When my mom and sisters and I went to Italy 18 months ago (how was it 18 months ago?), we went in an organized tour. There were about 25 of us, I think, and the four of us were the only practicing Mormons. I got the feeling that there were some opinions in the rest of the group about having the four of us along...you know, the weird, judgmental religious folks who never swear and always dress modestly and don't drink alcohol.

(Maybe it was just my own natural awkwardness in large groups that made me feel that way, and it wasn't ever overtly stated. It was just...something I felt and gathered by my other natural large-group behavior, which is clamming up and then watching everyone else mingle and laugh together and act like normal, functional social beings.)

It wasn't really a problem, of course, at least not for me. I liked almost all of the members of our group and had started to really enjoy them, hearing their stories and even sharing a few of mine. I hoped that they'd overlook my Mormonism and see me for the whole person I am, my religion being just a part of my identity. And it was fine until the night we had dinner at a Tuscan villa. The Corsini vineyard is an absolutely beautiful piece of the world—exactly what you'd imagine when you hear the words "Tuscan villa." An ancient house authentically restored (one day I will set a short story in the kitchen of that building) and a dim and cavernous cellar where the wine aged. They also had an olive grove and a little factory where they processed their olive oil. 

We were served some of that olive oil with our dinner and it was perhaps the most extraordinary flavor I have ever tasted. Extra-virgin, of course, and with a wild sharpness I never knew existed in the world. I didn't want to dilute it by dipping bread into it. Actually, what I wanted to do was drink it. Just little sips. Or dip my finger into it, over and over.

The dinner was held at the vineyard's small restaurant; our group took up the entire loft space, filling the wide, wooden tables. It was far enough into the trip that we all felt like friends, so there was talking and laughing and telling of stories and sharing what we'd discovered in Florence earlier that day (what I discovered in Florence: a burning desire to return to Florence). The food was delicious, with that olive oil and a crusty bread, a cheese risotto that I will never forget, and a meat dish that might have freaked me out if I knew exactly what it was (I still don’t know). 

Included with our meal were four glasses of the house wine, and because of that, there was a great kerfuffle when we all sat down; everyone wanted to sit by us because they knew we'd probably not drink our wine. More for them! As the meal started to be served, they started bringing the wine, each type served with different parts of the meal. And as each glass was brought out, and someone else asked if they could have mine, I grew more and more uncomfortable. I felt like my inside were writhing, as if my heart itself were shaking and my lungs rippling. I finally had to excuse myself and go find the bathroom, not because I needed it (it wasn't that kind of writhing) but because I had to get away.

Not from the wine. Not from the people drinking the wine. But from my perception of what the people drinking wine were thinking about me not drinking the wine. 

I wanted, in fact, to stand in the middle of them and make a (sober) pronouncement. "I've gotten sloshed before!" I wanted to tell them. "I've been just as drunk as any of the rest of you. I’m really not a prude." I felt like they thought I was a foolish, innocent, manipulated adult acting like a baby. Not tasting what I imagine was some fairly delicious wine, simply because my religion told me I couldn't. 

And that isn’t why I don’t drink.

I’m not a drinker because my sister is. Because I am missing an entire relationship in my life, because of alcohol and drugs. I’m not a drinker because yes: I am afraid of being an alcoholic. I haven’t forgotten—how that feels. How things hurt less, how it is to have a thing to turn to when all of the other things become unbearable.  How sweet and lovely it is, to forget, to laugh, to drop what is too heavy right into the bottom of the bottle. I know myself, know my own proclivities for self-harm and the desperate need to feel blank. But I also know the other side of it, know that all too soon the blankness seeps into everything.

I would rather feel the hard parts than find the numbness has also invaded the good parts.

But what it felt like, that night in Italy, was that they felt my not drinking was a judgement against them. Which isn’t true. I know that we Mormons have that reputation—of being judgmental. But that is a blanket statement, one that is too small to cover all of us. Yes, there are many judgmental Mormons. There are racist ones, too, bigots, chauvinists. Just as there are in Catholic churches and Baptist ones, in the Jewish faith and the Muslim faith—in universities and hospital staff and the people who work at the grocery store.

We are not all uptight, judgmental people. We are many things. (The people in the church itself are, I think, finally beginning to learn this as well.) Mostly we are, like everyone else, just human. Imperfectly human. Some of us are open minded. Some of us question, wonder, and doubt. But we are all trying to find our way—the close-minded as well as the liberals.

