Home Is Where the Heart Is

THIS WAS WRITTEN ON SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 23rd

To feel at home, I have concluded that one needs to have both a secure form of shelter and friends who allow you to be yourself, thus meeting both your physical and emotional needs. Lately, I have had neither. Yes, the hostel is a place to sleep, but hardly a place to settle, and while I have met friendly people, I simply do not know them well enough. I suppose there is a spiritual element to all of this as well; to feel at home is to be at peace with God. But lately, God and I have grown apart, mainly due to my increasing worry, and failing trust, as to where I will be sleeping in the next months.

I knew God was reassuring me when shortly after finishing the last blog, the four PhD students from the UK came back to the room and wanted to socialize. We swapped stories of our childhoods, stories of pranks and siblings (most often pranks on siblings), each of which were culturally unique depending on our origin. I, of course, am from the Midwest, while Jen, the other American, goes to school in the South. Chris was from Britain, Catherine was from Ireland, and Eleanor was from Scotland. We were quite the diverse group of English speakers. As many know, I often like to speak with accents, particularly British, and so it was all I could do to resist trying one and looking like an idiot.

Saturday morning they were kind enough to invite me with them, since I was unable to go to the mission, and we traveled to a few sites in Rome via the metro. It was odd walking slowly and taking my time and socialize, since previously I have always been so focused on getting from Point A to Point B or just looking around silently. After looking at the famous Bernini carving of the Ecstasy of St. Teresa, we met with Ivan, Eleanor’s Italian friend, who took to a wonderful restaurant in an old abbey near the Pantheon. Since I was to look at a room there later that evening, I took note of my surroundings and was overwhelmed by the number of tourists that clogged the streets. I was relieved when we entered the restaurant in an old abbey where it was quiet and not so congested.

After a fabulous baguette and warm conversation, I departed while they went to the catacombs. I wanted to go too, but had a housing appointment across town. I should have gone with them. The room, which was in an Italian bed and breakfast, was overpriced and without use of a kitchen or internet. Also, amidst all of the Italian, I picked out the word “mafia” a few times, and determined it was in my best interest to decline the offer. Leaving in a hurry, I quickly revisited the hostel, moving my luggage into a different room, the only one open when I booked it the day before. Then with haste, I made way over to the Pantheon again to make my 7pm appointment with my anticipated potential room. I wanted to hurry especially because my UK friends wanted to meet me at 9:30pm for a tour and bar crawl. Since I do not drink, I knew it would be a waste of money, but I wanted to go dancing with them. Sticking to the narrow streets to avoid the large crowds, I passed many interesting places, including an old library which I plan to revisit.

The room, however, I do not plan to revisit. I just had a bad vibe the entire time I was searching. First, the Italian lady seemed a bit batty and was very particular about where I could go in the house, and at what times. Second, the room was very small and the view was awful. Third, she wanted me to lay down a 1500 Euro deposit (yeah, right), and lastly, the crowds that surrounded the entire area annoyed me greatly. I left with a heavy heart and an empty stomach, bummed that the room I had hoped for was far from such.

After grabbing a quick bite to eat, I got lost, again, and knew I was not going to make it the pick-up point at 9:30pm. I had almost reached my breaking point in frustration, upset that I lacked a room, internet and a phone and tormented by the fact that my only hope to let it all go was departing for their tour as I arrived at the hostel, exhausted from an utterly pointless day of searching for a room. With my heavy bag digging into my shoulder, I reached the first floor of the hostel and went to my separate room, doubting I would see them at all. If this sounds overly melodramatic, I only write that way to illustrate how much my self-pity and pessimism had warped me into depression.

Then once again, God reached out to me. Just before I went into my room, I saw Eleanor and Catherine coming out of there own. “Oh, I’m so glat ya didn’t make it. We’re so tired, we decited not to go. We’re aboot to have tea if you’d like to join us?” I could hardly believe it. After washing up a bit, I met them upstairs in the lounge. Turns out that “tea” is really Scottish for “dinner”; there was no actual tea at all, but I did not mind.

We eventually decided that we were not tired after all, and went out is search of a pub. They fully respected my decision not to drink, after I promised them that I could be quite crazy on the dance floor without it. We had a lot of fun, and I was assured that I just wasn’t some awkward, clingy fifth wheel. Throughout the night, I learned some new dances as well, including the Scottish Kaelie dance and some crazy German song where everyone slaps the floor. The Germans there could tell we were new at it, and we could tell that they had no problem putting their hands on the floor. We dubbed the disco room in the basement of the pub “The Catacombs” because it was incredibly hot and sweaty. We frequented the out-of-doors and shared many laughs. But we also shared some serious conversation too, about the future, purpose and where Jen could get a canolli. Though we returned to the hostel late, I had not felt that awake all day. However, I still forgot to set my alarm clock into the “on” position.

I woke up at 10:15am, missing breakfast and potentially missing the UK gang on there way to the train station, but sure enough, they were still at the hostel. At the station, each of us enjoyed a canolli before I bid them a due, warning them that I may except there invitation to visit Edinburgh or their university at Glasgow. Then, it was time for the phone call. Clutching my room rental information in my hand, I found the nearest public phone. I had made my decision… Busy. Busy. Phone is Not Operating. Out of Order. Phone is Not Operating. Please Try Again. Phone is Not Operating. Ugh. I ran from that batch of phones and found one that had perched itself alone in the center of the station. Ringtone. Ringtone. “Buon Giorno.” A bunch of slaughtered Italian. Flipping through my phrase book frantically, and like magic, opening to just the right page. “Questo pomeriggio? (This afternoon?)” Si. Grazie. Ciao. I hung up the phone, so completely relieved.

So I am happy to report that I write this from my new room and the eve of my first day or work. Just as everyone warned me, trying to find a place in Rome in a week was insanely stupid, and just as I had hoped, God pulled me through it all, along with my impatience and worry. Despite my distrust and doubt, I have been fortunate enough to have received a home once again. I’m exhausted. I think I’m going to get some rest.

Thank you for reading. God bless.