Speaking in Cursive

It all started when we got off the plane in Rome. Bleary-eyed from a nine-hour flight and landing at what should have been 2 a.m. our time, we disembarked into a world of trains and subways, where at every “Billeticca” (ticket) machine, we were told in overly precise English to be aware of pickpockets (pronounced “peek-pockets”). Wearing money belts that after two weeks became part of our waistline, and tightly clutching our purses in front of us, even though anything of value was in our money belts, with much bravery began our trek into this most lovely and crazy world of Italy.

With my eyesight not quite what it used to be, (I’m still rebelling against and simultaneously struggling with bifocals), and with Laura’s “I’m going to protect my mom, take-charge attitude,” walking in front of me to lead the way, we began our wonderful journey. Because she was often in front of me — cobblestone sidewalks are very narrow — and because of her speedy orientation and adaptation to new places, as she spoke, her quick words became connected and what she was trying to say, was often lost in translation to me. That’s when Laura coined the phrase that she was “speaking in cursive.” A little bit of exasperation and miscommunication happened first, but after figuring out why we were having this disconnect, what followed was a greater love and a sweeter and closer understanding of each other.

Along-the-way and over the next two weeks, that was our experience with many of the people we met in Italy. Not everyone was easy to talk with — life can be hard, and it’s easy to carry those burdens and let them become walls, no matter the language — but more often than not, there were those who broke the language barriers with a smile, or even an affectionate hand clasp. In Cinque Terre, in the town of Manarola, we met Sara, the owner of a bed and breakfast located at the very top of a steep hill — an incredible workout at least twice a day. In Montepulciano, there was Pierre Luigi and Georgio. In Florence, Robert, his sweet wife, Mariam, and her mother, Maria. Finally in Rome, there was David, Victoria, and Carlos.

Neither Laura nor I will ever forget what we got to see and experience in Italy. The stunning countryside, great feats of architecture, and astounding history will always be something we will cherish, but I do believe it’s those sweet “friendships,” the sweet time of connecting, communicating with people half-a-world-away that will be something we will look back on, be so very grateful for, and smile.