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.

Thank you for flying with Ryan Air

As I continue to travel, the modes of transportation I have used are increasing, too. Rome by train; private charter bus to Pompeii  and Napoli; Capri and Ischia by ferry. Of course, a plane was quite necessary to arrive in Italy. There is a big – I’m talking mammoth, colossal even – difference between an orderly international flight and the travel experience I had this past weekend. That’s right, I did it, I went to visit my Roanoke friend Evelyn, by my lonesome self…with Ryan Air.

If you are not familiar with this flight company, consider yourself blessed. For cheap college students like me, Ryan Air offers some bargain flight prices – often as lows as €15. With your inconceivably cheap ticket, you are also guaranteed a bumpy ride and no space. Tacked on fees, delayed flights, and head injuries are likely.

I’m being a little hard. After avoiding all of the rent a car, get a tour guide, reserve your seat financial traps online, I managed to buy a reasonable ticket a few weeks ago. I double-checked the airport bus pickup, woke up on time, all packed and ready to go. Good so far. I get to the bus stop, and then it hits me – I don’t have a ticket! This is a seriously elementary travel mistake, but I had become so accustomed to buying my train tickets at the station that it hadn’t crossed my mind. Because the primary ticket office was closed at 7 am, a ten-minute period of internal panic set-in.

I can’t even get myself out of Perugia! And I’m planning on going to Brussels?!

By the time I returned to the bus stop, a few more people had arrived, and they assured me that I bought the ticket on the bus. Whew.

Honestly, traveling by myself intimidated me more than I anticipated. If I messed it up, I was screwed, and that almost happened before I got out of Perugia. I learned that I am much more outgoing and confident with strangers when I have a group to return to.  At the airport and on the plane, I kept to myself, and it was lonely. Traveling solo no longer has the appeal it once did.

Italians haven’t quite overcome the anarchy of previous government systems. Today, this is most evident in their lack of lines. They swarm. All sense of civility and manners apparates just like wizards in Harry Potter. This behavior is further complicated by Ryan Air’s free seating policy. There is no consecutive, orderly calling of section one followed by section two. No, no. The airport gate was a giant mob, and my inner Italian came out and jostled by way as far forward (which was still very back) as I could.

Sitting in those seats with bright yellow plastic backs, we took off and flew and landed, and I am alive. The fact that I must announce the latter part of that sentence is reason enough to suspect this is no normal flying experience. I was resting peacefully until BAH-BOOM-BOOM-SCHREEEEECH! That landing was so unsettling. There was applause. And music that sounded like it could be from Barney celebrating our arrival. “Ryan Air is proud to have a 90% prompt arrival rate. We look forward to your next flight with us.”

I’ll be praying in advance for that.

I guess I didn’t pray hard enough, though. After a lovely weekend in the perfect college city (it can only boast beer, chocolate, and fries [and waffles]) with Evelyn, my trip back was horrendous. An anticipated five hours of travel turned into thirteen hours of…well, it wasn’t really travel. We weren’t moving very often. Pisa had bad weather, so we turned around and had a rocky landing in Genoa. We wait. Ryan Air announced it would provide a charter bus to Pisa. While other air companies board their detoured passengers swiftly, we walk to the parking lot and I meet some American students. We wait two hours. Finally! A bus! Three hours cramped next to an old woman who smells like mothballs. I am exhausted and frustrated. By the time I arrive in Pisa, I’m just worried about making it to Perugia.

Things began looking up, though. Not really because of the transportation, but, once again, because of the people. I spoke to a woman who helped me get to the right train track. Later on, when the train stalled because of technical difficulties, it didn’t matter so much, because an old Sicilian named Valentina and I were an hour into a conversation in Ita-lish. My head was hurting from speaking so much, but I could also sense myself improving. Before we arrived in Florence, she said if I already missed the last train to Perugia, I could stay in her hotel that night. I love the Italians. Fortunately, there was one last train, and she waited with me to make sure I had everything straight.

One two-hour train ride and a €10 cab later, at a quarter ‘til midnight, I finally made it home. Yes, that’s the word I want . Charleston is my forever home, but after all the travel this semester and the urban, standoffish feeling of Brussels, the quaint love of the town is an abode. I am settling in here in a way I never have at Roanoke. Sunday’s extended travel was not fun, but it was a first. I grew up just a wee bit more, I had yet another “first” in Italy, and I realized just how much I love Perugia. Your flight attendant may recite an automated Thank you for flying, but for these, Ryan Air, I must thank you.