I finally went back to the table. For a few minutes, I thought about drinking the next glass of wine the waitress brought me. I thought about proving it to the rest of them, that I wasn’t immature, that I wasn’t controlled by my religion, that I could choose whatever I wanted. My writhing finally settled, though, when I chose not to. If I am not immature, I am also old enough that I don’t need to impress anyone by drinking. And besides: what is the difference between me judging them for drinking (which I wasn’t doing anyway) and them judging me for not drinking?

So I didn’t drink. I gave my next glass of wine to someone, and the last one to someone else. I ate my delicious meal and I savored that olive oil—I did, I confess, dip my finger in, more than once—and I even managed to tell stories and laugh with the rest of them. Even sober.

A few days after the vineyard dinner, when we were walking through the horrid little ugly town outside of Venice where our hotel was, one of the group members put her arm around my shoulder and said “You know, when I heard that there would be Mormons in our group, I was a little bit worried. But I like you and your family. How did you all turn out so open-minded?”

I couldn’t speak for anyone else. In fact, I’m not sure that I even spoke well for myself. But what I told her is this: I have learned that my spiritual journey is just that: it is mine. My sisters’ are theirs, as are my kids’ and my husband’s and my friends’. I can hope to influence them. I can share what I believe. But I can only find the answers that are right for me, because that is all I have dominion over. This means that I have to find my own way. I doubt and question nearly everything, until I understand it. Or if I don’t understand it, I figure out how to fit it in my life, or sometimes how to not have it fit but still go on my way. (So much of any Christian religion is a distraction anyway, from the real point, which is learning and trying to be like Christ.) I am open minded because I think that each person is on his or her own journey, and it isn’t my place to direct them. Most of religion is us fumbling in the dark. It isn’t cut and dried, it isn’t black and white. It is choosing and navigating and falling and getting back up; it is entirely between us as individuals and God, and I can’t get in the middle of that. I can’t say that my choices are right for anyone else but myself.

But what I do know is that my meandering, hilly experience has brought me to some truths. These are my truths and I own them because I worked for them. They aren’t true for me because someone told me they were true, but because I thought, prayed, pondered, experienced, learned. Not being a drinker is one of those truths. I hope my kids can learn that from me rather than the hard way, but I also know that the hard way is sometimes the only way, and that some choices must be made and remade over an entire lifetime.

Maybe not all Mormons are like me. (That’s laughable. I am not much like many, many Mormons.) But not all of us judge. Not all of us think we are the only right answer. Not all of us fit the mold. And many, many more than others might think are choosing what we choose not because The Church told us to choose it, but because we decided. It is in the deciding that the power lies.

(This blog post written as a response to an interaction I had with a library patron today, who ranted at me for a good five minutes about how much she hates Mormons because "all they ever do is judge anyone.")

I wanted to go running in Rome.

For me, running on a vacation is part of what makes the vacation awesome. It isn’t even really about the exercise itself, but about presence. About moving through an entirely different landscape than my usual one. Running in a place makes the place feel more a part of me, and I wanted that in Rome. I wanted to have that in my life’s oeuvre, even if it wasn’t a very long run, wanted the experience of running past all of those old buildings and along the cobbled streets.

Our hotel was close to the Termini train station and the Piazza della Reupubblica; the Basilica di Santa Maria Maggiore was just down the street, so that was the route I wanted to take.

It was our first full day there, and I woke up refreshed, early enough to get a few miles in, so I talked Becky into putting on her running shoes and coming with me. We hustled down the stairs and walked out of our hotel to find a very cloudy Rome. A very cloudy and then very wet Rome, as the rain that had fallen in the night started falling again. We didn’t make it very far—just to the corner behind the basilica, and then we talked ourselves out of running in the rain.

I wish we hadn’t.

I wish we’d just kept running, made our loop, and rushed through breakfast. I wish I had those thirty minutes so I could always think I went running in Rome.

I think we thought we’d have another chance. But our days were so full of walking that the rest of the mornings, it felt impossible to get up early enough for a run. Really, the only running I did in Italy was when I sprinted from the Tower of Pisa to our meeting place. (I was two minutes early.)

Running in Rome is one of the reasons I want to go back to Italy.

