Right By Me

Tonight, I have a story to tell you. On the surface, it is about where I am headed in mere days and what I will be up to, but more importantly, it is a testimony of depending on God and watching Him come through. I won’t hold my plans for the end; I’m too excited to craft that suspense. As some of you already know, rather than returning to Roanoke this Spring like most students who have already studied abroad a semester, I will be headed to Washington D.C. to participate in the Lutheran College Washington Semester, in which Roanoke is one of several affiliated schools that is a part of the program. LCWS sets up everything for us – housing and roommates, night classes, weekly field trips…they even help many students find an internship. This semester, I am living in a pent-house apartment in Rosslyn, taking both a Public Relations and Global Agenda class, and, most exciting of all, working as a full-time marketing and event planning intern at the Headquarters of InternationalJustice Mission!

This is how it happened.

In the fall of 2012, my friend Evelyn and I sat in the back of RC Admissions making money doing homework and not giving tours. She said she was going to do a study away semester in D.C. that spring, and she encouraged me to join her. The application deadline was only a few weeks away, and I already had a lot of campus commitments that year, so I opted not to join her. She got me thinking, though. Aside from finances and too many classes, the primary reason most students don’t study abroad is because they love their school so much; I understand that. If I went to Clemson, king of football tailgates, school spirit, and community, leaving for a semester would have been a lot harder, even if it was for an unforgettable world experience. But Roanoke and I don’t share that same bond. Our relationship is improving, but I could count on one hand the things I would really miss (my best friend Kayla, small group, Restoration Church, hiking, the English department). Two close friends chose to end their misery and transfer, making the possibility of a year away all the more tempting. I didn’t, and still don’t, loathe Roanoke enough to permanently leave, but why shouldn’t I go? I would be taking advantage of the opportunities Roanoke offers and encourages. By Christmas break, I was in planning mode.

Slavery, one of the world’s worst and most ancient injustices, is more rampant than ever before. Several years ago when I became aware of the estimated 30 million people enslaved today, I began considering a future career to help combat human rights oppression. I still have no idea what form that could take, or even if it is where I am still headed. I do know that, with God’s help, the staff at International Justice Mission already successfully seeks justice, freedom, and protection for thousands of powerless people. IJM is a non-profit human rights organization that protects the poor from violent forces of injustice. Comprised of Christian attorneys, social workers, criminal investigators and support staff, IJM partners with local law enforcement to rescue the poor. Case by case, over 10,500 victims – families toiling in brick factories, young girls imprisoned in brothels, widows whose land has been stolen – have found freedom in the past five years.

To learn more, you can check out Suhana's beautiful story of redemption.

Once liberated, many of them receive counseling and guidance in aftercare homes, a crucial aid as they begin a new, restored chapter of their lives. IJM goes on to prosecute the perpetrators and ensure that the local public justice system is working properly, bolting oppressors behind bars and enabling communities to prevent future abuses. With each rescue, IJM is proving that justice for the poor is possible. I have wanted to be a more active supporter of their work for many years, so when I decided to go to D.C., I also began researching the possibility of an internship at IJM.

I made it, I will be joining 19 other interns in a week, but through the whole process, God kept me on a string, teaching me at each progression that this would work only through His will, His power, and my submission to Him.

How? How do I know this was God and not some retrospective bias or my hard work or just coincidence? The past certainly does clarify the way the Holy Spirit has already been moving, but I know primarily because I barely made it. Too many things went wrong; I should not have been able to even apply. Something would still go right, though, and in a small, uneventful way, the Lord would pull through yet again.

Summer gives you the feeling that you have plenty of time before you. Even I, Miss List-maker herself, inevitably put off to-dos for another day. My three tasks for August: work, IJM application, pack. I think I can handle that. I kind of kept thinking the application was due toward the end of August. Turns out the initial, very lengthy application, as well as all references and paperwork were due August 14, and I realized it a mere week ahead of time. Fortunately, a week is just enough.

On August 7, I journaled:

I guess this application process is teaching me that it’s all in Your hands. It’s not by any act or will of mine. Thank you for saving the opportunity and still allowing just enough time to have everything submitted.

And that kind of thing just kept happening. I was so interested in this opportunity that I saved the application to my computer last winter. I later filled it out, worried that the references that had to be mailed wouldn’t make it in time. I did not realize for several days that the file had since been updated. The references and transcript could now be e-mailed. Whew.

My first interview went pretty well. I didn’t really know which intern position I wanted. I’m a competent, joyful worker, but I still lack a specific skill set, and I had been praying (and worrying) a lot about what kind of career I might have someday. I remember the interviewer saying, Well it sounds like you have a good bit of experience with event planning. Would you be interested in that? Um, heck yes. That sounds perfect for me. Why had I never considered that before? So with the first interview, God laid aside, at least temporarily, some of the typical young adult worries I had carried of late.

I get placed for a second interview as a marketing intern. While the description to “assist with projects that help further the movement of IJM, raise public awareness of IJM's mission, ongoing work and fundraising efforts” sounded good, the details of working with a lot of Google statistics and analysis did not. This isn’t event planning! I thought. Do I even want to do this? Should I look for a different internship? I prayed and considered it for a while. I still felt like this was the place; the possibility of working in that kind of environment for a cause I cared about was too good to pass up. Besides, I could learn some new skills.

I was well into my time in Italy when the second interview was finally scheduled.We decided to talk over FaceTime Audio, and I was to call at an appointed time. I was a little nervous, but prepared. I had tested out the audio with my roommate to make sure I knew how to use it. All seemed well. I called the number. It didn’t work. My heart started beating significantly faster. I am not trying to create an impression of irresponsibility here! Ahh! This is not happening right now. I e-mailed immediately. Fifteen painstakingly slow minutes later, the interviewer called me back on a landline the old-fashioned way. She sounded wonderful. I was frank and told her I don’t know much about Google stats, but I’m willing to learn. She tells me there have been some departmental shifts, and that is no longer part of the marketing intern description. It really would mainly be event planning. Hallelujah, praise the Lord! Quite literally. She goes on explaining everything and it honestly already sounds like I have the job. I get a little confident inside. At the end of the interview, she says she still has a few more people to talk to, but that the department should make a final decision shortly.

