Ascending Longs Peak

Longs Peak, Rocky Mnt. National Park, CO
August, 2014

Our first day in Estes Park, Colorado, my husband and I parked our converted van home in our campsite on national park property and set out to explore our new backyard. Behind our campsite was a steep hill (or perhaps it would be considered a mountain–perspective is strange in the Rockies) called Eagle Peak. We started off our day scrambling up through the aromatic Ponderosa Pines and onto the rocky peak. When we crested the ridge we felt like we had stepped into a photograph–below us was a lush valley with a sparkling stream winding through its grasses, and surrounding this on three sides was the most spectacular panorama of massive snow-laden peaks I had ever seen.

After a few moments of silent admiration I pointed to the largest, snowy peak–the one with the steepest, craggiest point of rock for a summit–and said, “We are going to climb that.” Tyler looked at my skeptically, but I was determined–that mountain was calling my name.

It was a busy summer of hard work, but every break we had we took the opportunity to climb one of the endless peaks which surrounded us in every direction. But that first peak whose challenge I had accepted we continued to push off till later in the summer. We found out its name–Long’s Peak–and that it is the highest peak in the Park. Every year hundreds of people make the ascent and this year already there had been several rescues and several deaths. We wanted to be prepared, we told ourselves. But all summer that looming face watched over us–visible from nearly every corner of the park–taunting us.

It was nearing the end of August when the cool mountain summer suddenly turned to fall and we knew we could wait no longer. The window of time when the snow and ice was likely to be clear from the treacherous summit ledges was nearing its end–perhaps already passed.

The night before our ascent we drove to the trail head and parked our van. I slept fitfully–dreaming of all that might go wrong on the morrow. I was awake when our 3 am alarm went off and we fumbled in the darkness for a light. It was cold and we bundled into layers of wool socks, leggings, sweaters, and jackets–though it was not quite that cold it would be much colder at 14,259 ft. We climbed out of our van and headed for the dark trail head–tired and anxious as we went.

We began trudging up the path under a thick canopy of pines. Our head lamps illuminated our immediate path, but made the darkness around us all the more intense. Within minutes Tyler began chattering away excitedly about goodness-knows-what. He was nervous and excited and needed an outlet. But I was still wrapped in a heavy layer of sleepless-exhaustion and did not like to be pulled out of it. For ten or fifteen minutes I gave barely audible grunts in response to him–hoping desperately that he would take the hint–he didn’t. Finally, I turned to him and said, “I’m sorry, but you are really going to have to stop talking now.” Wonderful man that he is, he gave me a sheepish grin and fell silent.

I sighed in relief and my tired senses gradually began to absorb and appreciate the cool, darkness of the forest, the soft earth underfoot, the silent sounds of the night all around us. We climbed steadily and quietly upward and the time passed quickly. Before we knew it we were breaking out of the woods onto a little rock outcropping and we could see out over the trees and knew we had made good progress. Above us the the stars peeked in through the trees and we were enveloped in the beauty of the night. The last of our exhaustion and nervousness dissipated and was fully replaced by a thrill for the adventure we were embarking upon.

As we re-entered the forest I picked up the chattering where Tyler had left off. I jumped from topic to topic–anything to let out the anticipation building inside. It was still completely dark when we broke out above the tree-line. Spread out before us was open tundra and spread out above us and reaching down far below to the horizon was a brilliant canopy of stars. In front of us the mountain rose in invisible blackness, but its blackness cut a shape out of the stars and we could sense its vague and menacing form. In the trees below us we could now see an occasional point of light bobbing along–a fellow traveler far below us. Looking up ahead, these same points of light were scattered up the slope.They were all distant enough to allow us to feel solitary in our venture, but at the same time gave us a faint sense of comradeship on this journey.

Climbing up through the dark tundra, under the stars, heading towards dangerous precipices while the rest of the world slept below us was one of the most exhilarating experiences of my life. As we climbed and talked the air got sharper and colder, even as the world began to grow slightly light. There is nothing quite like that magical time before sunrise when the world grows brighter but the light seems to come from no particular place. Its almost as if the world itself is producing a soft glow. Then, gradually, a faint bit of color appears on the eastern horizon and the sunrise begins.

