Going Native and the Currency of Kindness

Musings

As I start on this post, it is 6:22am and I’ve been up since 5am. My day typically starts between 4:30am and 5am and, when I’m traveling, I look for a place to camp for my morning Holy Hour and then to write. It is always a bit of an adventure finding a space to occupy until the rest of the world wakes up. In Naples, we had a balcony that I would sit on until the cafe opened below. At La Piantata, I could sit out on the deck and enjoy the stars.

Here in Perugia, we are in the city center and the Hotel Priori is small, beautifully renovated hotel standing along one of the narrow streets (alleys) just off of the main piazza. The first morning, I surprise the front desk staff as I appear in the silence of the morning and take my place in a chair in the entry area. On the second morning, I am usually anticipated. Today, they were kind enough to turn on the lights of the terrace restaurant/bar area upstairs and provide a cappuccino.

The Italians we have encountered have been exceptionally warm and kind. I would suggest that hospitality is its own art form in a country that seems to be a perpetual exhibit of beautiful art. They have been very patient with our limited grasp of the language, have anticipated little details (Coke normal or Coke no sugar? Water still or with gas? White wine dry or sweet?).

Last night, when I asked about retrieving the car for our trip to Assisi today, I received a very expressive, and detailed, explanation from our jolly host about how to avoid impassable Perugian roadways in our chunky SUV. As foreign as so many things feel, the human connection remains and kindness continues to reign supreme as a universal currency.

Awe and Wander

With no set schedule yesterday, we were left to our own meandering and timetable. The website for the Cattedrale Metropolitana di San Lorenzo showed a Mass at 12:30pm so we had a leisurely morning with breakfast, reading, and catching up. Needing to walk around, Sally and I discovered that Mass was actually at 11am (confirming my suspicion that posted times are very unreliable) as we saw many people entering the Cathedral. Our American sense of time is not the Italian sense of time.

Our day was spent wandering the streets of Perugia’s historic city center. We began by trying to follow a map but struggled to stay oriented on the winding roads and many alleys so we just wandered. Of course, everything is historic: the Fontana Maggiore, a fountain that marked the opening of a new aqueduct in the 13th Century, chiesa’s (churches), including St. Philip Neri, on almost every corner, the Torre degli Sciri, a 42 meter tower and building that is the only remnants of a dozen towers constructed for security and control a thousand years ago, old theaters, an opera house, etc. Everything has a name, a story, and often, priceless art attached to it.

Some of the city’s walls still stand, the roads pretty much all go up or down and there are labyrinthine layers of stairs, walkways, and roadways winding up and down the height and length of the city. From terrace walls, we were able to see the valley below and even the town of Assisi miles in the distance. The city, which at first seemed really, really, large, became much more manageable with a few treks up and down its streets.

One surprising discovery for me was that Perugia is an active college town – a very curious dynamic given its medieval look and feel. There are numerous buildings housing colleges and schools within the city walls and student housing of various flavors sitting outside the walls. Tourists abound but the youthful face of this old city emerges quickly in the evenings.

When in Rome

After a little afternoon siesta, Sally and I found ourselves on the Terrace for a pre-dinner cocktail. The Hotel Priori Cosmopolitan shed the pink of its American variety for a deep purple that made me think of pomegranate, suffering no loss of taste. Cosmos, olives, and potato chips were a lovely start to the evening as we watched the sun set over the terracotta roofs rising around us.

Looking up, I noticed an older couple in their hotel window, feverishly taking photographs of the setting sun. They went at it for an extended time, each with a camera, until the sun was gone. Sipping on my drink, I wondered aloud: did they actually see the sun set? Would they ever look at the 73 photos they took of it? Perhaps.

When the time came to go to dinner, we moved downstairs to meet my parents in the alley outside the hotel. Coming out of the door, we noticed my dad in a new shirt, a local linen long sleeve in white. Untucked and looking quite relaxed, he smiled mischievously, as my eyes moved toward his feet, looking for those distinct Italian loafers worn without socks…none yet.

Later at dinner, mom looked at dad sipping his Rosso and quipped with a smile, “You’re having wine again? You never drink wine.” A week in and the boat is settling comfortably in the water.

Baggage

Thinking some more of the couple and their photos, I hear another couple talking, well, actually, snipping at one another, over breakfast. They are English speaking, likely British. No eye contact. Harsh tones. Impatience. He’s struggling, she inquires, he’s tired, she’s impassive. It looks and sounds like a routine written for a skit that would play equally well as comedy or tragedy. I think of the things we drag around with us: digital photos, wheeled bags, desires, wounds, and expectations. What do others see or hear in my interactions? What extra baggage am I carrying on this journey?

There is grace in such a moment. A reminder that it’s not too late. Not too late for kindness or a smile or a touch. “Come ti chiami?” I ask the server who has been generously bringing me cappuccinos for the last two days. “Giulia,” she says as she smiles. “E tu?” I respond, “Philippe.” “Oh! Filippo!”

Thank you Giulia. Thank you.