Dear goodness. This process has been so long. When we get off the phone, I am still seriously depending on the Lord. I ask for prayers from the gals in my Bible Study in Italy. Please Lord. I want this. If this is right, help me.

I’m supposed to get an e-mail by October 15. It comes and goes. I keep praying.Two days later, I check my school e-mail just to make sure. Low and behold, there is an e-mail from several days before with my status. They invited me to join the team! I need to accept or decline in the next two days. Once again, it worked out. It almost did not, but it still did. I accepted with enthusiasm and apologies for my slow response.

I was, and still am, stoked. On January 1, my family and I are hopping on a nine hour train ride to Washington, D.C. to help me move in, and orientation at IJM will begin next Monday. Even though I won’t be working with Google statistics, I still don’t have the details about what I am jumping into. This I am certain of: I will be with good, professional, hardworking Christians who believe that human rights for the poor are worth defending. I will be working far harder this semester than last, but I am eager to regain more purpose on a day-to-day basis. Once again, I will be in another new environment, but just like the whole process of heading to D.C., I know I will have a good God by my side and in my soul.

And I know that if you made it to the end of this, you have either contracted WVBS (Winter Vacation Boredom Syndrome) or you must actually care about me. If it’s the latter, I would appreciate your prayers as I enter one more new environment. Please pray for the work of IJM - for victims to be rescued and oppressors justly prosecuted. Pray for the international field offices and those working in D.C. Personally, please pray that the work I do will be effective and helpful. Pray that I rely on the Lord, seeking His guidance, renewal and provision. He really is a good God, and He has shown me that He is there, in my struggles at Roanoke, in my adventures abroad, in the barely-made-it interview process. He is right by not only me, but all of His children. He is right by you, too.

Charleston - okay, America - the Beautiful

There’s an old conceited saying that I’m rather fond of.

Charleston is a peninsula where the Ashley and Cooper Rivers come together to form the Atlantic Ocean.

Charleston really is the most beautiful city in the world. All semester, my new friends in Perugia had to put up with me boasting, both in English and Italian, about my hometown. When we met someone new and began talking about travel or where we were from, I would inevitably pipe in, “You should visit Charleston, South Carolina. È la città migliore nel mondo. It’s the best city in the world.” It kind of became a running joke, but I’m serious. Home is not the best just because it is a comfortable security blanket, surrounding me with dear friends and family. It is the best because every natural backdrop is stunning and the people are friendly and the weather is perfect…and my heart is never quite as content or quiet as when I am sitting on a bench looking out over the marsh.

Before I left for Italy, my advisor gave me this bell curve to demonstrate the emotional roller coaster of a study abroad student.

It looked way too scientific to be accurate, with the honeymoon stage, culture shock, and adjustment; life isn’t that predictable, I thought, but it surprised me. I remember week by week passing in Italy and comparing my experiences to that graph. It’s like I was following the predictions of a growth chart right on target. I saw everything in Perugia through rose-colored glasses, until I did not. When life is different from the norm, no matter how easy or exciting it may be, it becomes challenging. I missed the luxuries of home, I missed Mama’s encouragement, I missed normality. Every day, I was blindsided by another ignorant American faux pas I made in Italy. On good days you laugh. On other days, you just get sick of it. Like the way Italians complain – no, that’s not right. They whine. Often. Nothing is ever as it should be, and these fully grown, supposed adults, yell at each other all the time. It got old. Eventually I adjusted to life in Perugia and the Italian way, though, and I learned to appreciate, adopt even, certain parts of their culture.

This time two weeks ago, I was on a plane returning to America. In the first forty-eight hours of being home, I embraced all of the things I had missed so much about Charleston. First, the weather. When I stepped off the plane, it was 70 degrees outside, and then remained perfectly humid, creeping into the 80s, for the next week. Plus the weatherman told me the temperature in Fahrenheit. Only in Charleston is it necessary to rock shorts in December.

Then, there are these views.

Which, by the way, I went to by driving directly in a car. Public transportation is great, but it does not – nor will it ever – beat a car. Back to the marsh. I do not tire of this view, and, given my jet lag, I was not tired in the morning, so I awoke early to watch the sunrise from the Pitt Street Bridge in the Old Village. The fog didn’t cooperate, but it’s still beautiful. It remins me of a naturally gorgeous woman still groggy from a deep night’s rest. She would be stunning with a little makeup, but she is already lovely. My heart melts for the radiance of the Lowcountry.

 The first person I saw that morning waved to and greeted me. He was some middle-aged man walking his dog, but he still said, “Good morning,” like any gentile southerner. Strangers have been saying hello every day since then. There’s a reason Charleston is the friendliest city in the country. The only time people wave in Italy is to get someone’s attention.

I’ve got a lot more luxuries to write about, but when I think about it, they’re not really limited to Charleston. So I concede. My hometown is still the best, but I just have a greater love for all of America now. Even the bad, commercialized, materialistic focus it has. I don’t care. I’m glad to be back. A month ago, I dreamt of the day when I could use a dryer again. It was as good as I imagined. Same goes for the dishwasher. Wow; what an invention. Other little indulgences include deliciously fruity, unseasonal food, like the first thing I ate when I landed in the Philadelphia airport.

That's right. That's a chain brand Chik-fil-a salad with all kinds of frutis that should not be available right now. It is also dark green. Not this insalata mista iceberg lettuce with one tomato nonsense.

That night, I unpacked my stuff, and there were drawers for my clothes and shelves for my books. Why? Because America has space! Lots and lots of uncramped room for all of our personal bubbles. Alright, I’m getting a little dramatic. But we do like things big. Like coffee.

Oh yeah. That is the smallest available cup of chain brand Starbucks Skinny Peppermint Mocha, accommodating the season and my American Splenda health whimsies.

