A 98% factual piece of fiction

I visited a monastery across the valley from Orvieto. This is my account of that, but one I'm planning on using for a story I'm writing.

The walk to Cappuccini Monastery wasn’t far. After stopping for a coffee and a cornetto at around seven, I walked across town and took the elevator to the base of the cliff. I still find it strange to see Orvieto from below. When I’m surrounded by the familiar buildings and streets, it seems to be on ground level. From the bottom, I can see how tall the walls really are. The town thrusts itself toward the sky, dug out of tufa and stacked up like a tree building itself from the soil.
After cutting through a vineyard on a questionably public path and crossing the main road, I took a right under a brown sign—CONVENTO DEI CAPPUCCINI—past a gas station, a cheap clothing store and a grocery store.
I was glad I decided to bring my scarf. It was a cold, damp morning. The clouds turned over on themselves again last night, just like they did when this month began. I went to bed around midnight with no shirt on. The weather had warmed up considerably two weeks or so after the storm, and even though the rest of San Paolo was a good ten degrees cooler than the temperature outside, the rooms were warm a night if we kept the doors closed. I woke up shivering at 4 AM to what I was sure must be some sort of air raid. The same feeling used to come over me when I’d wake up to the noise of the highway across the baseball field at our house on Adams Street. Thunder shook the 800-year-old walls and wind rattled the shudders. It’s frightening to experience a thunderstorm from inside a cloud.
When the rain died down again, I put on a long-sleeved shirt and fell back asleep. When I woke up, the late fall weather from earlier in the month had overtaken the Indian summer. The path to Cappuccini curls up an adjacent hillside through recently harvested olive groves and fields of empty branches and fallen grape leaves. Looking back toward the city, the Cathedral façade peeks up from the other side of the plateau. Its three peaks sparkle golden and wet with the mist of last night’s storm as the sun dispels the fog, now seeking shelter in the valley. Within an hour, I reached the gates. I took a few photographs for her. She is the reason why cameras exist—rather, her absence calls them into existence.
The road curved up through another grove, into a cloud. When I set out, I planned to spend my morning watching Orvieto from far away. The monastery was a place where I could see where I have been living for the past three months; I could take it all in with a glance. As I climbed the hill, however, it struck me that I couldn’t see a thing.
Cappuccini is a simple, quiet place. At the entrance to the central piazza, a statue of St. Francis stands in a dry fountain off to the left. His face is indiscernible—part exasperated, part apologetic, part comical, but each affect is rendered in a way that would exclude any other. The main path is made of gravel, generously dispersed over large areas of grass (or else, grass crowding into large areas of gravel), much like the driveway of the farm in Merrimac where we used to go apple picking.
I wandered up toward what must be the dormitory, passing a simple wooden sign: “Il Signore Ti Dia Pace” painted in black. Walking around to the back of the building, I found an overlook that faces Orvieto. The world beyond the monastery was still shrouded in grey, though. Save for the distant hum of engines and the whispers of tires on the highway below, it could all have disappeared when I climbed into the cloud. I thought of sitting down for a while in one of the green metal benches, but decided to look around a bit more.
The church flickered soft red light, cast from a single candle burning by the tabernacle. I dipped my finger in the holy water and crossed myself earnestly. It’s a ritual that I’ve no problem carrying over from my Catholic upbringing. I knelt in a pew and murmured some prayers—confessions, an Our Father, requests for strength and wisdom—and then sat in the dimly lit church for another half-hour.
After exploring the grounds a little further, I found my way back to the green benches with the vague notion of waiting for the fog to clear. At this point, though, I don’t need it to anymore.

STAR SPINNING!!!

I promise there is an explanation behind the absurdity of my face here. Please, read on.

Between my sometimes intense personality and the lessons and challenges of my time in Africa, you might worry that I don’t think much about having fun. But that’s not true! And this week I want to share briefly some photos and captions that prove I care about more than learning and being serious. Sometimes I’m as goofy as I was when I left high school. Humility combined with immaturity is an important part of college, I think.

Case in point: star spinning, which is the most fun you can possibly have with only stars and flashlights. Basically, you stare at a star directly above you while spinning really fast for 30 seconds. Then you stop spinning and someone shines a flashlight in your eyes. You become so disoriented that you instantly fall over and have no concept of balance. It’s pretty hilarious.

