Solo in le Montagne: Don’t Trust Your Travel Book

Before our semester in Italy began, someone gave us a Rick Steves travel book of Italy. It turned out to be a great gift and we became big fans of Rick Steves, whose travel advice led us on many wonderful adventures. There were, however a few times when his guidance was lacking in some way or another–our trip to Rome being a prime example.

Our first few days in Rome were an absolute success with each of Steves’ recommendations turning out better than the last. In addition to the obvious destinations, (the Colosseum or the Roman Forum) his book led us to an off-the-beaten-path crypt of the capuchin monks lined with skulls of deceased monks (a momento mori– reminder of death). It took us to a spectacular cafe where we received free glasses of wine just for placing our book on the table. And, finally, on his recommendation, we planned to get dinner at a small pizzeria where he claimed the best pizza in Rome was produced.

He did mention that the service could be a little rude, but we thought the great pizza would be worth a little neglect in hospitality. 

 

Pizzeria Baffetto, Rome

We headed down a narrow, cobblestoned side street from the Pantheon. As Pizzaria Baffetto wasn’t due to open for another 15 minutes, we were surprised to see a line already forming in front of the hole-in-the-wall restaurant. Waiting in line, we noticed a strange sign on the door. Two stick figures, one wearing a backpack and one holding a backpack in front of it. A big red “X” over the one wearing the backpack and a big “OK” was next to the one holding the backpacks.

Okay, a little strange, but Italians never fail to raise the bar on strangeness. When the doors opened, we took off our backpacks and carried them inside.

This little joint could have been straight out of Jersey. A cramped room jammed full of tables, tiled walls you could barely see for the jumble of pictures and memorabilia that covered them, and a wood-fired oven in the back corner.

Two Italian men were shaping and throwing pizzas in the oven and pulling them out again minutes later, crisp, golden, cheesy.

We ordered our pizzas, one with eggplant and another with zucchini flowers (an Italian delicacy). While we waited for them to arrive we scanned the pictures covering the walls. A short, squat, old man with suspenders, glasses and a cane made so many appearances we could only assume he was the owner.

Even as we were taking all of this in, that same squat figure appeared in the doorway; complete with suspenders, glasses, and cane. He stared intently around the room with a slightly crazed glare and then began shouting at the staff in Italian.

We sort of chuckled to ourselves about this, remembering Rick Steves’ warning about the rude service.

A moment later, another flux of visitors came through the door and the owner stared at them, unwelcomingly, with those beady eyes. The last to come through the door were two young people–a guy and girl–clearly tourists, wearing backpacks.

As soon as he laid eyes on them, the owner began yelling in Italian and the two kids turned to stare in surprise and confusion. “NO! NO! Solo in le montagne! No zaini! NO!”

The kids were stunned and tried to ask what was the matter. These tourists clearly didn’t speak a word of Italian; they were completely lost.

We tried to help, calling across the room “Take off your backpacks! It’s your backpacks! Take them off!”

At this point, the owner began beating their backpacks with his cane, still shouting “NO! Solo in le montagne!” In case you didn’t catch that, it translates, “No backpacks! Only in the mountains!”

In desperation, the bewildered kids pleaded, “We don’t speak Italian!”
The owner, still delivering blows with his cane: “No Italinano? OUT! OUT!

At this point we were standing up, cupping our hands, and shouting, “TAKE YOUR BACKPACKS OFF!”

Finally, they got the message and pulled their backpacks off. Immediately, the shouting and beating stopped, and they were allowed to take their seats (in light of their first impression, it still amazes me that they chose to do so…).

The owner resumed his beady-eyed stance, neck forward, staring around the room.

Just then, our pizzas were unceremoniously deposited in front of us on tin plates. And, I have to say, Rick Steves was right: this was the best pizza I have ever eaten. Paper thin crust, burnt around the edges, sauce so hot it would scald you. The most incredible stringy, bubbling cheese.

 

Pizza with zucchini flowers.

 

But really, Rick Steves? Slightly rude service? A bit of an understatement.

That said, would I go back? Absolutely. Any authentic Italian experience should include a hefty helping of the absurd.