The wireless on my laptop automatically connected and hasn’t dropped since. All I have to do to print something is press the button, and boom. There it is in the office. I slept in my own bed, on an amazingly comfortable, springless mattress. I ran for miles on paths because running is condoned in America. Then I ate fattening Christmas food, because that’s what you do in America in December, and I am American. You run, and then you eat; ‘tis the season. Those first few days, if there was a way to literally hug America, I would have. Italy is not even a third world country, but life is still so different.

Now that I’m back, I’m sorting cultures out. Some things are external, like not saying “Ciao” to people when I greet them. Mainly, though, the issues are inside. I have a greater appreciation for the American luxuries I have returned to, but I also miss the simplicity of Perugia. I have been shocked by the materialism of America. Yes, I admit it. I like to shop and buy practically anything I want. But I also realized how little one really needs, and I want to maintain the simpler lifestyle I adopted there.

I’m learning to take longer breaks and spend time with friends, something my roommate Abby really taught me to do as we lived together for a quarter of a year. I’m trying not to beat myself up for not being very productive, for not keeping a quiet time with God every day and not blogging in over two weeks. I’m trying to enjoy time with family and not freak out about my future. Surrounded by longtime friends with a deep and evident love for God, I’m figuring out how and when to (or not to) verbalize the Gospel. Italy didn’t wreck me into the faith crisis I experienced in Cambodia. I am Christ’s daughter forever, of this I am sure, and I never intentionally hid my relationship with Jesus. In fact, I relied on Him almost every day in Italy, and there were times when I saw Him do some really beautiful things. Maybe, though, I unconsciously tempered it.

The truth is, my whole semester in Perugia feels like a time vat right now, totally disconnected from any other experience I have ever had. I left Charleston in August with few responsibilities and no stress, and I returned to the same scenario, the same people, even the same weather, three and a half months later. It all feels comfortable and familiar, yet strangely odd. I am perplexed in ways I struggle to articulate. Being abroad definitely changed me and forced me to grow up a little more. Whatever happened, I do think it was for the better, but I’m still searching for some very important clarity keys.

I have a lot of questions and a lot of thoughts I’m obviously still working out, but I’ll keep you posted. Italian stories are definitely not over. I finally had the opportunity to experience day-to-day life in a foreign city, to live in another country. I made friends there I know I’ll keep, and together we set out on many adventurous weekends.

Could not have asked for a better semester with greater people.

Where did you go in the fall?

I will treasure these memories for the rest of my life. For now, though, I am struggling through “readjustment,” the last part of this strangely accurate bell curve. I am grateful to be back in this city and this country, for the happy familiarity of Charleston and the easiness of life in America. I am grateful to recuperate in the midst of hugs from longtime friends and the relaxing pace of winter-break nothingness. 

21

The clock has begun chiming 162,240 times. There have been 7,670 sunrises. I haven’t seen enough of them, but, following my birthday tradition, this is the one from this morning.

Right as it peaks its head over Umbrian hills. Thanks Mariah, Alea and Abby for joining me!

It’s not too eventful turning 21 in Italy, where I have been able to legally drink for the past three months, but somehow I don’t see my birthday festivities being all that much crazier on the other side of the Atlantic. I don’t deny the convenience of turning 21 two days before I come home, though! Every year, I learn and grow more. Things do not become clearer with age, but I’m banking that that is because I have become a more complex individual. Here are 21 thoughts. They are changes, lessons or reflections from this past year.

1. I have become more open and accepting of others, especially those with different lifestyles or views. I used to think I was already open, but I was not.
2. I learned how to travel. Go with purpose, but keep it slow and relaxed.
3. In Cambodia, I learned that no matter how poor I am, I will still be a very rich woman.
4. Whatever your work is, do it well. Do not let it rule your life.
5. Live the Italian way – take long walks and eat longer meals. Work is secondary.
6. The longer I live, the less sure I am about what I will do in the future or where I will be.
7. I might teach English abroad for a bit.
8. Going out is pretty fun. I am almost never inclined to go, even if I think I will be. Thus the uneventful 21^st.
9. I really do like writing and literature, and I’m glad I decided to study it. I think I could probably do something with it.
10. I cannot save the world. I am not that special. I can still do something.
11. Prayer is powerful. I knew that already, but I have seen it more in action.
12. Serving food is humbling.
13. Responsibility does not make life easier. It is still really good though.
14. I have become more selfish, but I also depend more on the Lord’s grace and fire to make me into something more beautiful.
15. My sisters are all grown up, and they are awesome.
16. Hospitality is hard, but it is a good way to love.
17. I have some seriously awesome friends in my life.
18. Some of my friends are starting to get married. Holy cow.
19. An awesome guy has not yet waltzed into my life; my awkwardness does not aid this issue.
20. I am a young adult now. With the right time and money, I can do most anything I want to do. That is an awesome time of life.
21. I don’t rely on Jesus as I should. I have found myself tempering Him, especially when I am not in Charleston. My faith is solidified, but I fear I don’t live it very well for others.

Thank you for all of the birthday wishes today. The presence and love of friends and family, even when you are thousands of miles away, reminds me how very blessed I am.

Beggars Can't Be Choosers

I've made a decision today.

I don't really do well with beggars and homeless people. You can't give to all of them, so many people choose not to give to any. Plus, what are they really going to do with that money? Are they going to get food and support their family, or are they going to buy more alcohol.
On my way back from Spoleto today (yes, like the Spoleto Festival in Charleston - we have a sister city!), a greasy-haired gypsy woman came through the train with a picture of her (/a) family and was asking for change.

First time: I saw her out of the corner of my eye and did not turn my head, playing an extra intense game of candy crush. She stood there in a whiny complaining voice for an unnecessarily long amount of time.
Just go away! You are so annoyingly persistent. I don't know if I should give you anything or not. You're not supposed to even be on this train. Jesus says I should love you. What does that even mean? Am I rejecting Jesus right now?