When my mom first started talking about taking a trip to Rome, about two years ago, it seemed so far-fetched as to be impossible. Normal people like us didn’t just go to Italy. Plus…Italy? My fantasy trip to Europe was all about England and Ireland. I don’t know that I’d ever really even thought about going to Italy.

But, a year ago, I went to Italy.

And now I understand why people want to go there. It is a magical place, really, a magic I didn’t know existed. The air feels different there, the light, the smells. Maybe that can be said about all foreign places and I’m just illustrating how few times I have really traveled. Probably when I make it to the British Isles I’ll fall in love with its air and light and smells, too, but in a different way. Italy’s magic, I think, is only found in Italy. It’s all the history, of course, time tingling just underneath your feet. It’s the very real possibility of great food around every corner. It is nuns walking down the street in their habits and athletic shoes, the whizz of all those little cars, and a magnificent church where ever you find yourself.

It is the way art imbibes everything.

In Rome, I ate a pizza intended to feed three people all by myself. Tomatoes, rocket salad (what the Italians call arugula), cheese and spices. Simple, but so delicious I don’t regret it for a second. 

In Rome I ate a grapefruit gelato, walked to the Pantheon, and then ate a rose gelato (it tasted very delicate, sweet, and pink): two gelatos in less than an hour.

In Orvietto, I ate the best salami and cheese I had ever had, until I had some in  San Gimignano, and now I can’t decide which one was more delicious.

At a Tuscan vineyard, I tasted the strongest, most startling olive oil I have ever experienced and that moment—the bite of flavor on my tongue and my utter surprise that such a culinary pleasure existed in the world—is etched onto my food memories.

I will forever be trying to replicate it with inferior olive oils.

But it isn’t just the food. It’s the beauty of the landscape, too. All those mountains and fields and then the cities springing out. It’s all the ties to books and stories and myths. It is everything I found in a country I didn’t know I wanted to visit.

Now I’ve been once, I desperately want to go again. To go running in Rome—more than once (past the colosseum, and along the Tiber under the sycamores, and on the streets of Vatican City), and also in Sienna and maybe a very-early route through Venice. To do the things I couldn’t the first time, to do some of the same things again. To have entirely different reactions and unplanned experiences. I threw one coin with my right hand over my left shoulder into the Trevi fountain, which should ensure my return. I might never make it back…but I hope I do.

(click HERE to read more about my trip to Italy.)

Last October, I went to Italy on a guided tour. This was one of my mom’s dreams, to go to Italy together with her daughters, and she got it all organized for us. I’ve never traveled like this before—the itinerary, transportation, and accommodations all planned by someone else, and everyone in the larger group a complete stranger. I think I’d do it again, but there are a few things I wish I would’ve known from the very first day of the trip. Here are my tips for traveling with a group on a guided tour (along with some of my favorite photos from Italy):

1. Get a travel guidebook of your own. That sort of sounds counterintuitive…why would you need to read and learn about a place where you’ll have someone guiding and teaching you? We had some really excellent tour guides on my trip. (I can’t think about Rome without hearing our Rome guide’s beautiful voice saying “Roma” and “andiamo!”) But when you already know some of the history,
geography, politics, art, and architecture of the places you’re going, your response to the area will be so much more complex and complete. In the places I hadn’t read about (namely, Orvietto and San Gimgiano) I felt like I didn’t know what to focus on because I didn’t know what I could do there. My experience was much richer in, say, Florence and Siena, where I’d read about the basilicas, towers, history, and famous people. Sometimes the tour guide will repeat something you’ve learned, but then you can just nod your head in your shared wisdom. Plus, a guidebook will give you some ideas for where to eat, which is handy when you don’t have an international data plan on your smart phone.

2. Take advantage of having a guide. Stick close to him/her and listen. Ask questions too. These are people who thoroughly and intimately know the cities you’re only visiting. The knowledge and details they share with you are, quite frankly, part of what you paid for. Wandering through an unknown city is much more fun when you learn about what you’re looking at, rather than only looking at it. Plus you’ll have more little tidbits to share when you get home. (And, speaking of paying for the guides…remember that you’ll need to tip them when they’re finished. I didn’t know this and I would’ve got more cash if I had.)