We watched as one by one the lesser lights of the heavens went out in anticipation of the appearance of sun on the edge of the earth. What had before been formless shapes and shadows began to solidify into rocks, boulders, and outcroppings. Towards the rising sun the earth fell away and we could now make out the steep ascent we had made in the darkness and already far below were other mountains we had conquered on previous ventures.  Meanwhile, towering over our heads we began to make out the looming shape of the mountain peak–our destination–which had been hidden from us in the darkness.

We were nearing the end of the first portion of our journey now. To successfully (and safely) summit this mountain it is necessary to complete the long, gradual ascent to the base of the peak by sunrise. There are two reasons for this. The first is purely the length of the hike and to complete it in one day you must reach the summit before noon. But the other, more menacing reason is that dangerous and sudden storms are common at the peak and it is imperative that climbers be off the summit before they roll in, usually around noon or after. Though the first portion of the hike is the longest in distance (6 of  the 7.5 miles to the summit), it is also the easiest. As the sun finally shone its rays upon us and we neared the level field at the base of the peak we knew we our journey was really just beginning.

The mountains and valleys below were now bathed in light and the blue and white lines of the mountain ridges on every side stood out sharp, and vivid, and the sight was breathtaking. Our path was no longer skirting the outer edge of the mountain, but had turned inward, directly towards the peak which was still not entirely in view. The wind was biting now and found our layers insufficient to stop it. Our bare hands grew stiff and red. Underfoot we now saw occasional puddles frozen solid. Somewhere miles below it was still the end of summer, but here winter had already descended–perhaps it had never left.

We meandered through some boulders and over a ridge and suddenly found ourselves at the base of the peak–a massive pinnacle of solid rock. In the shadows and crevices of the rock face hid heavy layers of snow. Between us and the path we had to take up to the peak was a vast field of boulders of every size up to as big as an SUV. The icy wind blasted at us across this open field and stole away the last of our warmth. We found shelter among the boulders and tried to regain some warmth while eating a huge turkey sub we had brought along. Though we were hungry we did not make much progress on the sandwich as our hands were too cold to even hold it. And though we had some protection from the wind we did not grow any warmer and soon gave up and proceeded across the boulders. The best way to traverse the expanse was to climb onto the larger boulders and leap from one to another–at any other time we would have made a game of it.

When we finally reached the other side we found a handful of other hikers lingering around the opening in the rock face that led to the back side of the mountain and marked the beginning of the real ascent. The opening in the rock is called the Keyhole. It is like a picture frame through which you can look to world beyond. Through this opening gale force winds rushed through. We climbed to the frame and peered through–carefully bracing ourselves to keep from being tumbled back down the rocks. The far side of the mountain was still in shadows of various shades of blues and grays. Just through the opening the mountainside dropped away to nothingness for thousands of feet. To the left of the a narrow ledge of jumbled rocks formed the path which led across the top of this abyss and up the back side of the peak.

We stepped back from the opening and pondered whether it was wise to go forward. Snow and ice would make the narrow path treacherous and combined with the intensity of the wind we were concerned that to proceed might be foolish. But as we rested and pondered a group of hikers emerged through the opening. We questioned them and they had already been to the summit and back! They assured us that the going was better and the wind less strong as soon as you got through the opening.

We looked at each other questioningly and both knew the other wanted to proceed–and so we did. Climbing through the opening with the wind tearing at us was terrifying. But it was true, once we were through and reached the narrow ledge the wind subsided. This portion of the trail is called the Narrows. We proceeded cautiously, but found secure footing and felt fairly confident in spite of the ledge to our right. The drop was not quite 90 degrees, but though the solid rock slope had an angle to it, it was just enough that should you fall you were guaranteed to bounce along the rock the whole way to the rock floor thousands of feet below without the slightest hope of ledge or handhold to save you.

This stretch went smoothly enough and was mostly a horizontal trek and therefore not very tiring. We took this restful opportunity to admire the surrounding landscape–blue and white capped mountains in the distance and the nearer, sharp spears of rock surrounding us. It was awe-inspiring to say the least.