She finally walked away. I've always told myself that I would give homeless people food if they needed it. Oh crap. I realized the lobbyist at Hotel Charleston I had dropped by to meet had given me an extra slice of pizza. I still had it. I had food I could've given that lady, and I was so uncomfortable with her hovering, unwanted presence that I didn't even think about it. Lord, please bring her back by again.

Second time: Five minutes later, a simple prayer is answered. I gave her the pizza, she took it, and then proceeded to pester for money. I shook my head. She rambles about feeding her children. I point to the pizza and the girl in the photo. Another long, hovering presence. She finally leaves.

I still can't get her out of my thoughts. Is it right not to give her any money? I don't know. I felt an innate sense to say no. I realize I also happen to have a pack of crackers on me. I should give those, too.

Third time: She swoops in again. The woman has unashamed persistence, I give her that. I offer her my crackers. She shoos them away; she doesn't want them, only money. That kind of ticked me off. The phrase "Beggars can't be choosers" immediately came to mind. Sure, it is only a pack of crackers, but I'm trying to give them to you, and you won't accept them. So how badly do you really need money after all?

The whole scenario reminded me so much of Peter.
"Peter, do you love me?"
"Lord, you know I love you."
"Feed my sheep."

Three times that happened. And later, Peter denies Christ three times also.

It was like God gave me three chances to love that woman. I denied her once, fed her and then was rejected. I'm not certain if my actions were just or if I should be more generous in general. But, like I said, I've come to a decision. Beggars are not going away. I'll be living in D.C. next semester and I'll face a lot more of them there. They are people, and I will not totally deny their dignity. I won't give them money, but I will intentionally carry granola bars with me. I will put it in their hands. Accept or reject. I'll let you be the chooser.

Friends in Budapest

“Paris and London are sweet and I'd go there, but they aren't my number one destinations. Remote islands in Greece were sick, Hungary, Poland, Belgium were all amazing, so go to the big places just to go but if you are centered around those you are doing it wrong.”

One of my friends lived in Italy for a couple of years, and we began discussing where I should go during my time abroad well before I ever hopped on the plane. After he sent me this advice, Budapes(“h”)t, the capital of Hungary, was high on my travel list. Some classmates visited over fall break and raved. Instead of feasting at Sugah Cain, I packed all of my warm clothes and thanked God for my many blessings on a night plane from Rome to Budapest.

As usual, my friend Alea and I endured my rite of entry into any new place by getting thoroughly lost and walking all over the city. As we meandered, we admired the elaborate Art Nouveau facades on both average apartments and bank buildings alike. We also had a blast enjoying the unexpected Christmas spirit here – cold weather, decorative lights, chimney cake (basically fried bread) and mulled wine are a beautiful combination.

Chimney Cake = yummmm

I will always remember my weekend in Budapest, but it won’t be because of Hero’s Square or the Opera House or the shoe memorial for the Jews of WWII.

3rd Largest Parliament in the World

I tired of sight-seeing about halfway through the semester, and I have learned that it just isn’t what makes a trip. Rather than the tourist stuff, I will remember my last trip of the semester because of the great people we met there.

Jonah

As I took my first bite of hearty goulash soup, I heard an American accent ordering at the table adjacent to us. I glanced over to see an attractive young man sitting by himself. If you know me, you know strangers, especially Americans in foreign countries, don’t stay that way for long, and Jonah was no exception. A native of Los Angeles, he works in the entertainment business – writing, acting, singing, producing. He can do it all. He was traveling with his friend, but he had the last day to himself. After lunch, Jonah invited us to continue exploring Budapest with him, and we accepted the offer.

Jonah was a solid six years older than us with a real career, but we spent the whole day together and then met back up for a late dinner. When I think about hanging out with fourteen-year olds, I realize just how big that age gap and lifestyle difference is. His humor is dry, but it’s also witty. Our company may have been unusual for Jonah, but I think he really did enjoy the day with us. I certainly did. 

Tess
We returned to the hostel to meet a happy blonde chilling in bed with a backpack significantly larger than her small frame. Tess is 18, from Sydney, Australia. After saving up her money for a year, she is now on a gap year, traveling through all of Eastern and Western Europe. I was impressed. She had been backpacking with another friend for a while, but they had parted ways, and she was on her own now. Tess was supposed to leave the next day, but after talking together and planning on breakfast the next morning, she decided to stay another night and spent the whole following day with us. She even motivated me to go on a run with her around the loop on Margaret’s Island, a pinch of land in the middle of the Danube River. She had a kind, peaceful demeanor, and it is obvious Tess is growing up a lot. She went to an all-girl’s private school for six years, and she is over that culture. I think this year of traveling is helping her find her way.

Rebecca

When we returned to the hostel the next night, we were greeted by our fourth roommate. Also from Sydney, Rebecca graduated from Uni, got a big girl PR job for a year, and then set off to backpack the world by herself. She has already been gone for seven months, and has several more months to go. What an experience. I had so many questions for her, all beating around the main question I had cycling through my head – Can I just be you in two years? We shall see what is to come.

In less than a week, both Tess and Rebecca are going to meet up with us back in Perugia before we return home! I am happy to be able to offer my hospitality and show off an authentic medieval Italian town, but I am more excited to already reunite with friends I did not know less than a week ago.

The cool thing about the people we met in Budapest is that you know you automatically have something in common. Jonah, Tess and Rebecca were a little off the tourist track, too. Whatever brought them there, they carry some sense of adventure, the curiosity to explore the less known. The stranger the place, the more different the visitor will be, and the more likely one is to meet other travelers.  That formula creates something innate and easily ignited – the potential for great friendship.