3. Make friends! This is the best thing about traveling with people you don’t know: you get to meet other people. I loved talking to and getting to know other people in our group. We were all pretty different in lifestyles, careers, families, and time of life. It didn’t matter because we found different things in common. If you are traveling with people you know (like I was with my mom and two sisters), it’s easy to be sort of clique-y and stick just to that group. But your experience will be much more fun if you try to make friends with everyone. Go to all of the group activities, especially the meals. Sit by someone new every time you eat as a
 group, or in the bus. Ask people what they are reading or listening to. Ask to look at their pictures or what they thought about a place. I enjoyed this so much that I found myself striking up conversations with other strangers as well, like the father and daughter from Ireland who we chatted with at a restaurant in Rome. (This isn’t normally a strength of my introverted personality.) Talking to them (and listening to their accent) was one of my favorite moments.

4. Be patient with people. Everyone has different travel styles and expectations. This is not a bad thing, but sometimes it can be a challenge. Maybe you’re expecting lots of time to linger in gift stores because that’s your thing. But someone else’s thing is more time in the actual museum (or whatever). You can work around this by talking to people, letting them know what you are hoping to do, and perhaps most importantly, remembering you’re not the only one on the trip. Also remember that you can only move as quickly as the slowest person in your group. If you are a fast walker, use your extra time for lingering in the doorways of shops, admiring perspectives you’d otherwise miss, or taking pictures. If you are a slow walker, don’t feel guilty or worried about it. You’re just giving the faster people chances to get more intimate with the place you’re in.

5. Expect that you'll start to rub on each other. If you were traveling with twenty or 25 people you knew and loved, this would still be true, so when it’s people you don’t know very well? It happens. There will be someone who bugs you. That's OK, because you're likely bugging someone else. Decide not to be a victim of annoyance by doing your best to overlook the actions of someone else who is rubbing you the wrong way; assume the best about everyone. By the third day, I was acutely and painfully aware of which person I was bugging. By the fifth day I decided I didn’t care if I was bugging him because I had paid for my trip, too, and I wasn’t going to let his annoyance ruin it. The best way to deal with someone who’s bothering you? Take advantage of any and all free time. Which brings us to tip number 6.

6. Take advantage of any and all free time. This is another reason for the first tip. If you have some basic knowledge of the city, a map (already in the guidebook!), and an idea of what you want to see, you’ll be much more productive with your free time. I, for example, did not read up on Bologna before we got there, so with the free time we had, we saw the main basilica and not much else. But when we were in Rome and had an entire afternoon to ourselves, my sister Becky and I saw the Castel Sant’Angelo, the Spanish Steps, and several other landmarks. We walked next to the Tiber river; we revisited the places we’d felt rushed in before, like the Pantheon and Trevi Fountain; we found
the metro and figured out how to ride it back to our hotel. (That was one of my favorite afternoons.) We knew we wanted to do all of those things because we’d both read a guidebook or two. Don’t be afraid to let yourself get a little bit lost. You’ll discover things you love that you couldn’t find any other way, and people are friendly in Italy. Even if you’re really lost, someone will help you find your way back. (Just keep watching your watch if you have to be back at a certain time!)

7. Thoroughly understand what is happening each day. Don't assume anything! Ever since I first saw the itinerary for our trip, I was anticipating the moment we would walk through the duomo in Siena. One of my friends had told me how much she loved it, especially the interior, and I couldn’t wait to see and feel what she told me about. While we were in Siena, however, we toured the Basilica of San Domenico instead. This was a beautiful, simple church, with the head (literally) of St. Catherine enshrined in one of its naves. I enjoyed learning about it. But then we just walked right past the Siena duomo! We saw the outside but it wasn’t in the plan to go inside of it.
If I had understood the plan for the rest of the day, I would have known that I did have enough time to see the cathedral on my own if I skipped out on part of the tour. (There is no rule that says you have to stay with the group the entire time.) Sticking with the tour most of the time is probably the best idea, but if there is something you must absolutely see, and it’s not on the itinerary but there is time for you to see it on your own, I say be brave and go for it. But this can only happen if you understand what is happening each day. Ask questions! 

8. Be on time. Nothing annoys group members as much as having to wait for someone. I know this for two reasons—I waited for late people, and I was late myself. Twice, in fact. The first time happened when we were walking back to the bus, but as I was with more members of the group than just myself, I wasn’t worried. (People still thought I was late.) The second time I was late really was unforgiveable. It happened when we were leaving in the morning, on one of the days we were changing hotels, and it took Becky and I longer to pack than we thought. I’m still embarrassed that it happened. Especially pay attention to the meeting time when you have free time or if you are breaking away from the group. It helps everything run more smoothly and it’s probably nice not to embarrass yourself.

