have more Italian vocabulary than that but I can’t think of anything, feeling so distant from a language that I can only sometimes understand.

But this little voice and waving arms breaks through the stares of foreign faces lining the train and suddenly my borrowed t-shirt makes me the ultimate Roma fan, now part of a gang of eight-year-olds who smile and wave even after I leave the train car and glance back to see if they’re still watching me. They are. Words enter the silence but they aren’t words I recognize. Foreign sounds bring me back into a world that I currently feel so exiled from – me, in my running pants and American demeanor, feeling abandoned until I hear the voice of a miniature football fan, in words that I don’t understand but with a smile that is unmistakably welcoming. 

Story #3: Distance Run

Distance Run

3.03 miles: the distance I travel to escape the monastery, to abandon all community commitments and passive aggressive comments about the cleaning schedule. Orvieto is a small town, but the monastery is even smaller. On this Monday afternoon, avoiding my nineteen other peers proved impossible as I bump into a few in the kitchen, a few more in the sala, another three in the classroom. And in each room, there is someone from my cleaning group, ready to comment on how my hands are holding my iPod instead of a mop from the cleaning closet. Yes, yes! I’ll do it later. I know, I know. Yeah… I’ll do it.

            Before lunch, the entirety of our hour-long chapter meeting is spent discussing the cleaning schedule for the monastery and the new rotation for the week. I sit, listen, and clutch my growling stomach and while I contemplate my hatred of mopping stone floors covered in dust. My crankiness increases as chapter meeting continues and Professor Doll gives another concluding passage from Nouwen: The careful balance between silence and words, withdrawal and involvement, distance and closeness, solitude and community forms the basis of the Christian life and should therefore be the subject of our most personal attention.

I’m silent. I’m distant when I cross the monastery courtyard and ignore a shout from the window above: “Hey Megan – I’ll leave the mop over here for you when you get back.” The speed of my steps increase as I pass through the iron gate and (accidentally) slam it behind me, breaking into a run as I turn the corner down the main corso. A few conservative Italians disdainfully glance at my radical running pants, probably wondering what the blue lettering of “Gordon Field Hockey” means on my grey t-shirt. But Gordon Field Hockey is what I need to return to in a few months, fit and ready to lead as a captain – days of gelato and pasta won’t get me there, though.

My Asics strike the cobblestones and I eventually slow and then quickly cross the street, making my way closer to the stone archway that separates the countryside from the cliff of the town. I just barely make it past an older couple, a few tourists, and a biker, before I reach the steep path and gasp. Huge tears escape my red eyes and my pace changes to a slow jog, coughing and gasping as I sob. My chest heaves and my eyes sting, blurring my vision as I trip on a loose cobblestone. Mondays. Even in Italy, Mondays are the worst.

Guilt seeps in at once as I mentally complain about my troubles, because I know that at the end of the day, I’ll receive emails and messages from friends and family asking about how wonderful my study abroad experience must be, one month into the program. Here I am, sobbing on the outskirts of Orvieto, completely failing at my plan to complete a good workout before dinner – and cleaning.  

Is this solitude? Crying on foreign cobblestones, wondering where God’s now absent-voice is and questioning if my relationship with Him was left in America, back in the churches with open communion and English sermons. I long for friends that know me, for people that really understand me. I don’t want to pretend to be interested in the weekly cleaning schedule or work through any community problems. My silence, my distance, they amplify my anger and I crave something different. I don’t want to go home, but I miss the idea of comfort, of contentment in friendships. This task of building nineteen other relationships overwhelms my introverted self, as there is always a friendship to work on. At breakfast, at lunch, at dinner – with every bite of pasta comes a new basic question about my major, my siblings, and my home state. I’ll politely smile and then immediately check to see if there’s anything in my teeth, anxious to scare away my new friends.

I reach the opposite side of Orvieto and begin the slow turn around the hilltop town, making my way to the long stretch of cliff that will lead me back. What am I supposed to tell my parents when they message me tonight: Italy is great. I skipped cleaning and cried about how much I want to come home. Oh, and I feel lonely even when I’m surrounded by other people.

I turn onto the long, paved walking path and my breath catches. I pull my headphones from my ears and move closer to the edge of the cliff, leaning on the stonewall. Knowing that my iPhone could never do it justice, my now dry eyes widen and I try my best to memorize what I know will eventually become a blurry memory, stuck in my journal simply as “I saw the best sunset EVER!!!” I try to turn away and finish my route, but I continue to look back as the unreal landscape sits as a photo shoot backdrop. Even better than the best Google images search for a “sunset desktop pic” couldn’t rival these colors on the cliffs of Via del Popolo – one of the only streets in Orvieto reserved for pedestrians. Or in my case, reserved for runners who are avoiding their community cleaning duties.

