Roman Exile

Through the small voice of an eight-year-old Italian boy, God spoke to me. I am lost in a world known as the Roma Termini train station – two months into my semester abroad, still posing as the ultimate stranger in a country of foreign words, customs, and clothing. Feeling alone on a train filled with people traveling from Rome to Florence on a Sunday night, I leave my seat to shuffle down the aisle, searching for my Orvieto group. We were split up amongst the train cars after a frantic run through Roma Termini to catch the last train home after a long day at our first Roma football match.

I make my way through the narrow aisle, self-conscious as usual, concerned that I might bump into the wrong old Italian lady. But even with my valiant efforts to avoid touching anyone who may be spilling into the aisle, I still had to dodge the glares and condescending glances at my running sneakers and inappropriate running tights. I mean I knew these tights would bring the normal amount of Italian judgment upon me but the combination of a monastery laundry schedule and my lack of pants options left me no choice. I continue to stare at the ground, praying that Laura and Becky might be in the next car so my unfashionable walk of shame could end – or at least I would have the company of friends for the journey back to my seat. I try to squeeze by a family, only to be stopped by a shout: “ROMA! Roma!” A boy crawls out of his mother’s lap to stand on the seat next to her in order to get a better view of me. He waves his hands wildly, grabs his jacket and rips it open in the most Superman-like way, holding it wide, then pointing at me, with the top of our matching maroon shirts showing under my jacket.

I smile back, ignoring the stares as I gesture to my shirt as well: “Sí, Sí! Roma. Roma. Sí!” He jumps up and down on the seat (which unimpresses his mother even more) and the boy’s friends peer over to grin at me as well, all saying “Roma!” I continue down the aisle, grinning like an American fool in running tights. I find Becky and Laura, and the three of us continue back to my original seat. We pass my little friend again and I’m unsure, uncertain as to whether I should smile or wave at him again or if his mother would be concerned that I am not only unfashionable but perhaps a kidnapper too. He doesn’t see me at first but his friends poke him and they point at me, whispering “Roma, Roma.” He jumps up again to smile and wave as I pass. Again, I can’t think of anything else to say other than “Sí! Sí!” I know I have more Italian vocabulary than that but I can’t think of anything, feeling so distant from a language that I can only sometimes understand.

But this little voice and waving arms breaks through the stares of foreign faces lining the train and suddenly my borrowed t-shirt makes me the ultimate Roma fan, now part of a gang of eight-year-olds who smile and wave even after I leave the train car and glance back to see if they’re still watching me. They are. Words enter the silence but they aren’t words I recognize. Foreign sounds bring me back into a world that I currently feel so exiled from – me, in my running pants and American demeanor, feeling abandoned by a God that chooses this moment to speak to me through a miniature football fan, in words that I don’t understand and through a smile that is unmistakably welcoming.