They Eat Horses Here

The first time I saw it, I thought I had forgotten the meaning of the word.

Cavallo. Neatly packaged in styrofoam, wrapped with cellophane, next to chicken and ham and beef. 

One dinner at home with my flatmates, one of their friends begin a litany of animals; while he didn’t seem the pedantic type, he certainly intended to instruct. After finding a picture on the internet of a particular creature, he would ask, “do you know...?” and then, “do you eat this?”

“Cavallo?” He and one of my flatmates assured me that it is delicious. 

Good lord, they really do eat horses here. 

Only after the conversation ended and the dishes were washed and we all went to our respective beds, did I remember this scene in O Brother Where Art Thou (maybe we’re not so different, after all): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nH6YIkAAD-U

So then I think of the Odyssey: “Tell me, O muse, of that ingenious hero who traveled far and wide after he had sacked the famous town of Troy. Many cities did he visit, and many were the nations with whose manners and customs he was acquainted; moreover he suffered much by sea while trying to save his own life and bring his men safely home...”

After living here for over a month, I believe more than ever that each story is the same; simply a retelling of this search for home. Not that I’m saying I’m some sort of ingenious hero. I haven’t sacked anything. And I’m not exactly suffering at sea. 

But I am away from home; and also, I am home here, living in a place of betweens and belongings--someplace shockingly foreign and surprisingly familiar, where I am constantly searching for direction and finding myself putting one foot in front of the other to arrive at my destination without need of  a map. 

I am beginning to see home, some purpose in the distance--blurry and foggy and far away--I trust there will be clear vision soon.

But it is difficult at times to be separated from everyone I love, from the language that I know well. All of these difficulties under the best, most wonderful, most miraculous circumstances. Living in Bologna truly is my dream--and yet, I struggle. I hope my heart is more opened by this experience to love those who are sojourners not by such luxurious choice.

Last Monday, I went with a friend to hear a woman speak about the fight for freedom and the violent oppression occurring against the people in the Saharawi. Her arabic words were interpreted into Italian. I only understood about half of what she said, but her pain, her determination, her purpose were clear.

We are all in exile; from our homes, from our own selves, from our Creator. My heart feels this in a contained, beneficial sense. I hope that this small dose will connect me to those who are truly afflicted so I may be better equipped to effectively act with compassion and grace. All of this aching must be for growth. I want so desperately to have a good heart, a heart in the trim.

Perhaps I will return to the States with some insufferable european habits (and I apologize in advance); but I am more certain that I will return with more compassion, more humility, more patience. I think I will be able to love better--isn’t that my purpose?

Feeling overwhelmingly ignorant and idiotic nine times out of ten is challenging; character building, I pray. Italian is a struggle. Language is home, words are home, and sometimes I get a little homesick for some English. 

Don’t hear what I’m not saying. I am happy here; exactly where I need to be, want to be. But it would be less than honest to not share the reality of having some frustrations, some weaknesses. There is an obvious language barrier standing tall and firm, running through the middle of my days. I am trying to tear down this wall brick by brick, but it is slow work--conjugating verbs and remembering to match masculine and feminine endings for nouns and adjectives. And prepositions. Dear Lord, prepositions. Sometimes, the words flow. Occasionally, I make an embarrassing amount of mistakes. And other times, I simply sink into the conversation swirling around me.  

But even when I am silent, I am living. Really, truly living. And this city that I love so much is a real, true place: ancient, and beautiful, and filthy, and noisy. The portici are covered with graffiti, there is dog shit everywhere, motorbikes zoom around autobuses with mostly wreckless abandon, and these people are so intriguingly striking that staring is often the only reasonable response. 

Last week, while walking to pick up a package from my program office, I ran into a large crowd in front of  San Pietro. They were standing outside the funeral of Giacomo Bulgarelli, who once played football for Bologna.

It was too difficult to try to break through the crowd, and I was too curious to want to even try; I waited and watched. 

I saw the footballers of Bologna F.C., somber and beautiful as the day.

Yes, I had enough reverence not to resort to stalking after a funeral. I have not lost all self-control.  

Besides, I will be here for another four months.