London Love

London was not on my list of top places to visit. I should experience other cultures, I told myself, get out of my comfort zone. The urban center of Great Britain is not that different from America. But you know what? That’s exactly why I enjoyed this past weekend so much. Don’t get me wrong. Italy has been such a fabulous experience. Three months ago I only knew Italian stereotypes. Now I know Italy. I understand the cultural norms, and I have tried to acclimate to them (though whether I really have is a different story).  Culture clash – both in Perugia and during weekend travel – is draining. Mimed body language and late night dinners, catty women and staring men, limited grocery choices and impossibly long (yet simultaneously nonexistent) lines are some of the small differences I face on a daily basis. I think one of the most significant lessons I digested for myself in Cambodia seeing and experiencing the living conditions for the majority of the world. That lesson has continued during my time in Italy. Though Europe is made up of first world countries, even here people don’t live like Americans. These little challenges I face make living abroad memorable and worth it.

As usual, I digress. After a beautiful act of the Lord, the opportunity arose for me to visit London with my dear friend Tracey. No, London is not America, but comparatively, it’s pretty darn close. It is English-speaking, and it is a consumerist, globalized society. I confess, as much as I am trying not to live in a materialistic manner, I grew up surrounded by marketing and movies and Wal-Mart and the best customer service in the world. For one weekend, it was so nice to be able to understand (most) everything someone said and buy anything I wanted.  Familiarity is comfortable. On the bus ride from the airport, I was already developing a superiority complex over my ability to understand the language better than the rest of the Italian travelers. We saw a Costco, IKEA, Subway, KFC, and so many other chains just during our ride into the city. We were stoked.

We vowed not to eat any Italian food. Since there was a different ethnic restaurant every fifty meters, that was easy, and so satisfying. At one stop, I spotted a restaurant named L’artista. While I was repulsed by the idea of yet another pasta dish, the Italian woman next to me points to it and begins talking to her friend about eating there that night!

Spring Bowl

After settling in to Palmer’s Lodge (best hostel experience ever. I am not exaggerating), Tracey and I opted for Indian. The menu was a little overwhelming, so I told the waiter I wanted a dish with rice, chicken, vegetables, and curry, please. When the waiter walked away, Tracey whispered, “Jessica, you are so white.” It’s true… It was very much a When Harry Met Sally scenario, but I was just so happy to be able to get what I wanted and not be told how to eat my food. The supermarkets are even bigger in London than in America, and there’s nothing you can’t get. Other food this past weekend included Chinese pile up from a Camden Market stall, Vietnamese Spring Bowl, Lebanese platter, coffee large enough to nurse for a bit, Mochi icecream (gross), and a Chinese BBQ roll. My stomach has been missing vegetables so much, and it is happy now.

Globalization continued that night when we realized that the second Hunger Games movie was already released. It was fun both to be up on American culture and also act like typical Londoners, enjoying a normal Friday night. The next day we went to the Camden Markets, which provide anything you want at very cheap prices. It is dangerous territory for shopoholics. All of the stuff and the fashionable people wearing even more stuff sends this subliminal message that you need it. I kept reminding myself that no, I don’t need anything. I have everything already. Remember where these goods are coming from, Jessica. Imagine how they were probably produced. The quintessential consumerist devil and aesthetic angel were fighting it out on my shoulders. Mr. Red Horns did win the Battle of Wool, boasting a thick infinity scarf and a Fedora as its loot. The angel won the War, though, re-teaching me an important lesson.

The rest of the weekend was fairly touristy. We saw the sights, killed our feet walking everywhere, and enjoyed some rejuvenation in Regent’s Park. There was green and fall colors, and that did my heart well. My soul was filled up even more after Tracey and I visited Hillsong for church on Sunday. I haven’t been able to really worship since the summer. I haven’t been in a spiritual drought, but I needed some watering. That night, we watched an improv show at The Comedy Stand. My cheeks were sore from all the laughing. Gosh. British Humor – they’re just so clever! We finished up the weekend by almost missing our flight back to Perugia on Monday morning. Fortunately, we huffed it, paid five pounds each for fast pass customs check (where I downed ¾ of my beloved Nalgene water bottle because I forgot to empty it), and experienced the scare of missing the only way home without the repercussions.  I buckled into the plane seat thankful to have made it, but also sad to be leaving a city I enjoyed so much.

London was kind of an awesome tease of being back home. The reality is, though, that my departure date is quickly approaching. In a little over two weeks, I will be reunited with family and friends. Tomorrow is Thanksgiving, and rather than being home and feasting, I will be flying to my last travel destination of the semester –  Budapest. I am so grateful for the opportunity to study abroad. The friends, experiences, traveling, yes – even the cultural trials – have blessed me immensely.

The Sinking City

Pitiful as it is, I hardly knew the defining characteristics of specific Italian cities before coming here. Venice in particular was an enigma. Mama brought masks and glass earrings home from her trip a few years ago, and they meant no more than cool wall art and beautiful jewelry. I finally Googled some pictures and was shocked to find grand palaces which seemed to be floating on water, a whole city connected by hidden alleys and bridges, divided by water. The likelihood of getting lost is much greater than finding your destination. You know you’re headed the right way, and then, boom, there’s the Grand Canal, your destination across the water, and another dead end. This past weekend, I finally got to see this a-mazing (pun intended) city for myself.

To be honest, I don’t have the energy to tell you everything about my travels this weekend, which also included a day trip to Verona. In fact, I haven’t even shared the stories of the best trip I’ve taken thus far – the Dolomites. I don’t know where my initiative is right now; I’m still going in and out of ruts of feeling like I have a lot to do, and yet simultaneously feeling lost, without purpose. It’s very bizarre, and I’d appreciate some prayer. My situation is mainly teaching me that as awesome as life may seem, or even is, the deepest part of us will never be satisfied – not by travel, or money, or the best of circumstances. We will always long for a Rescuer, and I need Him desperately. It’s been an interesting discovery.