15 Things About Germans that Will Strike Americans as Strange

When you visit another country there are things that you expect to feel different. Maybe the clothing, the architecture, the language, etc. But after having lived in Germany for about 9 months, these aren’t the things that continue to take me off-guard and manage to continually make me feel like I have two left feet. Except for the occasional pair of lederhosen, people pretty much dress the same, the houses have four walls and a roof, and even the language, while different, sounds remarkably familiar. But there are many other things, often very small that continue to feel very odd. Here are just a few of them.

[My experience is primarily within Bavaria, particularly Franconia; things vary a great deal throughout the rest of the country.]

1. The Post Office Owns Everything

In the US we go to the post office to…send mail–and that’s about it, right? Not so in Germany! The Post here has its own bank–Post Bank. It has its own bus line–Postbus. It offers horse drawn carriage rides at Christmas time. Recently we got a new prepaid phone plan and discovered that our plan needs to be reloaded manually–by the post office.

 

2. Doors With Handles…That You Push

This one still gets me every time. You go to a business, walk up to a door with a handle and pull…and nothing happens. And then you realize the door says “drucken” or “push”. Why?? It is odd to have business doors open inward to begin with; why add a handle to the confusion?

3. The Most Un-Doggy Dogs

In Germany, dogs tend to be extremely well-behaved. So well-behaved, in fact, that most of them walk themselves. Walking through the city, it is a common sight to see a dog completely leashless trotting ahead of its person. In the parks, the dogs romp free–and occasionally circle back to their owners. Many times I’ve tried to hold a hand out to get the dog’s attention for a quick pat, and the dog blatantly ignores me and keeps going. Not once have I been approached or jumped on by a dog here. Another common sight is a dog patiently waiting outside a business for its person–sometimes tied up, sometimes not. 

4. Dogs in Restaurants

You don’t see this all the time, but to an American it can be quite shocking. You are sitting in a nice cafe or restaurant, and, all of a sudden, you notice a furry friend under a neighboring table! But, once again, dogs tend to be strangely un-doggy and incredibly well-behaved here, so they simply lay there quietly without disrupting the meal.

5. Grocery Stores are Madness

When you go to a grocery store in the US, there is normally a long chute at the checkout line where your groceries accumulate so you have plenty of time and space to pack them away. Often the cashier packs them for you, or another employee assists you with the bagging.

Not so in Germany! When its your turn at the cash register you had better be ready to throw all those groceries in bags or shovel them back in your cart (unbagged) as fast as the cashier pushes them through, AND be ready with payment when he or she is finished. No nice chute exists here. You are lucky if there is a foot of counter space. And if you don’t have all those groceries away before the transaction is finished? The cashier will usually start pushing the next customer’s groceries through right on top of yours!

My husband and I usually grocery shop together just so we can appropriately handle this stressful experience. When we are the next customers in line we brace ourselves as if for a race; “Are you ready? You get the money, I’ll bag, okay?”

6.  Toilets

Toilets in Europe are generally a little confusing. In the US every toilet is more or less the same. In Europe there might be a handle to flush, or a button. Or there might be a button on the wall, or TWO BUTTONS, and, occasionally, there is no toilet seat. But the most perturbing thing of all is the German poop-shelf toilet.

As you can see, where there should be a basin of water there is instead a shelf. An above-water shelf. I won’t go into too much detail, but I’m sure you can imagine the complications a toilet like this might pose. I’ll just give you three words for the sake of illustration: ODOR, RESIDUE, LODGED.

In every public bathroom, in every stall, there is a toilet brush. And each person is expected to use that toilet brush (on a public toilet!) because, with a design like this, residue is inevitable. 

7. Sitting Outside in the Winter

This is one of the odd things about Germany that I really love. Walking through a city on a cold fall, or even winter day, you are likely to see Germans sitting outside drinking a cappuccino while wrapped in a blanket. As soon as the weather starts to get just a little bit cold, fleece blankets and sometimes sheepskins appear on every chair outside of restaurants. It is definitely a little odd to see people wrapped up in blankets while at a public restaurant, but also wonderful! 

