Speechless

            There are the occasional moments when life offers us an experience so magnificent that it exceeds the boundaries of language – a site so beautiful, a moment so moving, an interaction so meaningful that we are left speechless.  It is in these moments that words escape us because the only words we have would diminish the experience.  It would be as if I drew a stick figure interpretation of the Pietà and expected those who saw only my drawing to be overwhelmed by its beauty. 

            I have not shared much about my town with you, and for that, I am sorry.  I will try my best to explain Perugia, but much to the point of this post, words cannot paint an accurate picture of this city.  Nonetheless… Perugia is a university town, in the words of the locals.  The other students, however, do not begin school until the end of September and for the primary and secondary school students, October.  This has left the study abroad students to explore without much help from local students.  There is a town center (il centro) where a beautiful fountain sits surrounded by stone buildings in which one finds the Cathedral of San Lorenzo, a retired town hall, a three-story art gallery, a museum (much to my chagrin, I couldn't tell you what is in the museum), and a variety of small shops and restaurants.  My school sits on the second and third floors of a building behind the fountain.  Its screenless windows offer a view below to the fountain and down the main street that is called Corso Vannucci.  This street runs from Piazza IV Novembre (where the fountain is found) to Piazza Italia with a small park, a bus loop, and government buildings that sit with colossal elegance near the edge of the cliff from which can be viewed the lower part of the city, the distant mountains and Cyprus tree ranges, and the small towns that dot the horizon, including Assisi.  Parallel to Corso Vannucci is a long street, whose name I would wager nobody knows, with many shops, small supermarkets, and cars that skillfully avoid the pedestrians and their leash-free dogs that meander through the street.  Connecting these two parallel streets are many small alleys with boutiques, gelaterie, and restaurants.  Surrounding these areas are countless streets that lead one away from the center with the reminder that to return, she will have to climb back UP the stairs.  Nonetheless, the climb is always worth it for the delicious Italian cuisine to be had or the breathtaking view to be admired at the end of the steps.

            Last evening, I decided to take a short detour on the way home from the supermarket.  As I neared the walls at the top of the hill, I looked out at the lower part of Perugia, the misty horizon, and the beautiful contrast of red roofs against the distant green mountains.  The clouds were thick and heavy but from one of them was a large ray of light that shone down at an angle toward the city.  In this ray was a small but thick band of a rainbow whose bright colors popped against the dark grey clouds.  I was speechless.  I was blessed with this view simply because I had taken a detour, and at that moment was overwhelmed with gratitude and a feeling of how small we are.

            Such has been my exploring of Perugia when class is not in session.  Most evenings I have spent walking the city a few times over with friends to find our favorite place for aperitivi, the best view of the sunset, the cutest bar (in Italy, "caffe" is solely the word for coffee and it is bought at a bar), or the cheapest supermarket to support my newly developed Ricotta addiction.  Many weekdays and most weekends there are small markets with all types of artisanal goods from fresh and aged pecorino to hand-painted pottery.  It is in these small stores and at these markets where I have had many conversations that have challenged, confused, and embarrassed me.

            I came to Perugia with the ability to say "Hello," "I don't speak Italian," and "I'm allergic to gluten," three phrases that I deemed most important to my initial survival.  I think, most inconveniently, that my ear for languages and my ability to pick up an Italian accent (Señor Sosa, I still can't roll my Rs), mistakenly convinced locals that I could understand them.  I have had to explain a few times that I do not speak Italian when the server looked to me to translate what she said for the rest of the table.  Although I can now understand more than when I first arrived, it is, of course, a process and I am by no means even at elementary proficiency in my Italian.  There is, however, one phrase that I said once and only once since arriving:  "Inglese, per favore?"  I did not make that mistake again.

            In a town where many locals speak only Italian, it was at first overwhelming (especially for someone who has to ask if everything has gluten in it) to order something to eat.  One of the first evenings, my friend and I stumbled upon a creperie where we found gluten-free crepes made with Italian meats, cheeses, and vegetables…but knowing what they were and ordering them felt impossible.  I approached the cashier and explained (at least I hope this is what I said) that we are students from America and don't speak Italian well.  I intended my next sentence to be, "Do you possibly speak English?" but I had no clue how to say this.  The only words I could find were "English please?"  Her smile widened but from kindness to pity and we received a curt, "NO. L'italiano, per favore."  In that moment, I realized how presumptuous it had been for me to ask a local Italian to speak English for us.  Although this was in no way my intention, these were the only words I had.  I was ashamed and embarrassed that I had seemed like I wanted something handed easily to me.  This is not what I wanted, but it was all that I could say.  Words eluded me.  I had no idea how to say anything more.  I quickly remembered the way to say "I'm sorry," and mustered the courage to speak again.  Everything I said to her from that moment forward was an attempt at Italian.  It was not perfect, and I'm sure most of it did not make sense.  I could say only very basic things, but nonetheless I was trying.

            I could tell by her smile that my "Grazie per la sua pazienza!" (Thank you for your patience!) meant so much more to her than being able to read the menu and order perfectly.  I was trying, and that was all that she wanted.  As someone who relishes meeting others and learning their stories, I was disappointed that I could not learn more about the shop owner.  I wanted to ask where she was from, if she had lived here for a long time, and if she had children.  I wanted to explain that we were students and were here for one semester studying Italian and other classes for our majors.  But in this moment, all I could say was thank you and walk away smiling at my embarrassment and the lesson that it taught me.  This moment was a gift.  The shop owner's demand that I speak Italian did not require that I understand her, nor did it require me to be fluent.  It did, however, demand that I try.  I had no words for what I wanted to say, but I had an understanding now of my place in this town.  I would be welcomed, and I would be helped, but I would not be coddled.  This challenge is exactly what I want.

            When a moment is wrapped in embarrassment and defeat, do not assume that it is devoid of a valuable lesson.  I have had many encounters since this first one where I could not explain what I wanted to say because I didn't have the words.  I have tried, however, and I have asked for help (in Italian) because "Non posso parlare l'italiano molto bene, ma voglio imparare."  I cannot speak Italian very well, but I want to learn.  These moments when I have been left speechless have each been a gift.  They didn't unfold as I admired the horizon from the end of Corso Vannucci nor did they leave me feeling blessed because I saw something rare.  They did, however, much like last night's beautiful sunset, remind me of my place and ground me in my humanity.  The world is larger than we are.  Certain moments exceed in significance the sum of our entire lives.  Our words are rarely enough, and our language is not superior.  It allows us at times to share with others what we have experienced and at other times prevents us from communicating our entire sentiment.  Despite disappointment, defeat, or embarrassment, language allows us to connect with others.  For connection's sake, I shall not stop trying.

Blessings,
Sarah 

If you look closely at the horizon behind the bell tower, there is a small segment of a rainbow,
but I couldn't capture it well with my camera.  Apparently, words and pictures sometimes both fail to capture a moment!