Savoring the Riviera: Another Tidbit from Italy

Some days, I'm ready to buy furniture, get a dog, and finally be settled. Then there are days when I especially miss the thrill of living and traveling overseas. On those days, I read through my old essays and journal entries from Italy, and I realize that I'm not quite ready for a puppy. The essay that put that spirit of adventure back in my heart today is about my first full weekend abroad:
We arrived in the quaint beach town of Levanto, just north of Cinque Terre today, and I’m enchanted. I had heard the Riviera was beautiful, but somehow my preconceptions of the haunting Mediterranean prevented me from believing it could really be the “beach lover’s paradise” my guidebook described.

There’s something about all beaches that is universal, and I sensed it here even stepping off the train: the salty smell to the air, brightly colored buildings that glisten in the sun like little jewels, and—once you catch a glimpse of the water—the waves crashing upon distant crags of rock, becoming more evident as the tide comes in. A strange feeling of being at home sweeps over me, an odd phenomenon, considering I’m from the middle of the Illinois prairie.

But then, there is also something so European about this place: focaccia stands on every corner, little girls running topless into the surf, Tuscan style buildings dotting the shore behind me, rocks stabbing my feet as I wade into the water. And then I remember. This is not just a weekend escape to the beach, or one of my endless excuses to spend time baking in the sun. I’m in Italy—a whole semester to explore and to try to find myself at home here.

This past year, my writing has been more anthropological than anything. I’ve been digging through rubble in hopes of uncovering my memories. But this semester, I am writing to preserve memories, for I have learned that they slip away too easily, a ship quietly pulling away from port until it is only a white-tipped spot in the distance. This semester, a perky young teacher from Minnesota warned me when we met on the train, will slip past in the same way. “Cherish every moment;” she smiled wistfully as she gave the command.

But how to explore the all the material—the people, the emotions, the places, and the scenery—how to really capture it all on film, much less on paper? I know that I cannot keep it, anymore than the harbor can keep the ship. And yet I wish I could bottle it up to drink deeply of on days to come when life doesn’t seem so golden or the future so deliciously ripe with the unknown.
Photos (from top to bottom): an Italian girl sunbathing below the hiking trails, a Vernazza fisherman bringing in the day's catch, brightly colored beach umbrellas in Monterosso, getting ready to set out on our [very long] hike from Levanto with a weekend's worth of stuff on my back.

As the Romans Do

This may sound a little cliche--and I just hate to sound cliche--but Rome is my favorite city in Europe (Paris is a close second...oh I am cliche aren't I?!). But truly, there is something so breathtaking about walking through a modern city--with cars whizzing by and people rushing off to work--and then suddenly seeing the Colosseum or Palentine Hill. I just love the juxtaposition of the ancient and the modern.

When I lived in Italy, Rome was my hub for travel every
weekend, since it was just two hours south of my quaint little Perugia by train. Of course I adored Papa Mio, the darling Italian man whose ristorante I frequented when passing through town, and the sights: the Trevi Fountain, the Spanish steps (where great writers like Keats and Shelley sat and wrote when they came to escape the cold of London), the Vatican, and the Colosseo. But it was a trip with my history of early Christianity class--and my professor, Alessandro, who looked like a Greek god and lived in a studio on the river with his gorgeous wife--that caused me to fall in love with the tension between old and new.

We traipsed around the city with Alessandro for hours as he pointed out all of the landmarks, showed us the sites of current archaeological excavation (it is amazing how much is still being uncovered all over the city!), and told us about the architectural significance of several centuries-old basilicas. Finally, we approached the Colosseum and saw where archaeologists are digging up the gladiators' barracks. And then, from a tiny side street tucked behind the Colosseum, we entered a little twelfth century basilica called San Clemente (St. Clement's in English). The preservation of the basilica is exquisite, but what's even more amazing are the treasures that lie beneath it.