I jog on and reach the basement studio of the monastery and knock on the door – I never run with my front door key. Tyler opens the door and shouts “Ciao Zmeg!” (A nickname they had given me after the Italian refrigerator company, Zmeg). I quickly move through the studio and up the stairs, feeling refreshed but still slightly apprehensive about bumping into anyone from my cleaning group in the halls. I dart into the kitchen for some water – much needed after my tears and sweat.

“Megan! We’ve been waiting for you! Let’s have tea time now, we made you a cappuccino.” Laura grins and motions for me to move into the refectory to sit with her, Sara, and Jenna. Jenna pulls out a chair for me and Sara passes the biscotti. I smile and thank her, feeling ready to rejoin – the best conclusion for a 3.03 mile exile from home. 

Story #6: Lost in Translation

Tim Miller's photo

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.

Story #8: Ancient Studio

Ancient Studio

I cut up the brochures, the train tickets, the maps and the leftover paper. Into perfect rectangles – I cut them all. Uncut paper in the left corner, cut paper on the right, my sewing supplies by my right hand, glue and paintbrush by my left.

I count the stacks of mixed paper and section them out, punching holes for the binding to come. I thread the needle (on the third try) and sew the papers together to form a tight stack for the middle of the scrapbooked journal. Now, for the best part – the covers. I drag out the old paint and peel off the dried remnants of the last artist – squeezing out as much of the paint as I can, rolling it out like leftover toothpaste. I wait. The paint dries.

Ariel and Tyler run down the stairs to the studio and interrupt my silence. They quickly toss a “Hey, Megan” in my direction and continue on to rummage through the supply shelves. I sigh and silently complain about monastery life, intentional communities, and shared living spaces. I retire from my crafts for the afternoon and organize my area, already impatient to continue working on my books, with wet paint that will takes ages to dry in the monastery’s studio basement.

Maybe I am an artist now. A new identity found in cutting, gluing, pasting, painting, creating. My rigorous study abroad schedule of poetry classes and Renaissance Narrative leaves some time for me to be an artist in the studio – or at least pretend to be one amongst real art majors. The walls, the ceiling – this cold, damp space makes me feel like an artist with frescoes above me and then stone walls around me. The faded, red stars on the decaying ceiling crumbles here and there, serving as a constant source of grief for our program director because art isn’t supposed on fall down onto the desks like that. It’s an artist’s space.

Our necks are always sore here in Italy. We enter churches, cathedrals, duomos, and the first body motion is to crane our heads back and look up. The first time I realized I had a weak neck was two months ago before arriving in Orvieto until our first trip to the duomo, the cathedral. The second time I understood (and was fascinated by) paintings on ceilings was in the darkest corners of a Roman underground grave. It was the same there, too: the detail, the holes and cracks, the pieces falling.

At first, that underground cemetery was just another stop on our busy itinerary in Rome – the Catacomb of Priscilla is a quarry that was used for Christian burials from the late second century through the fourth century. I understood it as just another destination to see before it was time to travel back home to Orvieto, and disappear to our separate rooms on the fourth day of traveling together. We wait in the entryway, sandwiched between a middle school tour group and then what looked like a retirement home outing. Finally, our turn. A petite nun emerges from the underground cemetery – a catacomb – and motions for us to follow her down into the caves. She gives a small smile at our hesitation and motions us forward once again – leaving us to wondering whether she could actually speak or maybe she wasn’t going to bother with Italian words we most likely won’t understand. We weave through the dark and bump into each other, whispering and trying to sneak a picture or two. Burial places of early popes, saints, and martyrs adorned with Christian symbols cause us to linger and then hurry along to ensure we aren’t the last one in the group, left in the dark. Suddenly the dates on the tombs just become a small number: “Oh, the fourth century? That’s old I guess.”

The silent nun, whom we named “Sister Mystery,” leads us down to the locked cave where words are left at the gate and silence fills the small, crowded space. Candles rest in corners and illuminate the low ceiling, etchings of color in scenes of Noah, the Annunciation, the three wise men, the prophet Isaiah, the Good Shepherd. The world's oldest-known image of Mary depicts her nursing the infant Jesus from the 3rd century. An artist chose this space to bring Biblical names to visual life. Set here on this ceiling solely for the Christians buried here to rest. The artist didn’t know that tour groups would move in and out, trying to make out a face here, a scene here, wondering whether that was Jesus or Joseph or if that painting over there is a lamb or a dog. But we don’t discuss the features of the aged markings, staying silent for a while.