 But I want to tell you this: If you ever get the chance, Venice and its surrounding lagoons are worth it. The 80 euro gondola is not (college student that I am, I did not partake), but walking through that city an experience. There is a reason you have to battle thousands of other tourists. It’s a city worth seeing, but it’s a time bomb. Experts say it will be underwater in 70 years, and I believe it. In the fall, Venice battles serious flooding problems. At St. Mark’s, there weren’t as many tourists as the high season, but it was still hard to navigate because on must walk on raised platforms to avoid two foot puddles. Venice has its own mask, and at night, everything slows down. It removes it for a while, relinquishing part of its mysterious identity. You feel the presence of hundreds of past years in each stacked building or regal Ca’  – masquerades, high life, prostitutes, Jews. Peace, strife, and power struggles. Go, before it’s too late.

Not All Fun & Games

I had a temporary freak out session this morning. It went something like this:

I have had more free time the last few months than I’ve had since elementary school. I have gotten to see Rome and Tuscany and Capri and Brussels. I’ve made great friends, been challenged, improved my language skills, enjoyed good food. I am blessed, lucky, privileged. And I have no right to complain.

But lately, I have been missing home a lot. It’s happening to everyone a little bit. We’re not direly homesick, but we’re just…here, and we miss the happenings back in the States. I wish I could pause study abroad, spend a few months back in Charleston, and then come back to Italy when I start to miss it and reminisce. I hate to not appreciate this last month as much as I can. For goodness sake – my next three weekends consist of traveling to Venice, London and Budapest! But more than the exhaustion of travel itself, I’m getting tired of living for myself. My classes provide enough structure that I probably should be doing something, but they’re easy enough that I don’t need to focus on school all the time. I’m basically a horrible relaxer. I need more purpose, and I’m stir-crazy in this apartment. The only stress in my life is that which I give myself from wondering what I should be doing. Georgia texts me and says she has to write two papers in the next three hours. And though I don’t really want to do that either, her days are filled, and mine are loose. I remember wanting the world to pause so I could catch up and feel on my A game. Now I just feel like the world is going on without me.

This morning when my alarm went off, I was fully rested, but I stayed in the dark warmth of my bed for thirty more minutes, battling with myself.

Get up, Jessica

Why? I have nothing to do.

Quiet time, shower, letters. There’s always something to do.

I don’t want to. But staying here makes me feel even more lazy and useless.

The rational side of me thinks of dozens of things I could be doing – learning to cook new recipes, reading difficult literature, meditating on Scripture, writing. Basically the things I’ve always said to myself, “Someday, I’m going to do that.” What’s more, the things I have made time for in the past are harder. I’m feeling flabby and weak because there is not really great place to exercise. I have no Biblical regimen, I’m just floating from one thing to the next. Here I am, feeling kind of helpless and apathetic. Yet at the same time, also feeling selfish and stupid for complaining at all. I’m just ready for a little more purpose.

A few hours later, I’m feeling better. I still want more purpose, but I went on a walk and listened to this past Sunday’s sermon. I took a shower, ate vegetables, and decided there is no reason that I shouldn’t be reading Manzoni’s The Betrothed and studying C.S. Lewis more closely. It takes time to learn to articulate what you believe, and right now, I have that time. That is a beautiful gift, and I should take advantage of it.

This is by far the most unedited, stream of consciousness blog I’ve posted. I am writing it, though, primarily so that you know that as amazing as this semester is, as much as I love adventure and travel and new friends, I’m struggling, too. I have moments of missing those I love, yearning for Charleston, even desiring a more rigorous academic workload. Today is November 13, though. In exactly one month, I will be on a plane back to America. No more griping. I am going to make this month count.

An American in Italy: Laundry

            I thought I was prepared. I knew that water was not free in restaurants. I was warned not to order a cappuccino after eleven a.m. I made sure to pack Ziplock bags in a variety of sizes, a reusable shopping bag, and a set of customary measuring cups. Italians, I was told, do everything at a slower pace, and I was ready to embrace that. Or so I thought. The truth is, no one can actually prepare an American for this reality permeating every facet of Italian culture. While I enjoy the relaxing two hour meals, I never anticipated the two hour, methodical process of washing and drying my clothes in America would become a forty-eight hour ordeal on the other side of the Atlantic ocean.

I am not exaggerating here. When I return to America, doing laundry might become an enjoyable chore. I know, dear American mothers, the trouble you go through to ensure your family is looking presentable in their best clean clothes. I remember the pain of continually filling hampers, the unceasing cycles of sorting and switching and ironing and folding you endure. Enjoyable?  Such a statement hardly seems feasible. What’s the secret to an enjoyable laundering experience? Move to Italy. All of a sudden, doing laundry back in America becomes a breeze.

Every few days, I don my Nike athletic shorts and a color-coordinated quick dry shirt, enduring an hour of stares in the city streets for the sake of a little exercise. When I first came to Italy, I began to conclude that I lived among a whole society of people that do not run. I was wrong. They do run, just not in the streets. Italians go to parks on the outskirts of town and run (if you can call it that) in glamour, without a drop of sweat or an increase in heart rate.  It’s miraculous. Okay, there are a few men putting in some genuine effort, but the women might as well be on a runway model. With my waterfall of sweat and clunky Asics, I know I already look like an American on these streets, so I continue on and hope the Italian street chic forgive me. But I digress. I tell you of this taboo practice of mine because from it I amass an impressive pile of sweaty, smelly clothes in need of a thorough washing. I wasn’t a huge fan of doing laundry before I came to Italy, and nothing has changed. So I let them fester, procrastinating the inevitable laundry day until I run out of underwear.

            Eventually, I do run out, though, and I must face the first challenge of the laundering process: the washing machine. Italians, while looking twice as fashionable, own about a fourth as many clothes as Americans, and their washing machines reflect this proportion. I want to get through this ordeal as quickly as possible, so I disregard the sorting rule and opt for a single load, throwing everything in at once. It’s only economical and energy efficient, after all. When I must finally face the blasted machine, the possibility of fitting my week’s worth of smelly clothes in the bin my head will hardly fit into is seriously questionable.