8. Everyone is Always Eating a Pretzel

This is actually pretty much just relegated to Bavaria, but in Bavaria everyone is obsessed with pretzels. And rightly so–they are amazing. But they seem completely unaware of the oddness of their behavior. You see children snacking on them like candy, businessmen eating them on the way to work; pretzels are served alongside rolls at restaurants for dinner, in train stations you will find them in the form of sandwiches, and the list goes on. Probably the oddest pretzel sighting we’ve witnessed was at the opera during intermission. The opera in Nuremberg is a very formal affair–more formal than most weddings. During the intermission everyone gathers in gorgeous room with gilded decor and massive chandeliers, sipping champagne…and munching on big soft pretzels alongside their bubbly. 

Their love of pretzels goes to such lengths that they even apparently find it to be an appropriate form of advertisement for bedding.

9. Beer is Cheaper than Water

When you go to a German restaurant you are not automatically served a glass of water–you pay for it. Germans are not a big fan of tap water (in some restaurants, even if you request it, you will not be given it) and vastly prefer bottled water. In restaurants a bottle of water can easily cost 3-4 euros. Meanwhile, a beer usually ranges from 2.50-4 euros. It is hard to bring yourself to buy that water when you could get a beer instead for the same price or lower…

10. No Open Container Laws

On that same note, you can drink alcohol pretty much whenever and wherever you want. You will see people walking down the street with a bottle of beer, on the subway, settling in for a long bus or train ride, in parks–pretty much anywhere you can imagine. On holidays, such as New Year, everyone takes to the streets with bottles of champagne and plastic flutes to drink and celebrate. 

11. Butter on Sandwiches

I was going hiking with some Germans recently and they prepared some sandwiches to bring along. I was confused to see them buttering bread, but decided that they must be making grilled cheese sandwiches. Mid-hike we stopped and they brought out ham and cheese sandwiches. When I took a bite I was confused and then realized they had put butter on them! When I asked about it they replied, “Yes, it is butter. Why, what would you put on a sandwich?” When I said “mayo” they were horrified and said, “typical American.” 

12. They Don’t Put Mayo on Sandwiches, but They DO Put it on Fries

So instead of using mayo for its intended purpose, they put it on their french fries! (this is actually done in a number of European countries).

13. They Knock

My husband is attending graduate school in Germany. After his first lecture, the professor wrapped things up and he prepared to grab his stuff and head out. But to his complete surprise, all of the students began knocking on their desks. He looked around in confusion as all of the straight-faced German students knocked on their desks, then abruptly stopped and proceeded to pack up and leave. This occurred in the next class and the next. 

14. Waiting at Crosswalks

Germans always wait till the crosswalk light turns green before crossing. It doesn’t matter if there is not a car in sight, or if the oncoming traffic has already stopped for their red light–the Germans wait. I cannot express how painful this is–to be in a rush and get to a crosswalk where it is clearly safe to cross, but everyone continues to stand there motionless. It is very difficult to bring yourself to cross with all of those dutifully law-abiding Germans patiently waiting! (My husband got yelled at once by a fellow pedestrian for crossing before the light changed; “the light is still red, Mensch!”).

15. They Intentionally Deliver Your Mail to Your Neighbors

When we first arrived in Germany I was very confused when one evening I heard my doorbell ring and opened the door to a man in plain clothes standing at my door with a package. He handed me the package and walked away. I shrugged and didn’t think much of it. I received a number of other packages, sometimes from an official post man, and sometimes from apparently random people.

One day I opened my mailbox to find a slip indicating I had received a package. My German was not good enough to understand everything on the slip, but I gathered that I needed to go to the post office to pick it up. So I did.

I handed the slip over the counter and requested my packett. They looked at the slip and informed me they did not have it, but that my nachbar had it. “Who the heck is my nachbar??”I asked. The postal worker looked perplexed, turned to a co-worker, and then said tentatively to me, “neighbor?”

Now, this wasn’t an unusual occurrence where a friendly neighbor who knew me and the postman stepped up and said, “Oh, she isn’t home? I’ll take it for her.” No, this is an official practice commonly utilized, and you are officially notified of it by your postal slip.

From Germany to Vermont: The Pain of Calling Too Many Places Home

My hands are four inches deep in rich, freshly tilled earth. I dig a small hole and nestle a lettuce seedling into it, pressing the soil around the tender roots. The sun shines bright and the smell of warm soil fills the air. I raise my eyes to rolling mountains against a vivid blue sky. I view all of this as if observing someone else’s life. The disjointedness of my existence makes me feel a bit dizzy, even nauseous at times. As if I had just stepped off of a rapidly spinning ride. The beauty all around me pushes futilely against a deep aching emptiness inside me.

