Jewish ghetto
I went to the Jewish ghetto today. It has been on my list of places to visit.
I knew that it would be powerful. But I didn’t realize just how much until I entered the neighborhood and saw a man crying as he looked at the memorial. I walked a little slower. The Jewish ghetto or quarter was the neighborhood where Jews were forced to live for centuries.
I pulled out my Italy book which had a walking tour of the neighborhood with short explanations at each stop. I was so glad I had it, otherwise I would have walked right by so many significant spots.
I started my walking tour on the bridge over the Tiber river. Then I crossed the street and stopped at the Catholic Church. It’s amazing to think that these Jewish people had Christianity forced on them. The church was placed at the entrance so they would hear a sermon as they came and left.
Next I walked through the Main Street and watched all the shop keepers and restaurants opening. The Jewish family all gathered around one big table as they finish lunch. The mom sitting next to her daughter stroking her hair and the kids jumping in puddles.
It was a rainy day and it felt right for the place. Maybe they were the tears that were shed here. Or the tears God shed when he saw what happened here.
I look up and see clothing hanging from the line. I look down and I see a gold brick. It’s a memorial for the Jews who were taken to a camp in WWII. After doing the math I realize this girl was 19. It makes me stop.
But there was beauty here too.
I wandered down the back alleyways finding the small shops that would pop up. I kept thinking, “This is what I imagined Italy to look like.”
I walk back and fourth so many times I’m wondering if the shop keepers are beginning to recognize me.
My stomach is starting to grumble and I have been dreaming of the artichokes that this neighborhood is famous for.
“Table for Uno?” I say to the waiter. And I am so proud of myself for using Italian to place my order, ask how he is doing, explain I speak only a little Italian, and ask for the bathroom! I guess I am surviving Italian. We have fun trying to communicate. He is from a Columbia, Italian is his second language and speaks a little English. I speak a little Italian. So we meet in the middle and it feels like a relief, like we are playing on neutral territory.
I order my carciofo Romana and enjoy my meal. Looking at the beautiful streets and listening to the musicians who come up and play behind me.
When my waiter returns and asks how my food is I say, “Motto Bene? Can you say that phrase about food?”
He looks at me with a better adjective and says, “Benissimo!”
“Benissimo!” I say.
“No, like this…”and shows me that in Italy you have to talk with your hands. He shows me the gesture. Fingers pressed together, now like a real Italian, I say, BENISSIMO!
Chaio Bella!
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