            An Italian washer machine, though small, is not a complicated mechanism. There is a plug, a spin cycle and power button, and a knob of numerical temperature settings. It doesn’t seem like something that could easily malfunction, but I must have the perfect touch. One time I loaded it up, pressed the on button, and… nothing. I ensured it was plugged in, kept up trial and error for a while, and gave up, reporting a broken washing machine to maintenance. An older man named Paolo stopped by later that afternoon. He hobbled into the six by six foot closet otherwise known as our laundry room and spent all of thirty seconds tinkering before the washer was functioning perfectly. Exasperated, he walked out. I think I heard him mutter, “Americana,” under his breath before facing the three flights of elevator-less stairs outside of my apartment. Apparently, there is a light switch next to the plug that turns the electricity on and off. Well, that’s embarrassing, I thought.

After waiting an hour and fifteen minutes, I open the door, ready to get on with this chore. I pull out a shirt. It is soaked. Not just damp like you expect clothes to be after a normal wash. I’m talking sopping wet. The spin cycle, even though I always make sure I don’t press the button to omit it, is cantankerous. Sometimes it works, other times it leaves my clothes, which at least don’t smell anymore, in a pool of undrained water. Lazy and frustrated, I run the load again, hoping for a different result. Sometimes, they turn out okay. Typically, though they remain drenched. If this is the case, it is necessary to individually ring out every article of overstuffed clothing. Your fingertips will assuredly wrinkle like prunes, and your arms will have no need for dumbbell exercises.

Because the washing machine normally works for my roommates, I have recently developed a hypothesis as to why it has a personal bias against me. I think the spin cycle may be running after all, but the water can’t drain because I have stuffed too many clothes into one load to begin with. I have not been able to test this out yet. The very fact that it has taken seven weeks to realize this is frustrating. Why can’t it just work like a good ol’ large, trusty American washing machine?

On to the dryer. Oh, wait. Italy is indeed a first world country, but due to high electricity costs, the dryer is a rarity, and my apartment certainly doesn’t have one. There was a time not too long ago when I thought the dryer was a loud, bulky lint collector. I have seen the light. Actually, it is a glorious piece of equipment conveniently placed right next to the washer, not only drying your clothes, but making them warm and soft too. While that nonna hanging her sheets out to dry on the balcony does look picturesque, my situation is not quite so appealing. We – my four apartment mates and me – compete for the two seven-foot fold out drying racks to hang clothes on. It’s the only thing in Italy that is not small, almost matching the size of my runt “twin size” bed. Rather than being tucked away in some nice, nonexistent corner, these giants consume the majority of the living room floor. Back in August when the weather was warmer, it wasn’t too bad. Clothes dried overnight. They’re always stiff and starchy feeling, but at least they were dry then. Creeping into the fall, clothes stay out two full days and are still damp. What with the way I procrastinate laundering, the underwear supply really does become critical at this point. I may have substituted my bikini bottoms – or even, I confess, nothing – once or twice.

My nemesis

As for the other loads that did not go through a spin cycle, all I have to show for my great efforts to ring out the water by hand is a large puddle of more water equivalent to the size of the mammoth drying rack. As I mop up the tile floor, I dream of large washing machines and the dryers by their side, relishing the day when doing my laundry will be a pleasurable experience. In the meantime, I will be an American in Italy – running in the streets and waiting for my clothes to dry.

Moments

“Meet me at the fountain at 3:15.”

I finished ramblings on Blessed Umiliana dei Cerchi throwing in key words “local cult” and “importance of the elaborate veil” as necessary. At 3:05, my last midterm exam was done. I step through the arch of the Umbra Institute and onto the main city center, Piazza di IV Novembre. I weave through the newly arrived chocolate festival stands and extra tourists that literally appeared overnight, heading for the meeting spot. I don’t see them. I am a little early. I scan my surroundings more closely. There are people everywhere, but I don’t see a particularly special couple. They are not on the steps, but as I look a little higher, I catch a glimpse of a middle-aged man and woman. Their appearance is intimately familiar. Yet, seeing them across the world, in Perugia, a place no one from home has been, is more than bizarre.

They catch sight of me a few seconds before. Excuse the cliché, but there is just no other description for what happened. When I see them, my soul soars. In an instant, the deepest part of me, far deeper than my physical body, exudes joy. Mama and Hoffa! Backpack still strapped, I run across the piazza and up the stairs, almost tripping several times (but I do not). Then, I bear hug my parents. For six weeks, I have seen their pictures, I have heard their voices, but their physical presence is so close. They are real, here, in the flesh, and it’s almost too good to be true.

But it is true, and thus begins a week I will treasure forever. Chocolate festivities and a personalized tour of my Italian hometown. Lazy mornings and unadjusted internal clocks in a small, undersupplied agriturismo. Five days in a manual Fiat verging on toy size. Winding roads, close calls, car-sick stomachs, and a confused GPS . Classic Tuscan views - charming medieval towns, regal rows of cypress trees, grape vineyards, and golden hills. Two-hour pasta meals twice a day. Food festival, wine tasting, Duomo climb, Cinque Terre trek, and countless cappuccini. A (very) few moments of tension reminded me that I am their daughter and they are my parents. We went at the typically slow, rather unplanned Compton pace. It can still be frustrating, but I am also becoming more patient and appreciating the people I am with over the activities we do.

I savored the slow passing of each day, but the week disappeared all too quickly. Soon, instead of hugs of greeting and exuberant joy, I was squeezing two of my favorite people goodbye. I was sad, but I have grown up. I live independently now, and I knew I would be returning to a good place and even better people. I smiled, blew a kiss, and boarded. The train began to pull away. They stood on the platform waving, though I knew they couldn’t see me through the tinted windows. I waved back, and when I sat down, a buildup of my own tears surprised me. My heart had a more difficult time parting than my head, and as the invisible tie between us pulled tighter, the tears kept brimming. I closed my eyes and exhaled, trying to gain my composure. Goodbye Mama and Hoffa. I’m so thankful for this trip. Near or far, I love you.

For the rest of my life, I can talk about the week I spent in Italy with my parents. I’ll remember these precious moments – the hello, the travel, and the goodbye – forever.

