Italy

A friend of mine is teaching English in Japan for a year because his American job that he loves could not afford to pay him a salary but promised that they will have the money to pay him the same salary next year if he didn’t mind not having a paycheck for the time in between. Because I know my own patience would have withered and sent me looking for more stable employment, I have deep respect for his ability to roll with the punches — despite the desperate and surreal shuffling of funds that is ultimately dictating his livelihood. So we stay in touch through e-mail, and I keep up with his journeys on a blog that he updates with impressive frequency.

Despite the undeniable complications that result from a communication gap the size of Mt. Fuji, he’s set up a bank account using foreign currency, bought weekly groceries that are well beyond the comfort zone of his taste buds, and stayed connected to his home country and his new friends via a Japanese cell phone, Internet access, and a TV connection — all of which can be infuriating to set up even when you speak the same language — with efficiency, grace, and a healthy sense of humor.

I mention these seemingly mundane achievements because it takes a great deal of courage and intelligence and humility to navigate an established formal culture such as Japan’s. You need to not only figure out the road signs and subway maps, but equally important are the little courtesies and table manners and proper introductions that smooth the edges of society. It requires a sharp ear, keen observation, and a deep reservoir of patience. But it also takes a humble heart, a bold sense of adventure, and an appreciation for new experiences.

I had little of these qualities as a teenager when I traveled throughout Italy for two weeks with students and teachers from my high school. I was too involved in my own insecurities to have an adventurous agenda of my own; I followed the right schedule and waited in the right lines and took all the right pictures, but it was like watching an educational filmstrip. The trip was interesting to the extent that it was novel, but I made no attempts to incorporate the new experiences into my own understanding of myself and of the world. I certainly didn’t see it as an opportunity to live adventurously.

For example, I ate nothing but pizza margherita because I could safely pronounce it and because it looked and tasted like what I’d known in America. From a gastronomical standpoint, that alone made the trip an utter failure. To be surrounded by Italian food — not the repurposed American variety but vibrant, healthy, nourishing, hearty Italian food — and not savor some new taste at every meal is a sin that my Bari ancestors are likely still reeling over. I also squandered blocks of free time in our itineraries by reading or napping or goofing around with the other students. My small group and I spoke only to each other, only in English, and talked only about American movies, while a centuries-old culture — one that has produced masterpieces of art and architecture beyond beauty — engulfed us the entire time. It breathed all around us. Its scent licked at our skin. The number of museums and cafes and city walks that I passed on is preposterous.

I made my most egregious oversight during Easter weekend. Our hostel at the time was within walking distance to where Pope John Paul II was officiating Easter Mass. As a Catholic, this was a monumental event: the holiest day of the year, in the holiest city on the planet, in the presence of the holiest man alive. Even hardcore atheists would tremble at such an awesome coming together of elements, an event so profoundly appropriate that the sum of its parts would reverberate for a lifetime.

In other people’s narratives, this would probably be the life-changing moment that they gush about to their stateside friends — the moment when the Pope’s Latin chants or the majesty of St. Peter’s or the cumulative heartbeat of tens of thousands of Italian faithful touched them, and their soul revealed some secret truth or they found their life’s calling. That certain something that bridges the gap between an insular, protected young adulthood and sparks the inner life of curiosity, passion, and a newfound sense of identity and purpose.

But I did not have that moment. I passed on the opportunity to attend the Mass, too unsure of myself to navigate the winding, unfamiliar cobble streets without a chaperone. I wasn’t ready to be an active participant in another culture, nor to experience in the Holy in such a terrible and irrational way.

Instead, I had several hours to contemplate the immediate guilt and sadness at having passed on something truly extraordinary in exchange for something known and familiar.

Now, as a former Catholic, I’m no stranger to guilt. I’ve sat tense and fearful through countless dark confessionals, listened to stern warnings from celibate priests about the evils of lust, squirmed my way through Sunday Mass while my thoughts bounced from donuts to video games, and been constantly reminded of the intercessional saints and their sacrifices.

As most people do after finding themselves in dark corners, I went further into the space of guilt and shame I’d created for myself. I lied to my parents about the Mass afterward — the very same people who paid for the Italy trip expecting it to broaden and challenge my humanity. I kept the reality with me for years afterwards, always too fearful to find closure because it meant dragging the nastiness into the clear light of day. I kept the weight of the guilt with me every Sunday morning and each time I had to account for my thoughts and actions at confession. But I never spoke a word to a priest or anyone else. It was easier to carry the secret on my shoulders, even going so far as to perversely justify my actions as Christ-like because I was carrying such an awful burden in stoic silence. It was my own handmade cross to bear.

After years of carrying this awful Easter memory with me, I’m ready to finally let it go. I’m ready to forgive my 16-year-old self for being scared of an unfamiliar culture. I’m ready to accept that my actions weren’t unforgivable — not even close. I’m ready to believe that there is nothing so criminal as to separate me from the people that truly love me. I’m ready to move on to newer and more exciting adventures.

Now, when I think about my overseas trip I can’t help but contrast it against my friend’s Japanese adventure. There are countless ways in which the trips are different; I was a teenager then, our intentions for being abroad are quite dissimilar, and he’s there as a working man instead of a tourist. But after a few weeks of reading daily updates and having a clearer sense of what it’s like for him in Kyoto, what I sense is that he understands the great truth that I did not — that travel is not a spectator sport.

It’s been a decade and a half since Italy. Although I’ve yet to visit the country again, I’ve gone to hundreds of new places, become a daring and fearless eater, and gotten to know myself through periods of intense stress, doubt, uncertainty, fear, joy, and love. As I read the updates from my friend’s blog, I can only smile at his total willingness to embrace the strangeness and difficulty of living and working in a foreign country. And I can relax in the notion that there is a season for everything in our lives; that we are not given challenges we cannot overcome, problems we cannot solve, and wounds that will not heal.