Grazie!

Given the fear unleashed by our election of Donald Trump in November 2016, I want to share a story of kindness- in its own way, it is a thanksgiving story.

Last July, I had the chance to visit Rome where two of my adult children, Abby and Aaron, were staying with their dad who was serving as summer rector for an Anglican church in Rome. Acting on a friend’s suggestion, my son, Aaron, and I decided to take a side trip to Naples, about three hours south. If Rome were a manicured landscape, then Naples was a garden of wildflowers bursting in abandoned, grassy lots. Someone once called this port city “a beautiful woman with dirty feet.” – gritty and graffiti-covered, yet everywhere brimming with life.

Clotheslines strung across small balconies unfurled a week’s laundry. In the evening, residents flocked to the piazzas where kids kicked soccer balls, mothers chatted with neighbors, and priests said Mass in century-old churches. At the water’s edge Mount Vesuvius loomed- whose eruptions were foretold when the blood of San Genaro failed to liquefy in the centuries-old church.

Here, among the narrow alleys were small shops selling keychains and necklaces of cornicellos, “little horns” shaped like red peppers to ward off evil spirits. There were statues of Sophia Loren, who had left her city’s cobblestones streets to find her fortune in Hollywood. And figurines of townspeople—bakers, policemen, a farmer’s wife cooking spaghetti- these characters from nativity scenes lived on a street called San Gregorio Armeno.

Me, I was a woman on a mission. I wanted rosaries, keepsakes for my catholic relatives back in Illinois. Of course, rosaries were more than plentiful in Vatican City, some even scented with rosewood in small boxes stamped with images of Pope Francis. But buying these would have been too easy- I wanted to dig for my treasure. Time was short; Aaron and I had just an afternoon since we were catching the train back to Rome that evening.

I had been peering through the window of an antique shop- the door was locked since the store was closed for lunch. No rosaries in sight, but some interesting stuff. Aaron and I continued walking, when I heard a door creaking and looked back. A short, balding man beckoned.

We retraced our steps and entered the small shop crammed with other peoples’ discarded treasures. Ceramic clocks that were silent, brass lamps without shades, dusty books and calendars from the fifties. Aaron was thrilled to find a lighter with a tropical blossom- something Don Draper might have kept in his office drawer. Still I held out hope.

I asked the owner if he had any “rosarios.” It took a few seconds, and then he reached in a drawer and retrieved a rosary of tiny pearly beads that glistened under the dim light of his work lamp. I rolled the beads between my fingers and could barely make out the words, “Pompeii” on the back of the silver crucifix. Silently, I wondered what blessings the previous owner had prayed for. A sick mother? A new job for her husband? A place at the university for her daughter?

Relieved, I pulled out a 20 euros bill to pay for my rosary and Aaron’s lighter. The owner shook his head, and we understood he did not have enough change. Aaron took the bill and left to buy a water bottle at nearby shop to get change.

The owner-- and I am sorry that I never asked his name- motioned for me to sit down on the only chair in the shop. He grabbed a cane leaning on the chair and very slowly walked to a small fridge behind his desk, painstakingly balancing on his cane. The refrigerator itself looked like it belonged here- an old model with a large silver handle that had to be yanked. Seconds later, the owner returned with a bottle of Pepsi.

I gratefully sipped the chilled, caramel liquid.