I saw them, and I ran

Golden Friends

I only had one prayer while I prepared for Italy.

Lord, I can spend a semester by myself. I’m independent and I would really be able to focus on You, but I’d really like one good friend. I don’t have to connect with anyone else, they can all be wild partiers, but please, give me one companion that I am totally comfortable with. Who will pray and laugh and travel and eat with me.

Jesus loves to give good gifts to His children, and time and again, I have experienced His blessings. This request was no exception.  The very first night, before we even moved into our apartments, I announced I was going on a walk and invited anyone to come along. They declined, having just returned from their own exploration. Very well, then. I can go alone, I thought, and I set off through the parking lot. “Hey wait! I’d like to come with you!” She told me her name, but I couldn’t remember it. As we walked, it didn’t take ten minutes before she began one of my favorite pastimes: the question game – describing our perfect day, as I recall. She casually mentioned she was in a Christian sorority back at Boulder. She didn’t seem to be conforming to any stereotypes, and I liked that. This girl, Alea, became my first friend.

God! Thank you. That was quite prompt. You are so good to me.

He didn’t stop there.

Lugging two massive pieces of luggage into my room on the second day, I met my roommate.  Aside from the horrendous procrastination habits she is successfully teaching me, I love everything else about this girl. We are different; she takes “chilling” to a new level, and I’m a little more extroverted. But as we learned more about each other the first few days, I was astounded by our similarities. What?! You have two sisters and a brother? You like to hike? You listen to the Avett Brothers? Your best friend is from South Carolina? She feels like another sister; with a steady and even-keeled temperament, she is the perfect constant companion. She makes me laugh, her thoughts are insightful, and our cooking is improving together.

I guess I feared making friends because that was difficult for me freshman year of college. Here, it hasn’t been the case. Friendships just keep happening, almost effortlessly.  Mariah identifies and illuminates the beauty in others. Tracey is a hip-hop dancing joy. Kristina, Danielle, Kevin, Joe, Holly.

This past weekend, there was a pasta dinner, a burger night, an American breakfast (we like food, okay?), and a crazy Italian soccer game. It all happened with people I really enjoyed spending time with, people who make me laugh and share similar values. After dinner Friday night, we all sat around the table sharing stories, listening to music, and at times laughing until we were gasping for breath. As we walked back, Abby and I both agreed that it felt like a night with our friends at home. When we day-tripped to overcast Cortona, it wasn’t really about the Under the Tuscan Sun destination or museums at all. Rick Steves still provided great restaurant advice, but I spent the day aimlessly wandering around a charming town with friends I love. It’s true; already, I really do love them.

Abby, Tracey, and Mariah

Chocolate Chip Pancakes an friends. Not much better.

The deeper I dig into my time here the more treasure boxes of friendships I find. I feel more than pirate’s luck at striking this gold; I am greatly blessed by a loving God. He understands good relationships, and He desires them for His children.

Chocolate on Chocolate

Allow me to illustrate a conversation I recited at least 43 times this past summer.

“Jessica, when are you headed back to school?”

“I’m not; I’ll be studying abroad in Italy this fall,” I smile with excitement.

“Oh, how wonderful! What city? Florence?”

“No, Perugia.”

98% of the time, I received one of two reactions.

One: “Be careful. Isn’t that where that Amanda Knox gal who killed her roommate studied?”

In which case I acknowledged the fact and assured them that I would return alive.

Or, more likely, option two: Blank stare.

So, I would quickly tack on, “It’s smack dab in the center of Italy, halfway between Rome and Florence. Think Tuscany and wine vineyards.”

Their ignorance is fair enough -- Perugia  is one of dozens of humble medieval towns carved into Umbrian hillside. It’s the capital of Umbria, but that doesn’t mean much. And though Amanda did unintentionally put Perugia on the map, it is really known for something much richer, much sweeter: its chocolate.

Perugia’s world-famous chocolate festival is coming up in a few weeks, but the Perugina Chocolate Factory, officially owned by Nestle these days, pumps out chocolatey deliciousness by the tons. This morning, a group of us visited this real-life Willy Wonka factory. Lots of different types of chocolate, candy, and biscuits are made here, but Perugia is best known for its Baci. 

This is basically the Italian version of a Hershey’s kiss, only ten times better. Praise the Lord, I crossed into chocolate salvation. Just kidding. Kind of. Baci have a thick nutella-like hazelnut milk chocolate base topped by a whole hazelnut and then lathered in dark chocolate. It also means “kiss” in Italian, and each is wrapped with a surprise love quote. Some are better than others.

“Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength; loving someone deeply gives you courage.”

“Some women love their husbands so much that to avoid wearing them out they take their friend’s husbands.” (Eek! I don’t want that baci!)

“The heart has its reasons which reason does not know.”

“Love me for love’s sake only.” (or that one, thanks.)

“Day by day and night by night we were together all else has long been forgotten by me.”

We saw a replica of the world’s largest singular 13 pound Baci chocolate, created a few years ago at the chocolate festival. After the weigh in, it was chipped away and handed to passerby, and the whole thing was eaten in four hours. 

We also toured the factory with a bird’s eye view through cacao-pungent  enclosed glass tunnels surrounding the production lines. I might have illegally photographed a little bit of the manufacturing process.

 It’s so fascinating! All of the engineering and machines work together impeccably. Chocolate is rolled out, covered, cut, wrapped, sorted, packaged, and sent all over the world. Almost two million baci are made everyday. Dang.

The best part, though was when we entered one room with platters of a variety of chocolates, and the guide explained each one. Dark chocolate, white baci, baci bars, white chocolate, different shapes and packaging. And THEN, she said the magic words:  “Help yourself.”

Adults become greedy children with words like that, which is kind of disturbing. But we went at it, and oh what tasty, stomach-ache inducing heaven it was. Let’s just say I got my five euro’s worth, and I’m just beginning to recover. What a yummy, chocolatey day.