Professor Doll suggests that we sing the doxology – what I’ve come to realize as a prayer to be sung when words fail but the moment still begs for voices to join together and praise. Sister Mystery closes her eyes and sings in Italian while we whisper at first, voices rising gently: Praise God from whom all blessings flow. It’s soft and slightly broken – people lose their breath for a few seconds before continuing on, sort of singing in a round of lost breath as voices move in and out of the group’s combined song. An artist’s work of red and dark green paint, fading and crumbling down as our voices rise. 

Story #9: The Risen Sun

Easter morning, 2014

Easter morning, 2013

The Risen Sun

            The speakers boom around us – they’re not blaring loud music but rather the Easter message from Pope Francis. I run through the crowd with my Orvieto roommate, Becky, and my cousin’s boyfriend, Jon. I hadn’t seen Heather in ten years (since she moved to Rome) but when we were reunited only yesterday, I knew we must be cousins. Heather had warned us about the crowds in St. Peter’s on Easter morning, but a few too many snooze buttons and a missed train left us running through the masses even catch a glimpse of Papa Francesco – the new pope in Rome.

            We nudge our way through families and middle-aged women, swarms of nuns and older men. I grab onto the back of Becky’s coat as she pulls me through. Even though it’s the beginning of April, we’re still wearing our winter coats in Italy.            

            Jon leads us through, trying to get us closer to the piazza of St. Peter’s so we can hopefully see the pope before he ends his message and returns inside the basilica. As an American tour guide in Rome, Jon’s short Italian phrases for excuse me and pardon us help us out, but the sheer numbers of the crowd keep us on the outskirts. Jon shouts over the people that separate us from him – “The pope… he’s talking about… Easter and how… the resurrection…”

            Someone pushes Becky out of the way to move forward and we immediately check her purse, her pockets, to make sure nothing was stolen. Jon continues to translate the message for us, but suddenly the crowd cheers and Papa Francesco waves, moving back inside. Jon shrugs and asks if we want to grab something to eat on our way back to my cousin’s apartment on the other side of Rome. I want to know what the pope said about Easter. What was he telling us? I barely knew enough Italian to order a plate of pasta, let alone understand an Easter message full of church lingo and doctrine. I just knew that Buona Pasqua! meant Happy Easter! We follow our personal tour guide away from St. Peter’s Square and away from the new Pope’s Easter message.

***

            With weak knees and dizzy heads, we grab onto the last rocks that separate us from the mountaintop and heave ourselves up through the narrowed path. But we aren’t the only ones with the clever idea to hike Mt. Major on Easter morning. Even at 5:53am, we can’t hide our heavy breathing and stumbling feet from the eight people standing at the top of the mountain, all staring at us as we clamber up the last ridge.

            “Oh… Sorry! Sorry!” Ginny, Caroline, and I scramble to get out of their iPhone pictures of the sunrise. Didn’t they know that the picture wouldn’t even compare to the real thing? We move next to the hikers and take turns sipping from our shared water bottle. I stand up on the rock fort behind them and accidentally kick their stuff, almost knocking a bag of moss onto the frozen ground. We make it just in time, thankful that we left my house at 4:30am to drive around the lake from Gilford to Alton where we made our way up the mountain right as the sun, bright orange, begins to rise over the Lakes Region in New Hampshire.

            Hopping down from the rock ledge, the three of us grab our water and move away to a more secluded spot. Caroline spread outs a blanket and Ginny opens up her Bible to John 20: “Early on Sunday morning, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene came to the tomb and found that the stone had been rolled away from the entrance…” She stops reading as we look at each other. Something smells… kind of weird… like skunk. We look over to our hiker friends and I realize that I didn’t accidentally kick over their bag of moss, but their bag of pot. Is this how people some people celebrate Easter? Do they smoke before they go and eat all their Easter candy? After a few confused looks at each other, we realize that it’s not only Easter on this Sunday morning but it’s April 20th, also known as smoke-pot day, “4/20.”

            Ginny continues to read: “He asked her, ‘Woman, why are you crying? Who is it you are looking for?’ Thinking Jesus was the gardener, she said, ‘Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have put him, and I will get him.’ Jesus said to her, ‘Mary.’”