(Star spinning unhinged reality for me in this moment. It was beautiful.)

Now, I would say “try this at home,” but I might then be liable if you twisted your arm after falling over. So don’t try it at home. Try it in Uganda. That’s one thing that you don’t have to worry about in Africa: liability. Outside of America, you find that people don’t really care what you do.

Christians who want to have fun within such a loose environment – without getting drunk in pubs every night – have to find some respectable way to entertain themselves. “Meaningful conversations” only go so far. Eventually, everyone just wants to see people fall over and lose control of their bodies and minds. And I realize that sounds very similar to what happens in those pubs I just condemned, but I swear it’s different!

(See how happy they are? How can you go wrong with expressions like those?)

First of all, with star spinning you’re getting exercise, and you aren’t going to throw up or get alcohol poisoning. Good, harmless fun. It’s also very beautiful, as you can see roughly five million-trillion more stars in the sky when you’re not surrounded by city lights. Moral of the story: another great adventure in Uganda that you should come try for yourself.

(Sam couldn't handle it.)

(But I'll be back for more...)

My week long homestay in a rural Ugandan village

This entry is going to be a bit longer than my others, but I’m writing about the most rewarding experience of my entire time in college, so please forgive me. I have a lot to say.

Last week, I got to spend six days in a rural village in Soroti District, part of Northern Uganda. I lived with the Okui family in Serere, and I spent my time helping out around their farm and simply observing how their daily life reveals their rural African values of subsistence agriculture, family community, and Christian faith.

First, a quick rundown of the family: there's “Papa” and “Toto” (the heads of the household), their two grown daughters, and about six grandchildren; many other relatives visited during the week. They’re a big family already, but the first thing I noticed was how welcoming and friendly they were, treating me as if I had always lived with them. In fact, when I first arrived, Papa gave me only a very brief tour of the homestead before ushering me into the main meeting room for an hour of family prayers!

Now, I thought I had seen truly fiery worship from other Ugandans, but the Okui family is a whole different breed. All the family members (even the 8-year olds!) pray simultaneously, some shouting, others whispering fiercely, and Papa trying his best to translate for me!

After I got used to the fervency of these prayer sessions, I started to enjoy them and joined in with my own (not so fierce) whispered prayers. Prayers were almost always followed by the children telling stories and riddles to the whole family, and the meals were also completely family-oriented. The Okuis finish most of their work before nightfall, so there is no anxiety or rush to spoil these nightly traditions of relaxing, singing, and watching three-year-old Gloria fall asleep on her mother's lap.

Intense worship followed by intense family time – yet it was never overwhelming. 7000 miles from my real home, it was very comforting.

After a few days, Papa brought me to visit the local school that his grandchildren attend. It was exciting to see so many enthusiastic kids, and the principal of the school took us to greet and encourage every classroom. Most of the kids were thrilled to greet us. Sadly, a few of the youngest thought I must be some pale monster and began sobbing when I approached.

Of course, although visiting the school was a lot of fun, it can’t compare to the hours of conversation I had with Papa. After working on his farm or eating a meal, we sat and talked about simple things like agriculture, local politics, differences between America and Uganda, and how nice the evening sky looked. And each night, after we finished singing and praying, he asked me to close the family meeting with a special prayer.

One night, after I said Amen, he turned to me and said, “Peter, you are a true son to us. You are a part of this family.” I know that’s the kind of thing that “you really have to be there” to appreciate, but I have to share it anyway. Even after the death of two of his eight children, Papa's home is still full of his loved ones. He lacks nothing, neither in family community nor in material resources to sustain them. And for some reason, he deemed me worthy of being a part of that.. He and his family are just that generous.

One blog entry couldn’t possibly suffice to explain all that I gained from living with the Okui family. But also, no amount of writing could really convey the full point of the story. You just have to live it for yourself. And the point is this: I’ve met thousands of wealthy people in my life, all of them more influential and educated than Papa and his family. Yet very few of those wealthy people interest me at all. Not like the Okuis. Because the Okuis want to just be with me and talk to me - and about pure things, too, like sweet potatoes, mango trees, and stories and songs from my childhood. One week with Papa, and I was “part of the family.” How many weeks would that take in America?

Thank God that I get to go home to a family and a college filled with people who can actually understand what I’m talking about.I hope you can, too..