At the end of the Narrows we came to the Trough, a chute of tumbled boulders covered in powdery snow. Here we stopped to put metal ice grips on the bottom of our shoes. This portion of the climb was much more arduous as the ascent was fairly vertical, with the boulders we had to scramble up covered in slippery snow. Here there was much less danger of an instant death fall, but the prospect of tumbling down the slippery boulders was not an appealing one and we climbed cautiously.

At the top of the Trough there were several, enormous boulders that could only be climbed by shimmying up the space between two, chimmney-style–with back braced against one and feet against another. Tyler helped me to my feet on top of the highest boulder and we found ourselves looking out through a gap in the rocks, down another side of the mountain. We scrambled over a ridge and down onto another narrow ledge–this time the drop was a sheer free-fall of thousands of feet.

The ledge here was even narrower and covered with ice. It was more apparent than ever that one wrong step could lead to a swift death. I was grateful for the grips on my shoes which I could feel biting into the smooth ice with every step. We tested every step before putting weight on it–before trusting our footing. I’ll admit, there were a few times here where I was scared. But for the most part as long as I tested each step I felt confident in my footing. This continued for some time before we rounded an outcropping and saw the final stretch before us. Here the narrows began to widen out a bit, but even as they did the smooth rock slab began to increase its angle until it was nearly vertical with a clean-cut drop on the outer edge.

To make matters worse the smooth rock had rivulets of frozen water running down it–covering and obscuring many of the already too-few handholds. We began to climb on the inner edge closest to the comforting rock wall, but as we navigated the ice patches and attempted to find satisfactory hand and foot-holds we often found ourselves closer to the outer edge and the sheer drop than was comfortable. At this point there were also a number of other climbers on this portion of the slope and I was very aware that should one of them slip (or should I) it was likely they would take others behind them down on the way. But we were so close now, there could be no going back.

My frozen fingers fumbled stiffly along the rock, searching for a grip. I found myself in a position where there were no hand-holds. None within reach, that was. I saw what I had to do–I had good footing and I would have to push off and attempt to spring to new grips for both hands and feet. I had to be confident in myself. To falter here would certainly mean to fall. And to miscalculate would also certainly mean to fall. But it was the only way. I closed my eyes for a moment, then looked down at Tyler who was looking up at me–studying me.  It was now or never. I held my breath and jumped, praying I would reach my aim. I used the momentum to propel me, and scrambled up a few feet, grasping as I did onto some good holds. I was safe. I had done it. It was just a short scramble now over the edge and onto the summit. Exhausted I pulled myself up, and then reached a hand back to Tyler. Together we crawled onto the peak–onto the top of the world.

In every direction we could see endlessly–nothing could obscure our vision at this height, we were above it all. Clouds hung below us and a few sailed towards us, directly on our level. We rested for a while, soaking in the beauty around us and the triumph of our ascent. Now that we were on top, however, I began to feel the adrenaline that had been propelling me on begin to dissipate. I felt exhaustion begin to creep over me.

It was growing late in the morning and though the sunlight was piercing at the moment, there were clouds in the distance that could pose a threat and we knew we must begin our descent. I had heard before that descending a serious mountain can be more dangerous than the ascent and I instantly realized the truth of this. The mountain was conquered and the adrenaline gone and with it the extended strength it had provided. As I braced my body against the pull of gravity and began to slowly lower myself down the steep, icy, slope I felt the weakness and the exhaustion of my arms. I realized the toll that had been taken on them in the ascent that I had barely noticed before.

As I braced and lowered, braced and lowered, my tired arms threatened to fail me at any moment. I mostly slid down on my butt, trying to do most of the hard work with my feet. Finally, we reached the bottom of the wall and were faced with the long, treacherous narrows. The sharp awareness given by adrenaline which had aided us in our careful steps in the ascent was gone, and it took great effort to pay such close attention to each step–to put each foot forward delicately and gingerly, prepared for anything. By the time we reached the bottom of the Trough I was stumbling–and we still had the longest stretch of the Narrows ahead of us. A little ways into the Narrows I stumbled, and fell forward, catching myself with my hands. Tyler rushed to me and looking up at him I saw the fear in his eyes.

