Go to class or volunteer at a soup kitchen? The lines that divide these two are a little less clear than those that separate academics from a pasta making class. My program organized a visit to Caritas Soup Kitchen, which took place today. Like most of CEA’s activities, this one overlapped with my class schedule, but I was able to make it an hour late. It was 5:30PM and the sun had set just enough to make me not so thrilled to be walking the streets alone. Soup kitchens aren’t generally in the most gentrified of areas, and Caritas is no different. As I power walked down via Marsala for what seemed like an hour, I began to worry that I was destined for a future akin to those who I was attempting to escape. Drunkards collapsed on the sidewalk and numerous fights broke out. Street lamps weren’t in abundance and the pavement still had a thick layer of ice covering it. I turned back and headed toward civilization. In Hotel Marsala, I asked the frazzled owner where Caritas was, showing her the pixilated map on my phone. “via Marsala 109 non esiste,” she told me. Cool. After a slew of “ums,” pauses, and an exhausted use of my Italian vocabulary index, she realized where I was trying to go and pointed down the same unwelcoming road I had come from. “Should I just go home?” I thought, and then decided that Swiss Army Knife of not, I was making it to Caritas.
“CARITAS,” I saw, written in bold red letters above a doorway to my right. I zoomed in, only to see a hodgepodge of homeless people and no one from CEA. I tried talking to the volunteers, but they were convinced that I either needed to eat or see a doctor. It turned out I was at the Caritas clinic and needed to venture a little farther down skid row to find the soup kitchen.
Finally, I stumbled upon a large structure with a line of bundled people protruding from it. A small scuffle was erupting, which I pushed pass to get inside. There I found a huge cafeteria-style room filled with people, some of whom I thankfully knew. Since all the serving positions had been filled, I would be responsible for taking used trays and refilling water. Along with a bunch of grumpy kids from St. John University who where forced against their will to be there, I meandered down the aisles of tables and avoided eye contact.
It took me a little while to get comfortable there, but once I did, I met some seriously incredible people. After a few run ins with some creeps, a younger man from India tried to get me to sit down with him. I told him I’d talk to him standing, which he wasn’t a fan of. I moved onward and found him waving me down throughout the night from other tables around the kitchen. Again I told him, “I can’t sit and talk to you, I have to work.” To which he replied something along the lines of this, “The best work you can do here is talking to us. We can get our own water and clear our plates. We want to meet you and learn about where you come from and tell you our stories. Please sit down and talk to me.” “Only because you said please,” I said, chuckling as I sat down across from him. We spoke, mostly in simple English but sometimes in attempted Italian and I heard his story.
From that point forward, I made a point of pursuing a conversation with anyone who wanted one. Most people I met were men, and most came from different countries. They all moved here in pursuit of work and money because their home countries are barren of both. But when they arrived in Italy, they realized that it is no different here than at home. Everyone I met had an extremely positive outlook on life and their future and each of them spoke enough English to get by. In most cases, they wouldn’t let me speak Italian. “Are you American?” “Si!” “Not si. Yes.” “Yes.” These were the establishing words that began my exciting exchanges with the people of Caritas.
There were three people in particular though, who invited me to sit down with them, and made a lasting impression on me. First was Ouman, a Gambia native. He travelled to Italy because Africa, he said, has no money. He has no money here either but as he poignantly stated, “At least here, I am free.” I told him that I am from the U.S., which he is convinced is comprised of at least 53 states. He speaks some Italian, but is fluent in English, which is, as he defined, “the universal language.” I asked him where he wants to work. “Anywhere.” His dream job though, is sewing. He promised to make me a dress.
Next I met Luigio and Constantine. Luigio is a spunky guy from Transylvania. “That’s where Dracula is from,” he told me time and time again. His cheeks covered with deep scars and the skin under his eyes like sandbags, it was clear that this wasn’t Luigio’s first time at Caritas. Constantine, who spoke no English and used Luigio as a translator, learned that I came from California and henceforth continued to shout “SHWARTZENAGER!!” each time earning an honest laugh from me. I asked if they were friends. No, they’re “blood brothers,” Luigio explained, pretending to slice his and Constantine’s wrist and rubbing them together. I promised them I’d be back, and rushed over to the lady who wanted me to sneak her some extra pasta.
My final stop was perhaps my favorite. Four men huddled around a table, peeling their blood oranges with plastic knives. I brought them more water and was invited to chat. Roberto, the leader of the pack and the only English speaker, is a Rome native. His friends came from Palermo, Napoli, and somewhere else I didn’t recognize. The old man with the long grey ponytail and bifocal glasses insisted that I take his seat. Roberto used to be a philosophy teacher, but when the government cut funding, he lost his job. He lives in a house now, but he doesn’t know how long he can stay there. In his words, “I have to start over, do something else.” As he talked to me about philosophy and homelessness, the Napoli native to my right handed me a piece of paper. It was a photocopy of a letter he had clearly spent hours on. In terrible English, this man had written his life story. He is an engineer, a robot builder. He is homeless and lives in a car due to “social dilemmas” in society. The letter quickly became an extensive commentary on politics and sociology. He took it back when I was finished reading and replaced it to his yellow folder, filled with photocopies of news articles and written excerpts for his novel. As I spoke with the men, a nasty fight complete with pushing, punches, screaming, and fire broke out nearby. Roberto and his buddies made sure I was safe and tried to talk to me instead of following the crowd rushing to the scene. This happens every day at Caritas, I was told. I spoke with these extremely articulate gentlemen until my friends were waiting by the door and Catarina of the CEA staff had to explain to the men that I had to leave. They weren’t happy to see me go, but they knew I’d be back for more conversations on journalism, California, and the weather. They waved as I walked out the door, blowing friendly kisses as I left.
I walked away from Caritas Soup Kitchen with a newfound feeling of importance. I know that I would never have opted to speak with anyone I met that night outside of that situation, for fear of the unknown and unfamiliar. But everyone there wanted to be there and they loved that I wanted to be there too. Everyone was so eager to meet me, hear my stories, and practice their English. No one was unintelligent. They all had goals and aspirations and a rich history to share that I would otherwise be oblivious to. It’s so easy to pass judgment at someone with dirty hands, a scarred face, or a ragged coat. These people looked exactly like those who I try so desperately to avoid in Rome, but they’re also the most kind individuals I’ve met thus far. The three hours I spent at Caritas was the best three I’ve spent in Rome and beyond. If I can make it work, I’m going to make talking with Luigi and Constantine and Ouman and Roberto a weekly ordeal.
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