9. Be open to unexpected and spontaneous experiences. One of my favorite moments happened in Rome. Becky and I were in the lobby one night, sort of late, and we noticed there was a bunch of people from our tour group hanging out in the bar. So we joined them. Again: introvert here. My heart was pounding at first, and I didn’t do an excellent job at mingling. But I managed it. And actually had fun! Another spontaneous moment happened in our hotel near Venice. A few minutes before we were supposed to meet at the bus in the morning, some of the group members ended up in the lobby together. There was a piano, and one of the members (a skilled, professional pianist) played a song for us. It was amazing and beautiful and wonderful. I have a theory that if your heart and mind are open—not too devoted to schedules or personal fears or anything else—then life will bring you these unexpected moments. Watch out for them, and then grab them when you have the chance!

10. Get the email addresses of the people in your tour group. Especially the ones you'd like to swap pictures with. I still would like to do this! If you are taking pictures, you’re far less likely to be in your pictures. But you’re probably in other people’s pictures (just like you’ll have some great photos of the other tour group members). Figure out a way to share them. The group I traveled with did not do this, but I still would like to see some of their pictures.

And, I know I wrote that this is a top ten list, but here’s a very important bonus tip:

Go to the bathroom every chance you get. Seriously. Italians must have the world's largest bladders, I don't know. But there are very few bathrooms. So prepare yourself. Keep a Euro or two in your pocket (yes, you have to pay for many of them) and whenever anyone finds a bathroom, use it. If you find a bathroom, tell everyone else about it. This doesn't seem like a tip that fits with traveling with a group, but I promise: you'll annoy people if all you talk about is how badly you have to pee. And it's hard to be social and outgoing when you’re uncomfortable like that. 

Have you ever traveled with a group? What suggestions do you have?

(Read more about my moments in Italy:

First church in Rome

In the Accademia

Florence)

When you go to Rome, you are supposed to throw a coin with your right hand over your left shoulder into the Trevi fountain if you want to return to Rome.
 I tossed a Euro and made the wish, and while I loved Rome and hope to go back there again, the city I most want to revisit is Florence.

Since we went to Italy on a guide tour, the itinerary was already planned. We didn't stay in Florence, but drove there from Montecatini. Once we arrived, we met up with a tour guide who walked us through the city.

Everywhere you look in Florence, there is a small,beautiful detail

The famous Odeon theater. We didn't catch a flick.

Even the doors are beautiful!

We stopped at the Florence Cathedral (the Basilica di Santa Maria del Fiori) and the Baptistery,

(I found this image of Santa Maria by doing a Google image search! Alas, not mine!)

but since we were there on a Sunday we couldn't actually go inside the buildings. (People were going to church there.) After taking some photos and getting us each a copy of a city map, the tour guide showed us more of Florence. She pointed out monuments, buildings, museums, and bridges with historical importance, giving us an idea of the city's layout, and then led us to the Accademia, where I had my moment with the slaves. 

Then we had some free time.

Most of the people in the group decided to go to the leather market. I was sorely tempted to join them, as I had visions of finding a belt for Nathan (belts being one of his favorite things, ever since he was little) and a gorgeous Italian leather backpack for myself. But Becky and I had other ideas. We had someone show us where we would all meet up (as well as the location of the leather market, just in case we had time), the San Lorenzo basilica, and then we were off on our own adventure.

We wanted to climb the 414 stairs in Giotto's Campanile.

Having already earned our title as the "straggler sisters" (a story in its own right), we didn't want to be late to the meeting place. So we hustled. We stopped at a little restaurant on a side street, where we scarfed a delicious pizza and a thoroughly disappointing cannola. (One of my wishes for my trip to Italy that wasn't realized: eating some delicious and amazing cannoli.) Then, as we walked to the Campanile following our handy map, one of the street vendors stopped Becky to tell her she'd dropped something. When we looked behind us and saw nothing he said, "You dropped my heart, beautiful lady." This was her third Italian admirer, but alas, we did not have time for her to be wooed.

But it did make us laugh all the way to the Piazza del Duomo.