I summoned what little strength and energy I had left for his sake. I’ve never felt that exhausted in my life. My bones felt empty, hollowed of all life. I felt so tired it was almost like pain–and I don’t mean muscle pain–the pain of pure exhaustion. I told Tyler I didn’t think I could go on and again saw the fear and something like desperation in his eyes. I had to keep trying. I could have curled up on that rock face and gone to sleep. But I kept going. I stumbled again, and again. Tyler was nearly on top of me now, trying to keep me from falling. The Keyhole came into sight. We were almost there. Almost.

The final climb up through the Keyhole was treacherous and my broken body raged against me for forcing it forward. But then we were through, and the sun shone bright, and weakly warm on our faces. I found a large, flat rock and stretched out and didn’t move for a long time.

Finally, Tyler woke me from my petrified state of exhaustion and said we had to move on. The boulder field stretched out like an ocean before us. I looked from the boulder I was standing on to the one a few feet away, knowing I would have to jump to it. But all the spring was gone from my body. What nearly as natural as walking on the way up now felt like jumping the Grand Canyon. I forced my body to make the leap and I landed awkwardly, the impact jolting through my whole body. I had to rest between each stumbling-jump and our progress was slow and tedious. When we finally reached the end of the boulder field and and were able to walk on the packed dirt trail again I could have cried for joy. We had six miles left to go, but I could stumble my way down from here on.

We turned back and looked at that menacing, black peak which had taunted us for months. We had been on top of that. We had conquered it, experienced it, and now that we were safe from it it could be a friend–it could threaten us no more. We stood arm-in-arm marvelling at the power of the mountain and at our own ability in having successfully reached its summit.

The Struggles of Life Abroad

Torino, Italy
Spring, 2012

When you think of the difficulties you might encounter while traveling or living abroad you tend to think of the big things–not speaking or reading the language, different etiquette rules, etc. But in my experience it is often the small things–like doors being pushed instead of pulled, multiple buttons to flush a toilet instead of a simple handle, no toilet seat at all…these are the types of things that tend to catch me off guard and leave me flustered and confused. My first week studying abroad in Torino, Italy had many difficulties of this sort, including an incident with a train.

My college roommate, my now-husband, and I all spent a semester studying in Italy during our undergrad. None of us knew more than an handful of Italian words when we arrived, and of those our pronunciation was horrific. We had only been in Torino for a few days when we decided we needed to get out and explore. My roommate, Alyssa, had heard about a walled-medieval town on the outskirts of the city that Tyler and I agreed sounded worth visiting. So we headed to the train station, phrase books in-hand.

We were successful in finding the correct train and listened anxiously for the right stop. When we heard the name of our stop we all quickly headed for the door. When we got there we were surprised to find it closed. On any train or bus I’ve ever been on in the US the doors open automatically at a stop and shut when the vehicle is about to start again. We had no clue what to do–we just stood there staring at the closed door. There was a large handle on the door and we finally decided to try it–even though we were sure an alarm would go off or someone would come and yell at us. This is why these things are normally automated!

Alyssa tentatively tried the handle and to our great surprise the doors slid apart. We hesitated a moment longer–still feeling uncertain–and then Alyssa stepped forward to exit the train. At the exact moment she stepped through the doors they closed on her; sandwiching her between them. For a brief moment she was stuck there, her lower body half outside the train, her face a picture of complete shock. A moment’s struggle and she was through the doors, and outside the train.

Tyler grabbed the door handle and tried to open the door again, but this time it did not budge. There had been no warning signal, nothing to alert us that our chance to exit the train was over, but now we were stuck inside the train, and Alyssa outside on the platform. I ran back into the passenger car and spinning around frantically began shouting, “USCITA, USCITA, USCITA!” Which means, “EXIT, EXIT, EXIT!” Except I had the pronunciation completely wrong and wasn’t forming an actual sentence, so it really shouldn’t be surprising that the other passengers ignored me entirely and made no move to help us.

Even as I was shouting I felt the train shift under my feet, and I looked at Tyler in horror, and then we both turned to look out the window to where Alyssa still stood on the platform. Her face mirrored the looks of shock and confusion on our’s as the train slowly moved away, leaving her behind.

