A Toast To You Saint Valentine

Last night, I finally decided it was time to go out (No love around? FINE! I'll have a beer!). Thus far I have not experienced any Italian nightlife because after such stomach stuffing dinners and daunting days sleep is inevitable. So, in order to prepare myself for a night of fun I slept from five until ten PM. My roommate worked on an art project on her bed next to me, meaning all the lights in the room were on. This was perfect because waking up at night with the same amount of light as you fell asleep to is much, much easier than your conciousness clinging and scraping, biting and grumbling its way through the dark whose presence does nothing but remind you that you should still be fast asleep. We got up off our lazy bums and rallied the friends to meet at the piazza infront of Santa Croce. I've mentioned this church in a previous entry because I had to go there for an Art History excursion and it was also the temporary backdrop to the festival of chocolate...


Let me take this moment to interrupt the narrative of this entry and point out that it was Valentine's Day. It was a very difficult day for lack of certain special someones and so my roommate and I decided we must attempt to satisfy our sulking little hearts by purchasing large quantities of chocolate. We searched high, we searched low. We went in grocery stores and gelateria and kebab restaurants and found not ONE box of assorted chocolates under forty plus dollars. Dejected and disappointed we made our long way home, stopping back in the supermarket to at least get some peanut m&m's. Of which I ate none. Thank goodness for Momma's, however, because I had normal m&ms in a beautiful array of Valentine's day colors which were sent to me by my one and only momma dearest, and upon our return to our room our host momma had placed a deliriously delicious, melt in your mouth, creamy and dreamy delectable, finger lickingly joyous small chocolate heart on our pillows. "Because the men do nothing!" she says, "At least the women remember this day!" She leans her head back dramatically and rolls her eyes, gesturing towards somewhere within the apartment where her husband is busy doing whatever it is he does. He does seem like a sweet heart though. And moments before eating my treat I got a wonderful phone call from my love :-)


So...Where was I? We were standing in the piazza when a kind faced Italian man and women approached our group and asked, "parle inglese?" Which I took to mean, "do you speak only English or do you know any Italian?" So I perked up with a quick "Parlo poco Italiano!" The man smiled widely and explained that tonight, at that very moment, a prayer service of a kind was being held in Santa Croce and we were cordially invited. He explained that when we would enter the church we would be given a slip of paper where we could write a prayer to Jesus, place it in a basket and retrieve a slip from another that would be Jesus' response. Why not? Could be pretty sweet to hear from the big man himself so we agreed that the pub could wait ten minutes. They shepherded us in and to our surprise, all the lights in the expansive interior were shut off. There were two rows of pews with people kneeling, folded hands against their foreheads and eyes closed in quiet conversation with their God. The only light came from the pool of small prayer candles growing beneath a small crucifix, between the white and red roses on the soft red carpet laid down on the floor. Small groups of people and nuns would approach this space, kneel, and place their prayers in the basket.


If ever a woman sung like angel it would be the middle aged italian soprano on her chair with her music stand, sitting off to the left of the pews, being accompanied by a classical guitarist. Her voice and the melody from the guitar filled the church up to the high vaulted ceiling and carried like a feather on water. The very kind man who brought us in introduced our group to a man who spoke English. He brought us to the front with our cards where we all kneeled down. He asked if he could pray for us, and then quietly recited his prayer beneath the song of the soprano. Asking that his new friends may always find where to place their feet, that they be free from fear, and never feel alone. The prayer went on, and some in our group became a little antsy, so when he finished, we thanked him and quietly shuffled out of the church entryway, filled with peace and surprise towards the unexpected, beautiful find and not sure how to break the reverential silence. Its true it was a little strange considering that we are not a very religious group of kids, and some of us weren't even catholic. But I think that we were lucky enough to find love in strangers that night, and it it filled us all.


Continuing on our merry way down the cobbled street we arrived at our intended destination. The Scottish pub! I ordered a beer and it was the most delicious thing I've tasted in a while. I was so thirsty and so pleased at finding that good beer still tasted like good beer, that I drank it like water and had a very happy time with my buddies. We ordered french fries and chicken nuggets which tasted like heaven, and the American sounding bar tender made sure we had a pitcher of oktoberfest brew on our table. Not exactly the "Italian" style kind of evening but I certainly wasn't complaining. We chatted and laughed and snacked until 2:30 when the bar closed down, and all of us, being novice's at battling the late Italian hours, scurried back home to our warm beds considering the air was cool enough still to turn our breath to steam. That night, I thought about all of the loves and all of the love in my life, and felt so blessed, and so happy. Thank you to you all, again, you make my life worthwhile.


"...non sono piu io che vivo, ma Cristo vive in me" (Gal 2,20) -Jesus' response to my prayer note.