Jesus Saves in Lucca

Icche c'e c'e Saturday is market day in Lucca. Everyone shows up to sell, to buy, to beg. The homeless and some of the immigrant-homeless wander the streets selling small packs of tissues, clothes pins, and plastic do-dads or do-moms. They approach cars, Vespas, biers, walkers. As I was in a post office to get stamps, one came in and asked me if I wanted anything. When I said no, he asked why not. He then went boldly to the bulletproof windows protecting the Italian government employees not from bullets but from the public and the actual doing of any work.

Surprisingly, even though they were unable to see through the glass at the bumper-to-bumper crowd of potential postal customers, the three clerks gladly opened the package window and set about dividing up the immigrant's wares as if they had never seen a clothespin!

Italians must use a lot of clothespins. I wonder. Do we in the US even have clothespins outside of West Virginia and parts of Arkansas?

Every homeless person who has approached me in Italy has immediately begun the conversation in English. I wouldn't find that unusual except no Italian on the street, at least, has spoken to me at first in English. Just today, I was standing in Lucca wearing a baseball cap with "Wimbledon" on it and holding a map. An Italian pulled up in his car - in the pedestrian only zone - and wildly (there is no other way for Italians) asked in Italian for directions. Couldn't he just guess I was a tourist? Of course, maybe he knew I was American. He was talking so fast, he could have just been surrendering to me.

So, it's market day. On my way into the walled city, just passing through Porta Elisa, a tall, very clean man in a very clean but outdated suit approached and offered me a pamphlet. With the current political turmoil in Italy (as opposed to last week's political turmoil), and the neat way he was dressed, I told him in Italian that I wasn't a voter. The last few days, several people had tried to get me to sign petitions. I wanted to be prepared with something besides,
"Bush bad."

The tall, very clean man froze. The little man next to him froze. They stared. Pamphlet remained outstretched and mouth open in a sound of silence. Va bene. My Italian is at the level of a three or four year-old, so I could have told him, "I will vomit on your suit;" instead of "I am not a voter."

Shortly, the mystery was resolved. On top of the wide wall and walking counter clockwise around the city, I ran into two women passing out the same pamphlets. This time I took one and sat down to examine it. God wanted me on his soccer team. I've never played soccer. So, I don't know why he would want me when Beckham and 40 million other soccer players were available. God must have as much money as Steinbrenner. I am sure he could buy a better team. I learned a valuable lesson today. A non sequitur works well in any language. The tall, very clean man offers me eternal salvation and I tell him I'm not voting.

"The mail's picked up at 4:30" works, too.

Somehow I was reminded of the last words of the Irish writer, Brendan Behan. To the nun who had been nursing him he said, "Thank you, Sister. May you one day be the mother of a bishop."