Giotto's Campanile is the free-standing bell tower of Florence Cathedral. It is absolutely breathtaking even before you start climbing the stairs. (I cannot believe I didn’t take one photo of the tower itself.) Dark pink, white, and green marble in geometric patterns, hexagonal relief panels depicting biblical scenes and scholarly ideas, rows of lozenges, niches, and statues. Like the cathedral, it was designed to look like a painting. Very ornate, of course, but so beautiful. The top three levels are each built larger than the lower one, so that when you look up at the tower, the effects of perspective cannot be seen. It took 25 years to build the tower; during part of that time no work was completed because of the Black Plague.

Oh how I wish I could hear the history stories those old stones could tell!

Becky and I laughed, talked, and breathed fairly heavily going up those stairs. It's a sort of a spiral staircase, sometimes curving but mostly turning sharply, very narrow and steep, with a low ceiling.

When I took this photo from one of the stair landings I thought I was being creative. I've since seen about a million interpretations of it.

As we climbed, I thought about the people in the past who would've done this as part of their lives. The people who rang the bells, or priests I suppose. The stairs are worn smooth from people's feet, but the high reaches of the walls are dusty. It is like breathing in history.

 At the top, we wandered around.

(The tiles on top of the tower. I prefer to think that white stuff is patina, not bird poop. Please do not disabuse me of this notion. Thank you.)

There was a procession of some sort, winding its way through the narrow streets.

The view is fairly amazing, all of those Tuscan rooftops and narrow streets, the birthplace of the Renaissance spread out below you.  

I really, really wish I would've taken more pictures. I wish I would've handed my camera over to a stranger for a photo of me and Becky on top of the tower. I wish I would've crouched down at the bottom of the tower and photographed it that way. I wish I would've taken more pictures on top. I have some pictures—but not enough, and that is an exact reflection of my frustrated feeling that day. I tend to get impatient with photography when I am in a bad mood. 

I was in Florence...and I was in a bad mood. How dumb of me. But it felt like being given an entire box of chocolates and then having time to eat half of one. I wanted the whole box! I wanted to have time to see all of Florence. So it's not that I was grumpy. Just highly frustrated.

Once we stood on the top of the tower, and admired the view, we climbed back down, and set off to find the Ponte Vecchio.
This is a bridge that crosses the Arno River, and was the only bridge not destroyed by the Germans when they retreated from Florence during World War II. Florentine bridges used to all have those buildings on top—they were places for shopping and gathering. Only the Ponte Vecchio still has them. They used to be butcher shops, but now they are little shops where you can buy jewelry and souvenirs. 

By this time,  we were seriously racing to beat the clock. We crossed the Arno on the Santa Trinita bridge.

This is a bridge that was destroyed during the war. On each of its entrances, it has two statues, and they were destroyed as well. Each of the four statues depicts one of the seasons. After the war, the bridge was rebuilt and the statues pieced back together (their parts mostly lying in the river until they were restored). I wanted to stop and admire each statue, but since we didn’t have much time, I settled for photographing each of them. The light was bad and I was hurrying so even that “settling” was disappointing as the pictures aren’t great.
(I had to convert them all to black and white. Otherwise they were too awful to look at.)

The best photo I took of the statues was this one, which is the back of the summer statue:

It is so moving to me—the clear lines of where it was pieced back together are evocative of my Mary figurine and what it still means to me. 

After crossing the bridge, we speed-walked down a small side street to get to the Ponte Vecchio. This is one of my most vivid memories of Florence, for some reason, the small shops with their lighted windows and food, the heavy grey skies, the hustle of the crowds, the slight scent of the river. We turned a corner and there it was, the Ponte Vecchio. I wanted to stop and linger but we had like eight minutes to get to San Lorenzo. I crossed the Ponte Vecchio—but I didn't get to linger or really experience it.

We started to sprint. And then the weirdest thing happened—I slowed down. You have to know this about me: I am seriously a fast walker. But for some reason, I just could not walk fast. Or at least not as fast as Becky was walking. My feet were hot and my ankle was throbbing (I had my brace on) and I felt like I was walking through mud.
As I got slower I got more and more frustrated. What was wrong with me?

We passed the leather market and I looked at my watch, but there was definitely no time to shop, so my perfect Italian leather backpack and Nathan’s favorite belt stayed in Italy. We kept walking and we made it to San Lorenzo with three minutes to spare—and no one was there to see the Straggler Sisters' early arrival! Or, at least, no one from our group. All that hurried rushing only to discover we could have lingered for just a bit.