The smoke blows and the morning wind carries it to us, even though we are facing away from the others. We pull the blanket closer and continue: “Mary turned toward him and cried out in Aramaic, ‘Rabboni!’ (which means “Teacher”). Jesus said, ‘Do not hold on to me, for I have not yet ascended to the Father. Go instead to my brothers and tell them, ‘I am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.’” Loud 4/20 laughter breaks through our Easter reverence and Ginny closes the Bible. Our cold bodies press together as we sit in community, watching the smoke –  and the sun –  rise together.

Story #11: Clockwork

the last morning on the duomo steps

Clockwork

Time stopped under the arch. We climbed up a stream of cobblestones and move into the hollowed town. Clocks are frozen here, all thoughts of home are left at the base – or at least they were for four months. Days blurred together and seasons lost meaning. The arch has no gate or bars to keep time out, but we abandoned it in the grass before entering.

Now, our last morning in Orvieto was spent under the arch that separates the town from the narrow road that leads to the train station. Sleepy eyes strain to watch the last sunrise we’d see from this hilltop town. Crankiness and sadness overcome what was originally supposed to be a fun time as we fell asleep last night saying, “Let’s watch the sunrise before we leave for the airport!” The sun rose but so did our crankiness, our sadness. What was supposed to be a rejuvenating sunrise was just a reminder of what we would miss. Laura and I would be on the East Coast this evening while Sara would return to California. We make our way back through the arch, climbing up the steep cobblestone road to bring us back to our half-packed suitcases.

“I want to go to the duomo,” I break the silence with my demand to see the cathedral one last time.

“Oh… Megan, I think we wanted to go back to eat breakfast.” They look at each other and nod. I’m immediately annoyed at their inability to understand that I wanted to walk through Orvieto one last time. I didn’t want to go back to the monastery to have my hundred and tenth bowl of cornflakes. My last glimpse of Orvieto was going to be the duomo, not the dish rack in the monastery kitchen.

I sigh okay, bye and slowly move onto the side street, the shortcut. Waiting for them to change their minds, I look back only to see them link arms and turn up the main road to the monastery. I turn back to the shortcut and start to run. I have to maximize my time and visually memorize everything in Orvieto – and I only had about fifteen minutes to do it before we meet for the airport.

Hurried steps move through ancient streets and here I am, crying on foreign cobblestones again. But this time it isn’t because I want to go home, this time it is because I wanted to stay. To stay in this place where my biggest problem is whether to get gelato before or after dinner or both. Where we drink cappuccinos more than we drink water and where a quick walk can bring us from the monastery courtyard to the outer cliff of Orvieto, stealing our breath and slowing our pace to watch the trains. This place where we are so distracted by the ancient architecture and beauty that we crane our necks and trip on wobbly cobblestones.

I’m almost there. I’m the only sign of life on the deserted street so I run in the middle, tripping on an occasional loose cobblestone or two. I look around to see if anyone’s noticed, but of course no one’s here. I trust that a rogue Fiat won’t zoom out from around the corner to flatten me against the side of a neighbor’s doorstep. I approach the duomo from the side, still in the shade, and then make my way to the front. The sunrise light has just reached here. The first light the duomo’s seen today. I linger for a moment, deciding if I should really make this a thing and stay for a whole five minutes by myself. But this is the last time I’ll see the duomo! I need to remember it! I feel alone though, missing Sara and Laura.

A stray dog breaks the silence with a bark and a growl and suddenly I’m running again, wondering if this will not only be my last day in Orvieto but my last day on earth if this dog starts to chase me. My athletic façade is really just that – a façade and although I’m definitely a flight (instead of fight) kind of girl, that doesn’t mean my flight is fast enough to preserve my own life. The dog continues to bark and moves closer for a few steps, before turning back to a stray pigeon. I’m still sprinting away as if this is some sort of race to the death. I could see it now, written in newspapers at home: “study abroad student mauled by small terrier in Italy.”

I run down the main street now, its slight slope downward causes my sneakers to smack down on the stones and I feel as if I’m falling, catching myself with every step. I slow in front of the family restaurant where we eat – where we ate – all of our meals. I want to remember this too. I stand in front of it for half a second before realizing that the dog could’ve abandoned it’s pigeon and might still be after me. I continue my frantic run through the abandoned streets and finally reach the monastery gate, huffing and puffing, clutching my side. I’m late. My classmates are dragging their suitcases out of the iron-gated courtyard, asking where I’ve been and why I’m sweating and why I’m not ready to go right now. 6:30 a.m. – I’m late, I know.

