Last week at this time, I was shivering on a litter-covered sidewalk in Red Hook, Brooklyn. Wrapped in blankets and scarves, I waited in line for six hours surrounded by hundreds of heavy-set, bearish men, each of us (except me and a couple close friends) waiting for the release of a new craft beer.
Hours earlier, before I found myself despising my awful judgement in that never-ending queue, a friend had seen an ad on craigslist to help some beer enthusiast wait in line with him all night so he could buy as much beer as was allowed. Each person in line could buy only five cases, and he paid us to wait with him so that he could buy fifteen more cases. “Easy money – all you have to do is stand in line,” the ad read.
We arrived at 4am. Concerts of men camouflaged the sidewalks. They were partying- huddled in intimate circles, drinking the beer they stayed up all night last week waiting for. A sea of football jerseys, long beards, solo cups, and unused lawn chairs garnished the streets for blocks. I stood hunched over with my butt touching the brick wall, occasionally breaking the lingering eye contact I’d been making with my feet to look up at my friends. While everyone celebrated the release of this limited edition beer, we looked like we just arrived off the boat at Ellis Island.
Two days later my feet marinated in the sun over 4000 miles from that sullied street in Brooklyn. I’d be surrounded by as many bodies, but here I’d sit and I’d watch more graceful people sip espressos and inspect white lilies from a flower stand that made even a foreigner feel at home under it’s awning.
I was in the center of Padua, Italy, leaning on a stone wall while sitting on a stool, considering another culture’s version of leisure.
Inside Piazza delle Erbe (Padua’s main city square) the distance from home felt emotionally further than the miles that stretched across the Atlantic. I’d wiggle on my stool just a bit to align to its groove, and I’d settle in.
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Today marks a week since I’ve been in Italy. The Bergamasco’s (my host family), the varicolored buildings that stand more confident than those back home, and the pace of life that saunters around these Romanesque structures, have all made my transition seamless. No jet lag, no homesickness, no craft beer. Just a loving family, a vibrant,cozy home, and more pasta than I can eat (that’s not actually possible).
I take the bus now, I eat dinner late now, I take care of two children who barely understand the words I say now.
On my first morning here, an hour before I found myself giddy at the perimeter of Piazza delle Erbe, I dropped off Alessandro and Ingrid at school. As I left the school, two fathers, both whom seemed dressed for work, asked (in Italian) if I’d like to grab a cappuccino quickly. The coffee bar was thirty meters away.
It’s hard not to immediately recollect an image of any school drop-off from my childhood. Bumper to bumper in a parking lot, horns honking at forgetful kids reminding them to come back and retrieve their lunch, and hearing the words come from every direction, “you’re gonna be late.”
Alessandro and Ingrid hug me goodbye, I’ve known them for ten hours, and then two men, clearly observant enough to recognize I am new, ask me to join them for coffee. I often romanticize places when I first arrive, but Italy gave me no choice. It didn’t matter that they didn’t talk to me once we got there because I speak hardly any Italian or that they probably won’t invite me again, because I didn’t understand them anyways. It was the cadence of things I loved; the undemanding pace of their step contrasted with the sharp speed of their hands as they spoke.
The rest of the week was spent wandering the city. Long runs to get familiarized with the streets and shops, swallowing shame to talk to anyone who’d be willing, getting a library card, and looking for anyway to integrate myself into this new place. How does one make a place their home?
On the horizon awaits a trip to Bologna. I’m on the train headed that way right now and when I think about waiting on that sidewalk in Brooklyn it is easy to realize that this is what I was waiting in line for; this adventure, this perspective, this train ride. As it would have it, I spent the money made that night on this Bolognan adventure. Somethings are worth waiting for, no matter how cold.
JonnyPoppins 