The past few weeks have been a tumultuous blur. When my visa application was rejected we had only a few weeks to leave Germany, to pack up our lives there, fly back to the US, visit our families, find jobs, housing, a new life all over again. And here we are, in the Green Mountains of Vermont, on an organic hippie commune farm. Living in a tree house. I spend my days working in the greenhouse, planting in the fields, or baking artisan bread in a wood burning oven. It is all like a dream–one we would have wished for not long ago.

Now I feel numb and hollow.

---

As a kid I always loved spending time with friends–parties, sleepovers, road trips. But there would always reach a point where the fun would still be going on around me, while I would become withdrawn from it, wearied of the excitement, and all I would wish for was to go home, curl up in my own bed, sleep in late and wake up to the sounds of my mom bustling around the kitchen.

I feel that now. That weariness. That ache. A homesickness. The pain is familiar, but now it is different. Why? Because when I feel that ache, the desire is undefined. I’m homesick, but for what?

I have always been someone who loves slowly, but deeply. Once that love is established, it is there to stay. My first love was a little crooked house on top of a hill in the foothills of the Catskills. For 19 years that was my only home. My family, my friends, my world was that place. When I ached for home, the direction of that longing was clear.

Now, when I long for home I see that little house on a hill, I see familiar faces of my childhood, the deeply forged friendships of college, winding cobblestone streets, castles, the Alps, a warm blue ocean crashing on a sunny beach, and over it all the never ending throbbing of the bells–from cathedrals, ancient and grand.

But this home does not exist as a whole. It is fragmented and scattered across, states, countries, and continents. And my heart aches and throbs like the ringing of the bells, but it does not know which direction to turn, to head home, to rest.

Can you love too many people? Too many places? Can the heart endure it?

The party and the excitement, new people and adventures go on around me, but I am weary and I long to rest.

I wonder if I have loved too much.

Will I ever be content to call one place home? Or am I doomed to forever seek what does not exist?

Deportation: The Experience of a Privileged White American

Ever wondered what a deportation letter looks like? Now you know.

Have you ever wondered what it would be like to be deported from a country you are living in? If you are an average, privileged, native, white American like myself, then probably not. Perhaps you have imagined what it is like to be a Mexican immigrant sent home to drug cartels or a Syrian refugee sent back to war and terrorism. But while the issue of immigration is a major social and political issue in the US today, for many of us the concept of deportation is foreign and abstract. As US citizens we have wide freedom to travel the world with minimal hassle. And most of us don’t have plans of moving out of the country.

But what if you did? What if you wanted or needed to move out of the US, but couldn’t?

This isn’t a political statement (though I do have my own thoughts on immigration policy), it is the story of of a unique and unexpected experience which has changed the way I look at personal freedom of mobility forever.

———

As I turned the key in my mailbox I felt the usual clenching of my stomach. I opened the door and a fat, orange envelope was waiting inside. It was heavy and thick in my hands and I couldn’t breathe as I opened it there in the public hallway–too anxious to wait until I reached my own apartment. I hurriedly scanned the twelve pages of dense , formal German; searching for words I recognized. For something that would clue me in to the nature of this document.

I hadn’t made sense of a single sentence before the rock settled in my stomach. This was wrong. The orange envelope, the thickness of the packet, too many pages. I didn’t know anything yet.

But I knew.

———

When my husband got the acceptance letter for a prestigious graduate program in Germany, we were ecstatic. It had been our dream to live in Europe for a while, and he needed to get a master’s degree–which we could not afford. The discovery of free programs in Germany seemed to be the perfect solution. We only had a few months to get everything together–visas, flights, find an apartment, etc. It was overwhelming.

I had been working at Starbucks for over a year with the hopes that this would happen and I could transfer internationally–making the international job and visa process much easier. Unfortunately, Starbucks would not “sponsor” a visa. AKA, they would not give the necessary documentation I needed to obtain a work visa, saying that they would hire me once I was overseas.

The most viable solution then seemed to be to move to Germany with the automatic three month tourist visa available to US citizens traveling in the EU and apply for a work permit while there. My husband was granted temporary legal residency as a graduate student and I had an employer that wanted to hire me and I am American. It should have been easy, right?