None of us had international phones, so there was no way of contacting her. There was nothing we could do now except sit down and wait for the next stop, and then get back on a train heading back to Alyssa. But the fears immediately began bombarding our minds–“What if she tries to come to us? What if she heads back to the apartments without us? What do we do if we get back to the stop and she isn’t there?” In retrospect none of these fears were really serious, but at the time we were overwhelmed–our first excursion and we were already lost and separated.

Even as we fretting over our fears the image of Alyssa’s face as she was squashed in the doors (just like the warning stickers posted on them!)  came to my mind and I suddenly burst out laughing. Tyler looked at me in confusion. Through my laughter I managed to say, “Alysssa. The doors. Her face!” At this Tyler cracked up too and we laughed the whole way to the next stop. When we exited the train–this time successfully–our fears returned. It was about 15 minutes until the next train and I couldn’t help but worry about Alyssa waiting for us, wondering if we were coming for her, when we would get there, or whether she should just go back to the apartment.

Finally the train pulled up and we were once again headed back the direction we had come. When we arrived at our stop we ran out onto the platform looking frantically for Alyssa. She was no where in sight. Then we saw her–getting onto the very train we had just gotten off of a little ways down the platform. We ran after her yelling for her to wait. She saw us, and climbed down, just before the door latched and the train started moving.

We spent a few moments spilling out our separate adventures and expressing our relief. Then we decided to continue on our venture. A few minutes later we were approaching a magnificent medieval town, rising up on a hill over the surrounding suburbs. We entered through an arch in the wall around the city, climbed through winding streets, past beautiful churches, and finally to a castle at the top of it all with beautiful views looking out over the city and the Alps beyond.

It was a successful trip after all and well worth the hecticness and confusion. And most importantly, the adventure gave me one of my most hilarious memories. I’ll never forget the look on Alyssa’s face while trapped in the door, or the image of me running around yelling, or our pathetic naive faces as the train pulled away. Who would have thought a train door could have presented such difficulties?

The Rose Man in Rome

Rome, Italy
Spring, 2012

It was our last night in Rome. It was one of those lovely spring evenings when the air is the perfect mixture of warm and cool which feels like a perpetual kiss to the cheek. We were sad to end our time in such a beautiful place and we had spent the evening stalling our goodbye. We wandered the quiet streets from the Trevi Fountain, to the Spanish Stairs, and through winding back streets until we finally found ourselves at the Colosseum.

The ancient structure was at full aesthetic advantage in the soft glow of the street lights; the crowds of the afternoon vanished–leaving open space to amplify its majestic stance. We made our way to a secluded bench where we could sit and bask in the beauty around us. As I sat there, under the walls of the Colosseum, with the arm of the man I loved around me, in one of the most beautiful, romantic cities in the world, I had one of those moments of utter surreality that sometimes overwhelm me. At these times I am simply in awe of the present beauty of my life and feel almost distant from myself–marveling at my own experiences as an outsider.

As I was processing all of this I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. I looked and saw a man carrying a bundle of roses walking in our general direction. He caught my eye. I looked away quickly; but it was too late–we had made eye contact. His trajectory changed from generally in our direction to straight for us. If you have ever been to Rome than you know why I was horrified with my mistake.

Most cities, especially tourist cities, have plenty of street vendors and peddlers continually trying to sell you their wares. But in Rome, more so than most cities I’ve been to, some of these peddlers can be particularly persistent and aggressive in their attempts to make a sale. And of all of these, the rose men are the worst. They prey on the unsuspecting tourist, offering a rose as if as a gift, when the victim accepts the rose the peddler then demands money, but refuses to take back the rose and, unless you throw the rose on the ground, the only way to get rid of the salesman is to give him the money.

Even those who are wise to this trick have a hard time escaping the rose man. Once you make eye contact you are doomed. He swoops in like a hawk, with a rose held out in your face, and when you dismiss it he follows with continuous cajoling and flattery–insisting you take the rose. I’m not exaggerating to say you either have to run away or curse him out to escape. It is a miserable interaction every time.