First, you make your way down a long stone staircase that leads to a house church where early believers worshiped. The Collegio San Clemente has deemed it a fourth century place of worship, but because it is connected to a large house that is still under excavation, Alessandro told us that it could date back to before the time of Constantine, when Christians worshiped in the houses of wealthier church members. I get chills thinking of early believers fearlessly worshiping the one God just steps away from the Colosseum, where they would be executed if they were discovered!

Below the middle level lies a first century house and the hall of a mysteric cult devoted to the worship of Mithra, the Roman sun god. Worship of Mithra was widespread in ancient Rome, but the mysteric cults associated with Mithra were just that--mysterious. There are few writings about practice, as the religious rites were passed to only a few initiated members. As we walked down the tiny staircase, Alessandro pointed out the cave-like room where cultists would have been baptized into the following by the blood of a bull, which was sacrificed in the room above.

All of that sounds pretty gross, but once we were back out in the crisp October air and lounging by the Tiber, Alessandro explained the significance of San Clemente's three tiers. Apparently, the ancient city is subject to reverse erosion. Instead of the earth being washed away little by little, as is the case in some cities, the sediment from the Tiber has built up over time so that the city gets a little higher each year. To preserve the city, its patrons must rebuild their homes, businesses, and places of worship every few centuries. (You can watch a brief tour of the basilica's three levels here. It takes a few minutes to load, so be patient.)

But what's truly compelling about this story is that early Christians were intent on replacing the old, pagan places with new, Christian places. They understood that at the center of the Gospel is God's constant working to make all things new. They understood that the Kingdom being ushered in was meant to replace the old earthly kingdom (2 Peter 3:13). The Roman believers represented this principle very visibly as they transformed the old into new in their city, even as they themselves were being made new by the covenant blood of Jesus.

As we prepare to celebrate our Lord's birth, some are disturbed by the many pagan roots of the holiday we call Christmas. Indeed, December 25 was chosen for the observance not because of its historical accuracy, but because that date coincides with the Roman festival to Mithra, the very same god whose worship site lies buried beneath San Clemente.

The connection is disturbing, as it shows how easily we Christians fall prey to the trappings of this world. I would argue, however, that this connection can also be a source of joy for us as we dwell on the lesson of the Roman Christians, who were eager to portray God's work in the world by physically exchanging the old for the new. To be sure, there are still many secular manifestations of the Christmas holiday. But just as it is our Jesus (and not Mithra) who is worshiped in a little basilica down the street from the Colloseum, so is He the One whose coming we celebrate at Christmas.

Let us rejoice that He is gloriously at work in the world, securing for us a "city that is to come" (Hebrews 13:13-15)!

He who was seated on the throne said, "See, I am making everything new!"
Revelation 21:5

La Pausa: Reflections on my semester in Italy

[Beautiful Piazza Italia, where I often went to write, take in the view, and think about sheep]

This week marks the second anniversary of the beginning of my time in Italy. That may sound a bit dramatic (okay, I guess it is a little dramatic), but I continue to be influenced by the things I did and saw and learned while living abroad for four months. Especially now that I am starting my first "big girl" job, going back to school for my masters, and working part-time retail, I need to remember those lessons learned in the quiet of train rides and chilly nights in my apartment. I wrote this essay in November of 2006, around the time I started to prepare myself mentally to leave my little hilltop hamlet of Perugia.

When I first arrived in Italy, the Italian culture presented a great many difficulties. For instance: how Italian women could so effortlessly climb the steep hills of Perugia in stilettos while I stumbled along in flats, or the fact that my washing machine took three hours to complete a cycle—and why, for that matter, the appliance was located in my kitchen. I gawked at Italian lovers who passionately kissed in the Piazza, shivered at the thought of a cold winter in my centuries-old apartment with only six alloted hours of heat per day, and struggled to understand how the Italian word for “flower” could be a masculine noun. After nearly a whole semester here in this foreign land of romance, cappuccino, and fine leather, these difficulties have become a part of my cultural understanding, part of the brilliant beauty of Italy, part of my college experience. But the greatest of these mysteries, the one that continues to challenge me, and the one that I still struggle to comprehend, is la pausa.