———

I stood in a long line of people of various nationalities–old, young, children fidgeting. The place smelled of body odor. And anxiety.

I recited my carefully practiced sentences under my breath. But I prayed the person in the booth would speak English. The game of trying to speak a foreign language while ordering my morning “Kaffee” or “Brot und Kase” at the market lost all its enjoyment when it came to trying to explain the finer points of my legal requests. 

I had learned that it was hit or miss. Some of the immigration officials spoke okay English, some none, and some simply refused to speak anything but German whether they could or not. I looked around at the foreign faces surrounding me and wondered how they did it. Did they speak German? Or English, the current lingua franca? Did they have any hope of someone speaking their language? Did they have friends to help them?

The Asian family ahead of me was moving on. It was my turn. I walked up to the booth to see a blank, disinterested face looking back at me. “Sprechen Sie English?” I ask, tentatively. The man thinks for a moment and then shrugs. “Nein.”

I summon my rehearsed lines. I know I only have a few minutes to convey what I need before the restlessness of the line behind me transfers to the man before me.

I leave the building moments later in tears. Less sure than ever of my situation or what is expected of me. I always leave more hopeless than when I arrive.

———

So much of our new life was wonderful. An adorable little apartment, winding cobblestone streets, immersion in a beautiful old culture. We were full of hope and anticipation. But we were anxious to get my job and residency settled so we could feel stable and at rest.

The weeks passed and I had not heard anything about my work permit. We watched our savings dwindle. But it would be okay. It would come through and everything would be fine if I could just work.

———

My husband attended classes in another town several days a week. At first I tried to keep busy during the day. But as time passed I did less. I stayed in bed till the mail came. Then I would check it for news. Nothing. Another day until my life could begin again.

Back to bed.

I would hear his footsteps on the stairs and hurriedly put on pants and wait on the couch so he wouldn’t know I had been in bed all day. 

Two or three times every week we went to the Auslandebehorde to ask for updates. Next week, they said. And then the next week. And on and on. 

Every day was a cycle of fear, anticipation, and disappointment. 

We did our best to enjoy life anyway. And we did, while looking out from the castle ramparts, or sitting outside a tiny cafe eating gelato. But with a perpetual cloud hanging over us.

One day we went to the Auslandebehorde, determined to get answers. In broken English they informed me that my application for a work permit had been rejected. I was not a “priority” they said. 

The shock of the statement took me so off guard I could not absorb it. Could this happen to us? Could we be rejected? Denied permission to remain in a country despite having solid work and school opportunities?

I stared in disbelief. Our savings were nearly gone. We were screwed. 

———

In the face of this harsh blow we mustered all the strength we had left, determined to find a solution. Starbucks requested that the application be reassessed–stating that they wanted me and that I would be a valuable asset. No avail.

I was running out of time, but at the last minute I obtained an online job writing for an American Web design company and submitted an application for spousal reunification.

We had to downsize our apartment to get by. I couldn’t leave the country while my paperwork was being processed. I looked on the Polizei with nervousness–afraid I would make some small infraction and be promptly removed.

But overall, things got better. We were hopeful. I had a paycheck, small though it was.

———

I had just begun to relax, to really enjoy this amazing opportunity of living in another country when a letter arrived. All in German, as usual. A friend translated for us–they needed more documents to determine whether I was eligible to stay.

I waited in line again. Anxiously. At the cubicle a woman took my papers. She looked at them and informed me that they would be filed and I would receive “eine brief von die Post.” 

I tried not to let fear get to me. I embraced our life here. I loved the city. We went running. Explored castles, cathedrals, and forests. We collected keepsakes, pretty dishes, a painting to hang on the wall. We planned and dreamed of the places we would travel once I received my permit. I prayed for a letter so I could be approved. I hoped the mailbox would be empty so I wouldn’t be rejected. 

———

It had never occurred to me prior to this experience that I couldn’t  leave the US if I wanted to. I’m a privileged white American. Of course I can go where I want and do what I want.

If I had the money, that might be true. But countries don’t want to take on new residents that they aren’t confident will benefit their national community. I thought I would obviously meet these requirements.

I didn’t.