And now, in the middle of this perfect, romantic moment, I had drawn one toward us. I turned to Tyler, and thinking quickly, said, “Make-out with me, now!” We immediately embraced, eyes closed, pretending to be oblivious to the man’s approach–surely he wouldn’t want to harass a gross, sappy, couple. But with dread we heard the continued sound of footsteps on cobble stone approaching us. But we persisted–we were committed now. The footsteps grew closer, and closer, and then they stopped–right in front of us. I’m sure I blushed, feeling his eyes on us, even though mine were closed. But we clung to each other–determined to make him so uncomfortable that he would leave. Surely he would leave.

The silence continued for what felt like an eternity, but could only have been a moment’s pause before we heard, “Ah, romantico.” In complete surprise and indignation we broke apart and looked up at the man standing over us. He was looking down at us with a grin on his face, rose extended toward us.

Our mouths hung open for a moment in shock before we began the usual chastising dismissal. Finally, Tyler said, “GO AWAY.” The rose man shrugged, still grinning, and  walked away. Tyler and I looked at each other in utter amazement and horror and I said, “I was sure he would go away!”  Then we burst into uncontrolled laughter–the sheer ridiculousness of the situation overwhelming us.

Lela, the Beggar Woman

Torino, Italy
Spring, 2012

The spring semester of my junior year of college Tyler and I (we were just dating then) studied abroad in Torino, Italy. During our four months there we fell hard for the under-appreciated city and northern Italy in general. The casual, unassuming beauty of the city entranced us–the rambling cobblestone streets and accordion men playing on the street corners stole our hearts. When we had to leave I cried over all of these beautiful things, but what broke my heart the most was saying good-bye to a tiny, hunched-over, beggar woman named Lela.

Something that took me off-guard in northern Italy was the homeless. In my experience with the homeless in the US the people on the streets are most often middle-aged men. All of them have sad stories as to how they ended up there–some are drug or alcohol addicts, veterans, or victims of depression and mental illness. It is always heart-breaking to see, but there is some amount of hope that with the right help these people could re-enter society, obtain jobs, make friends, perhaps even be reunited with family.

But here, amidst all the beauty of these ancient streets the beggars are themselves the ancient. Their lives have already been spent and what is left to them they will spend alone, on the streets. I do not know the reason for this difference in demographic, nor do I make claims or judgments about this society–all I know is that it was one of the most heart-rendering things I ever experienced.

We met Lela on one of our first days there–walking back from the train station after classes. The walk back from the train station was one of my favorite parts of the city. The wide boulevard plunged through the heart of the old city. Beautiful, sophisticated shops and restaurants lined the street under grand, arching arcades. The sidewalks under the arcades  were always crowded and bustling and, though my eyes lingered on the ornate cakes or expensive clothing in the windows in passing, I was continually pulled onward by the bustling crowd.

We were just passing Piazza San Carlo, a wide space in the center of the busy city where the sun shone brightly down and reflected off of white paving stones, when my eyes caught something ahead, amidst the throng of shuffling black coats. Un-moving in the center of current was a tiny, black-clad figure. As we approached I saw that it was woman’s figure–but small as a child–bundled against the cold, and hunched over a cane, one hand extended, holding a plastic cup. A glimpse of her bowed head showed us a faded and withered cheek. The shock of seeing such a frail, old woman out on the streets in the cold was like a punch in the stomach. I scrounged in my pocket for some change, but not finding anything I looked desperately at Tyler, who immediately produced some from his own. When the coins hit the bottom of the cup a small, scratchy voice came from the bowed, bundled head, “Grazie.” She didn’t even look up.

We walked back to our student apartments in silence–the image of the little figure in black burned into my mind.

The next morning we had classes early and the world was harsh and frost bitten as we shuffled hurriedly towards the train station. We were empty-handed when we found ourselves passing by the tiny figure again–we had not expected to see her again so early in the day. I wanted to cry imagining how cold she must be.

On our walk back from classes I proudly showed Tyler the clementine I had saved from my lunch to give to the beggar woman. He smiled and pulled one from his pocket as well. This time, when we reached her we stopped and held out the fruit to her. She slowly raised her head to look up at us. We saw her whole face for the first time. Her face was composed of a thousand lines, but set in them were two bright, black eyes. She was something from a fairy tale–the shriveled old crone who when shown kindness turns into a fairy and grants wishes. Her look was one of surprise and curiosity at our attention. In our broken Italian we attempted to introduce ourselves and ask her name. We were never sure whether our Italian was just too poor or if she simply wasn’t Italian, but she did not seem to understand anything we said. But we did eventually communicate to her our names and she told us her’s was Lela. Our words failed us, but through awkward shrugs, smiles and laughs we connected. As we waved and backed away she called after us, Grazie, mami, Grazie.

