publishing peace

Of the many hardships I have had to endure on this sojourn to Europe, the worst by far has been sleeping in airport.  I'm only sort of kidding. Have you ever tried to sleep by yourself in an airport? In a foreign country?  Let me explain. I was already on edge, as it were. Having "one of those days". And in the morning I was going to Rome by plane -- only a 45-minute flight, but we were flying out at 7, and I had no way to get to the airport that early in the morning, so I had to stay at the airport. I had a mental breakdown on the train on the way there, probably making all the other passengers very nervous, and also my cab driver from the train to the airport.  And then I finally got there, checked in, and tried to get through security, but they wouldn't let me through to the gates until the next day. That was just one thing too many for me, and so, with all the wretchedness of any proper Regency-era heroine, I rushed to the bathroom, locked myself in, and wept. ...

I hate romantic movies with sad endings. I guess I should clarify what I mean by "sad". I'm not talking The Notebook , where they die in each other's arms, I'm talking La La Land . (Controversial, I know.) Or Me Before You. Every time I watch one of these movies, it's like, "really? Of all the beautiful stories about romance you could've chosen to use your immense cinematic budget and resources to tell, you pick this one?!" It's a travesty, really. In my opinion, a complete waste of time. I don't want to suffer through the inevitable blunders, miscommunications, and possibly painful moments in a romantic film only to get to the end and find out the couple did not end up together, esp ecially when it's about dumb stuff that could be solved in a conversation if both participants were willing to figure it out. Because what, I ask you, is even the point of telling those stories, if not to help us to believe that in the end, if it...

I've seen things Shakespeare has seen. Really, that's remarkable. History considers it likely that Shakespeare had visited Italy, or even that he was secretly Italian, because of how accurate and intimate the accounts of the places he talks about are. It's not hard to remember as you glimpse fair Verona out the window of a train. That's where two teenagers fell in love, crossing stars that would inspire so many others to cross it was like embroidery stitches. That's where Romeo beheld Juliet on her balcony and said, "what light through yonder window breaks?" You really can't forget this when the sun comes out from behind the clouds for a minute and Verona is lighted. It's like Juliet herself commissioned the heavens for me. "She's young and she falls in love easy. She's a real romantic," she'd probably say. "Let's give her some magic." And so the clouds break and the light comes in. It is the east. Juliet is t...

I was not favored to be born Portuguese. In a way, much of the country is a mystery to me -- the customs, the history, the geography, the language especially. But what I do understand is saudade . If you plug that word into Google translate, you get "missing" -- a direct translation for a word that seems not to have one. It is the melancholic remembrance of the way things were, a word for the heartbreaks, big and small, that inevitably follow any sort of significant change. It is a love song for the things you've lost over time. In truth, it's hard for anybody, especially a non-expert like me, to really put into words what saudade is; but it is a universal emotion that somehow hurts and connects. Everyone feels it. Saudade is what colors the city of Lisbon, spilling into everything from their cobblestones to their street art to the fado music played only in dim lights, where everyone puts down their forks and listens. Saudade is even audible in the cadence of th...

Imagine this. It is the perfect temperature outside. The sun is shining. And you are sitting beneath a canopy of wisteria and honeysuckle, the smell of them filling you up as the folks around you talk in rapid-fire Italian and laugh at jokes you are beginning to understand. Any minute now they'll bring you antipasto, and you will twist your fork around beef just barely browned at the edges, prosciutto with honey and walnuts, fresh mozzarella. The children will try to speak English to you, even the ones who don't know it well yet, and you will delight with them in all their discoveries and accomplishments, which they are anxious to share with you. This is my reality. It's taking my eyes some time to get adjusted to the brightness of it all, and it's taking my brain some time to process how amazing it is that I have been where I have been. My host family is always checking on me. They are always saying my name. "Emily, how is the [food I just tried]? Emily, how d...

Wow, wild week! I arrived in Italy Monday night. It's been a wonderful week of exploring my cool little northern Italian town, getting to know my host family, and seeing Design Week in Milan (which really felt like a chick flick moment, might I add). Salone Del Mobile has left me feeling very inspired. For six hours I got to walk around a world-famous display of interior/exterior design elements from acclaimed designers throughout the world. My mind was absolutely blown, and it was super cool to have the lid explode off the top of what I thought was possible as far as design. I kept notes of things I saw that got my gears turning. I'd like to go back there someday -- but not just to look, to work! It's become so clear to me that part of Christ's reason for sharing the talent parable is because He knew how many of us would hide not only our talents but our personalities. I saw a sign at Salone Del Mobile that read: "Build your own dreams or someone else will hir...

They told me not to thank people when they help me, because no one does that in France. But I do. Everyone, all the time. It's a reflex. Guy who picked up my fifty cent piece? Merci. Lady who opened the door for me on the metro when my button wasn't working? Merci. Kids who returned the contents of my wallet as they go spilling out onto the pavement because I forgot I left it unzipped and flung it all over like the clumsy American girl I am? Merci. Even my Uber driver who wasn't my Uber driver who ripped me off got a merci, and he didn't even deserve it. My first couple days in France, I knew I had "TOURIST" stamped on my forehead. What a negative, nasty word that word is. It brings to mind some weird ogling person probably wearing a Hawaiian shirt and a straw hat who is completely oblivious to what's around them and how things work. They are in a place just to be there. I would get the looks from the locals, especially when I would ask for help. "J...