At precisely one o’clock--the only time Italians are ever on time, mind you--I stop picking up wireless from the business across the street, it’s next to impossible to find a panino for lunch, and the bright orange APM buses are overcrowded with teenagers coming home from school. Everyone hurries home from work to eat pranza, traditionally the largest meal of the day in Italy, with their families and to take a nap before heading back to work. It is as if life stands still until three or four o’clock when everyone resumes their positions, albeit the schoolchildren, who stay at home unless they’re involved in sports or music. Italians refuse to be conquered by their work, or to let it completely define them.

If there’s one thing the Italians know, it’s how to live well. They savor every bite and every flavor of a meal and rest on the Sabbath, even extending it to Monday in some cases. They’re not stingy with affection—they kiss friends, family, even new acquaintances (and not the silly air kisses; they literally kiss each cheek!), know when to spend extravagantly and when to save, treat themselves to gelato not because they’ve lost a boyfriend or need a pick-me-up, but just because, and take their time strolling down the corso or mingling in the piazza.

And so I found myself feeling, quite frankly, displaced. Not because of the language barrier, or my ancient apartment, but because I, the activity junkie, had been transplanted to the land of Cone Lickers. Yes, Cone Lickers. That’s the term Donald Miller used in Through Painted Deserts to describe the vacationers at a ranch where he worked one summer. And even though I’m technically the “vacationer” here, I have found myself surrounded by them.

I arrived in Italy expecting mile-a-minute fun and constant activity. I was determined to suck every ounce of excitement and experience I could out of these three and a half months in Europe. Despite the warning of my much wiser sorority sister, Sarah, that my study abroad experience would likely be slow at times, I insisted that I was going to learn Italian, travel the entire European continent, and get involved in ministry all over Italy. In spite of my weekend travels to far-off places, the weeks here are slow, allowing me a chance to catch my breath.

In fact, the Italian way of catching one’s breath was a cultural nuance I learned something about even before arriving in Italy. While working as a youth director in a rural area outside of Richmond this summer, I had the opportunity to attend a forum on youth ministry with seven visiting Italian Baptist pastors. On the last morning of the conference, I rushed up to Sergio, one of the pastors, to ask for his contact information. Forgetting that he hadn’t spoken English in twenty years, I excitedly blabbed about something to him. Putting a hand on my shoulder, he said in his thick Napoli accent “Chelsea, you are wonderful. But take a breath!”

I’ve been learning a lot about sheep here. Not just because they dot the Umbrian countryside that surrounds this little hill I’ve come to call a temporary home, but because I’ve been reading a book about the twenty-third Psalm. You know, “The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want”? Apparently sheep are really stupid. In order to rest, every obstacle must be cleared for them: danger, hunger, thirst. They literally need a shepherd, or they cannot sleep. That’s a little how I’ve felt here: like my Shepherd had to clear every obstacle—friendships, activities, work—and bring me to the green pastures of Perugia. He has had to make me lie down in them, for I am so utterly unable to be still on my own. It’s a constant struggle even here. Sometimes I just feel unable to rest while everyone around me goes on licking their gelato cones. I’ve wanted so much to soak up the Italian culture, and yet, in stubbornness, I’ve rejected the most central part of it again and again by persisting in my quest for constant activity. But slowly, I am learning the value of slowing down and the necessity of rest. Little by little, I am learning the rhythm of pause.

No matter where life takes me from here, I shall always remember the green hills that surround this cozy little Medieval city, for they will always remind me of the way life is meant to be lived. Whenever I think of them, I’ll remember to be careful with myself, to take time to linger over a meal, to enjoy beauty and ponder truth. I’ll recall the wise lesson learned from my Italian friends: that a life lived well isn’t so much characterized by busyness or productivity, but by the intentional savoring of each day. I’ll always be thankful for this time in Italy, my very own la pausa.