———

I could not read the tedious pages in the yellow envelope. I caught words here and there, but we needed to translate it. We laboriously typed page after page into a translator. It only took the first page to know I had been rejected. Another to know there was no use trying to appeal it.

They had decided they didn’t want me and, for someone without means, that was the end of it. No one had sat down with us, heard our story, explained what was needed. Just letters in German demanding this or that by a certain date. We never anticipated failure. So sudden. So final.

I’ll admit we had thought about just staying anyways, but the formidable threats of “forcible removal” and never being able to re-enter solidified our decision to give up. 

I was given less than a month to depart.

———

We are canceling our lease, our internet, buying last minute flights, emptying our nearly empty bank accounts. But my husband already has job opportunities lined up and my work is increasing by the day. We have no house or car to return to, but comfortable and loving family and friends will be waiting to embrace us and support us.

I can’t help but think of what it would be like if that weren’t the case. If we had risked everything, for nothing. If our goal in moving had been survival, not simply taking advantage of an exciting life opportunity.

The Romantic Life: What You Expect, And What You Don’t.

I am fully aware that the life we lead is a romantic one. It is partially intentional and partially necessity and happenstance. We love raw experience, we love adventure, but also in order to achieve our dreams we have had to make choices that have pushed our lives even further in the direction of the surreal.

For example, the decision to live two consecutive summers in a van was largely of necessity if we wanted to pursue our goals for the those time periods. Many would have found another way around it, but to us it seemed like the best way to fully accomplish our dreams in spite of our monetary restrictions.

This romantic life has taken us across the vast mid-west, to the mountains of Colorado, to the warm beaches of the Outer Banks, to Central America, up and down the East Coast, and currently landed us in Germany.

These past few years have been filled with once-in-a-lifetime moments. I’ve summited mountains, slept under the stars with waves crashing beneath me, climbed a volcano, drank tea on a roof-top in Nicaragua, run on an abandoned beach alongside a pod of dolphins, walked through courtyards and castles. And I could go on and on. Sometimes I look at my own life and can’t believe it is real.

People always talk about how hard it is to capture these moments–the vibrant sunsets, the towering mountain. But what I find hardest to convey is the other side of this life–what makes it truly romantic and what makes it so different from ordinary life. What makes a moment truly romantic is what sets it apart from the ordinary, from the mundane. It is being alone in the wilderness, walking along a precipice, lost in the vast ocean. It is seclusion, emptiness, fear, suspense, uncertainty, pain, irony–all mixed together with unthinkable beauty.

But as an observer we tend to see all of those as simply a backdrop for the beauty. When you live this life, the backdrop is every bit as real as the foreground.

I was particularly hit by this experience a few months after our move to Germany. Many of our plans had fallen apart since our arrival. Our living expenses were more than we had anticipated, the process of becoming legalized for short-term residency was dragging on, and my job prospects had fallen through. We had an endearing little loft apartment in the city (which we could not afford to heat), but our savings were being rapidly depleted and everything in the future was utterly uncertain.

One night, shortly before Christmas, we found ourselves sitting on some stone stairs beneath the Kaiserberg (the city castle), looking down upon the brightly lit, medieval streets of Nurnberg. It was bitterly cold, but we sat here for hours while Tyler played Christmas carols on his melodica (a small, mouth-blown, keyboard instrument) for spare change. This was our only way of earning money since neither of us could legally work.

Sitting there with Christmas shoppers bustling past, the castle towers glowing overhead, and the music drifting out over the city–as Tyler literally played to earn our Christmas dinner–I knew this was truly one of the most romantic moments of my life. And one of the hardest.

The beauty of it all was overwhelming, and it stood out all the more vividly against our cold, hunger, fears, and uncertainties. I felt like we were living a chapter out of a novel.

This type of experience can’t be recreated.

You can’t recreate desperation.

Experiences like this feel surreal and unattainable for a reason–for most people they are. Most people aren’t really willing to pay this type of price for these kinds of raw, harsh, breath-taking experiences.

It is raw because it is hurts.

And it is beautiful because it is difficult.

Those who choose to live the romantic life know that for every beautiful sunset there is a storm as well–and you are going to find yourself out in the storm with only the memory of the sunset to keep you warm.

And we wouldn’t have it any other way.

 

 

————————————-

This post inspired by a post on Outside about the reality of the #VanLife.

 

 

 

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?