We’ve shared life together and now it’s time to hug and say goodbye, whispering promises to see each other again someday. Already looking forward to joyful reunions to make up for painful goodbyes. Time begins again. Weaving through narrow streets, the escape through the arch brings us back to time. We’ve packed up our bags, stuffed the study abroad experience into our suitcases. We’ve done life together – prepared meals, argued over cleaning schedules, cried with each other for tragedies at home, a place so far from here. Watches furiously tick as we race down funicular tracks and onto the crowded bus. Parking lot car horns, trains in arrivo and partenza enter into the landscape backdrop and then travel on, as we make our way on tracks that may or may not intersect again. 

Community & Solitude: An English Honors Thesis

"Community and Solitude, Words and Silence: A Nouwen-Inspired Journey"

Inspiration for this creative writing project was drawn from Henri Nouwen’s Out of Solitude, which is one of the books that shaped my experience in Orvieto, Italy. Nouwen writes, "The careful balance between silence and words, withdrawal and involvement, distance and closeness, solitude and community forms the basis of the Christian life… Let us therefore look somewhat closer, first at our life in action, and then our life in solitude."

Using examples from my home in New Hampshire, my home in Orvieto, and other places that may be unconventional “homes” such as a field hockey field or summers on the lake, these nonfiction stories are some of the most transformative experiences in my life. A few stories are about family times while others are about growing spiritually, but all of these pieces are situated in both place and relationship.

I will be posting different stories from the collection. I'm not sure if I will post all of the stories (there are 12 in total) because of the people and situations involved, but I will definitely post some of my favorites. :)

This is the full Henri Nouwen quote. I would've quoted the whole book - since it's so short - but I especially love this part: 

"Somewhere we know that without silence words lose their meaning, that without listening speaking no longer heals, that without distance closeness cannot cure. Somewhere we know that without a lonely place our actions quickly become empty gestures. The careful balance between silence and words, withdrawal and involvement, distance and closeness, solitude and community forms the basis of the Christian life… Let us therefore look somewhat closer, first at our life in action, and then our life in solitude."

Italy prep

My mom picked these up at the library... I've only looked at one of them yet.  There's too much to learn!

I'm pretty sure that everyone at home assumes that I've dropped out of college. When they see me at the grocery store, working at the Youth Center, or running other errands, they say, "So... what're you doing these days? Are you going back to school?" Then I quickly explain that yes, I'm going back - well, I'm not going back to Gordon this Spring - but I'm going to Italy. Then usually then respond with "Oh, are you doing anything there?" (probably wondering why I'm not in school but I'm going on a vacation in Italy for four months) I then continue to hurriedly explain that I'm taking classes there... I just have a suuuuuper long break. 

So even though I still have a month until I leave on February 22nd, I feel like I'm going to leave any day now because it's all I ever think about and the only thing people ask me about! Also, three of my roommates from the fall are already abroad right now (Kelly in Scotland, Kayla in Uganda, and Becca in New Zealand), so I feel like it should be almost my time to go now... but I still have weeks before I'll really start to pack all the little things.  

And this is embarrassing... but ever since my grandparents bought me a suitcase set for Christmas, I've been putting clothes in and out of it, trying to plan out how much I can possibly take with me. Whenever I go shopping (which has been a few times over break because I love shopping), I am torn between buying clothes that will be good to bring with me, or saving my money to buy clothes once I'm there. Seriously... it's a constant battle every time I go into the store. Usually I "compromise" by saving my money and then going back the next day to buy it. So really I'm just saving my money for 24 hours.  But that's still saving it... Sort of.

Some of the stuff that I have so far...

Pretty much this pile changes every day because I'm always wearing these clothes, they're in the laundry, etc. 

Anyways... now I've revealed that I'm a weirdo who packs for a trip 1-2 months before the actual trip. I think the main reason why I'm so concerned with packing is because it's one of the only concrete things I can do to prepare. I don't know what Italy will be like - the people, the food, the classes, being away from home/family/friends - but I do know how to pack! So I'm pretty sure I'm just channelling my nervousness into packing because it's something that I can do right now. And it's a nice challenge - trying to fit the maximum amount of outfits in the best possible way, along with toiletries and books and other important stuff. I love it. So I'm sure I'll pack and repack my suitcases a few more times before it's actually time to do it for real... but oh well. I have a ton of free time now since I dropped out of college, right?