We continued in this way for the next few weeks–saving a pastry or a piece of fruit here or there to offer Lela on our way to or from school. One day I had an idea that thrilled me. I told Tyler that on our way home I wanted to ask Lela to go to tea with me at one of the shops near where she spent her days. When I asked her that afternoon (using our usual broken Italian and hand gestures) she smiled, but shook her head. “No, mami, no.” She said. She said some things that I didn’t understand, but eventually I gathered that she was saying that she would not be allowed in the shops. My American sensibilities were shocked as in the US we are almost always happy to take money from anyone who will give it to us.

I was sad and disappointed, but Lela’s smiles and reassuring gestures comforted me and I left with a new resolve to help her any way I could–though I had little to offer.

One particularly bitterly cold night Tyler and I were coming back from grocery shopping when we saw the familiar form illuminated under the lights of the shop windows. The wind was biting and a few flakes of snow were beginning to swirl down from the dark sky. I felt my stomach clench. She had been there all day, and now it was dark, and cold and the streets were nearly empty and yet here she stood silent and still as stone.

When we came to her we were both fretful and agitated. We tried to ask her where she lived, where she would stay that night, why she was still outside–but once again our words failed us. She looked at our anxious faces and with a tired smile patted my arm and said things in a tone that I knew meant she wanted us to know she was ok. Tears were welling in my eyes when Tyler asked if there were anything we could do for her or get for her. She hesitated and then held out her bare, gnarled hands–she wanted gloves. We smiled, and nodded our heads, eternally grateful that she had given us this gift of allowing us to help.

We hurried back to our housing and Tyler began digging in drawers for gloves while I put water on to boil. A minute later he appeared at my side with the gloves. “What are you doing?” He asked, looking at the pot of water. “Making her tea.” I said as my voice cracked. I found a jar to hold the tea and wrapped some pastries in a napkin.

We found her in the same place, but she looked up as we drew near–she had learned to recognize our approach and greeted us with a smile. She gladly accepted our meager gifts. We lingered for a few minutes, hating to leave her there in the cold, but we knew our presence made her less likely to receive the charity she was there to humbly accept. And so we left her there.

The weeks and months slipped by and the days grew longer and warmer. One day Tyler asked me to marry him and I accepted. The next day we stopped to excitedly communicate our news to Lela. Our happy faces and the ring on my hand easily communicated our story and she was delighted for us. Though I don’t know the meaning of her words, I know she gave us many blessings that day as she squeezed our hands and her whole wrinkled face beamed back at us.

Finally, the day I had dreaded since we first arrived was upon us–the day of our departure. When I decide to love, I love deeply. And Torino–its streets, its surrounding hills and mountains, its people–had captured my love. I cried over saying goodbye to my apartment, my street, the market, Piazza San Carlo, my favorite gelato shop. I cried softly as we walked through the streets, but when we came in sight of Lela I lost all control and began sobbing.

Lela looked at us in bewilderment–back and forth from Tyler’s sad face to my tear-soaked one. We handed her our bag of fare-well gifts and the laboriously translated card with our explanation of our departure. She looked at the gifts and the card and I don’t know whether she could read it or understand anything we were saying, or whether she simply deduced the truth from the gifts and the tears, but suddenly she understood. She looked sad at least, for our sakes, and took my hands to console me. After a few painful moments we said our tearful goodbyes and continued on our way.

I turned around one last time to look at the tiny figure–the same as ever–and in my memory so she will always be. It is rare that I dwell on my time in Torino without that image appearing before my eyes. We never learned her story–who she was or where she came from or how she came to live her days on the streets. But I often wonder if I were to return if she would still be there. Is she still alive? Would she remember us? Did we make a fraction of the impact on her that she left on us or were we just two of the hundreds of figures that swirl past her unnoticingly on a daily basis? Would those bright black eyes look up and see friends or strangers?