San Lorenzo is one of the oldest churches in Florence. It’s surrounded by an enormous square of crumbling stone steps. I sat down on the stairs of the church and I took off my boots so I could get rid of my ankle brace. I actively did not take any photos. Even though I want one now, so much, even just of my boots on the steps. Of that ancient church and my Eeyore self. I'm pretty sure Becky sat ten feet away from me, because she didn't want to be inundated by the waves of frustration rolling off of me. There we were in Florence, with a ridiciulously small amount of time to actually see much, and I finally realized why I had been walking so slow: I needed to pee. SO BADLY.

One thing about Italy: they don't really do bathrooms. Probably if you know all of the secrets, you know where the bathrooms are. But in that square, I couldn't find one. And I was in serious pain. I walked (slowly) around the square, hoping to find a bathroom. I didn't dare ask anyone "dove e il bagno?" because there was no way I could understand their quick responses. So I looked (in vain) through the belts a small merchant was selling. I saw no leather backpacks. Becky stood watch for me as the tour group members started trickling back, and then I just gave up. I sat down right there, on the steps of a church that seemed beautiful in such a simple, striking way, in a remarkable city full of history, architecture, art, and beauty, and I felt such a combination of annoyance, frustration, and desire for more that it was like I was sitting in a black puddle.

I might as well have just gone ahead and peed my pants.

And then I had my Florence Moment.

A nun, walking toward the church but from a different angle from where I was sitting, changed directions. She walked right over to me, patted my shoulder, and touched my forehead with the thumb of her other hand. She said something in Italian, squeezed my shoulder, and walked into the church.

My puddle evaporated.

I don't know what she said. Maybe it was "you're acting like a giant baby right now." Maybe it was “Yes, you didn’t get to see everything you wanted, but you are here, right now, in Italy. Cheer up.” Maybe it was “there’s a bathroom around that corner.”

But to me it was a blessing. A benediction of sorts. I thought about the feeling I had had while in St. Peter’s Cathedral, standing in front of the statue of St. Peter, which has a foot that, if you touch it, is supposed to give you a blessing. The foot is worn thin from so many centuries of touch, and it made me think about how powerful touch is, how it connects us and yes, blesses us. How we give a small portion of ourself in that touch, too. Being touched on the shoulder by the nun was the same feeling, only better because this was real.

My frustration drained away.

Eventually, everyone from the tour group arrived. In fact, I think they all thought I was the late one holding everyone up. I wasn’t late though. I was sitting on the ancient steps in front of an ancient church, thinking about how moments with God are not limited to time in churches or temples. They are not narrowed by religious denomination or gender or nationality. They are a thing you can find anywhere, even when you have blocked yourself into a black emotional corner.

The spirit is everywhere if you watch for it. Or maybe you sometimes have to sit still enough in your darkness for the light to find you, but it will.

I won’t say everything was magically better. I still had tons of walking left with my stupid aching bladder holding me back. (Our tour guide finally stopped at a bathroom in a tiny alleyway and I have never been so grateful to hand over money to pee.)
I still wanted to shop and explore. Not getting to examine statues in the Loggia di Lanzia in the Piazza della Signoria (Perseus with the Head of Medusa, The Rape of the Sabine Women, the Medici lions…) felt like ripping my heart out.
Walking past the Uffizi without going in—the Uffizi where Bottecelli’s “Birth of Venus” is hanging?—was physically painful.

But I had more of a peaceful heart (even if it was ripped out of my chest) and a lift to my feet. I tried to savor whatever I had left of Florence—walking past the city hall,
at least seeing those statues, listening to the tour guide talk about Santa Croce, a Christian church designed by a Jewish architect who included a Star of David. (This is where Michelangelo, Galileo, and Machiavelli are buried.)

I don’t know if I’ll ever get back to Florence. There wasn’t a fountain to throw a coin into along with a wish. But it’s there, on the top of my list: revisit Florence. See all the churches. Go to the Uffizi. See more of the Accademia than just the Slaves and David. Walk slowly along the Arno, cross all the bridges, shop at the leather market.

Find my Italian leather backpack.

But even if I don’t ever go back, the nun’s blessing (for that is how I will think of it) centered me enough that I could remember how lucky I was to be in Italy.