Unforgettable Easter

My Easter in Florence was unlike any other holiday I’ve ever celebrated.  Instead of spending the day with my family, as I normally would have, I spent it with a group of nuns at a convent twenty minutes walk from my apartment.  That’s right, nuns.  Settle in, it’s a great story. 

Upon first meeting Cecilia, I brought her a bag of chocolates to express my gratitude for her hospitality.  I had never been to a convent before, but the 28-year-old Guatemalan nun was most welcoming.  A mutual friend had put us in touch with one another via email, but this was our first time meeting in person.  She served me a cup of coffee as we chatted and got to know each other.  Cecilia speaks almost no English, so in very broken Italian, I fumbled through a conversation about my life and hers.  I managed to tell her the story about my embarrassing mistake during communion mass at the Duomo, which triggered Cecilia's hearty laugh.  She introduced me to a few of the other nuns, and gave me a grand tour of the convent including the beautiful rooftop terrace with views of the distant Florentine landmarks as well as the green hills that surround the city.  I even got to visit the garden where Cecilia keeps her pet turtles, six of them.  When I departed that first day, she sent me off with a piping hot plate of food from the nuns’ small kitchen. 

By my second visit, it felt like Cecilia and I were old friends.  We watched the Palm Sunday mass on television, broadcast live from the Vatican.  As the old TV flashed faded shots of the Pope and solemn hymns buzzed from the speakers, I felt my body relax into the suede chair.  I sipped slowly from my tiny espresso cup, thinking about Cecilia.  Being the youngest nun in the convent on Via Berchet, I can tell she appreciates having someone my age around, even if our conversations have their limits due to the language barrier. 

I only know a little about Cecilia.  She was born in Guatemala, studied for three years in Rome, and now lives in Florence with the nuns on Via Bechet.  She goes to mass every morning at 7 and spends the rest of the day carrying out her chores and duties.  She loves to sing hymns and play piano.  On Sundays, she is allowed to relax.  That is why I visit on Sundays.  She wants to improve her English, so sometimes we sit and read through language booklets and I correct her pronunciation.  We laugh together over the absurd sentences like: “The more you eat, the fatter you get.” 

I want so badly to ask her a million different questions, but I can’t form the sentences properly.  I want to know, what really brought her to Italy?  Why did she decide to become a nun?  What about her family?  Does she ever get lonely?  I think she does.  These are things I may never know about Cecilia.  Even still, we are friends, a strange pair though we may be. 

I was surprised and flattered when the nuns invited me to their Easter feast at the convent.  Although I was excited to go, I was also a little nervous.  For one thing, none of the nuns speak English.  And though they are welcoming, I can feel their skepticism towards me.  Upon hearing that I am Protestant, one of them asked me if I believe in God.  I struggle to defend myself (in Italian) before these devout women.  I want them to know that I believe many of the same things they do, but I just remind myself that I have nothing to prove.  Unlike the older nuns, Cecilia seems to understand that my faith is not all that different from hers.   

Despite my concerns, Easter with the nuns was wonderful and truly unforgettable.  I entered the convent to shouts of “Buona Pasqua!” (Happy Easter) followed by kisses on both cheeks.  The feast consisted of five courses, prepared in the nun’s kitchen.  We kicked off the meal with a hymn, which everyone else knew but clearly I did not.  Then we sat and began the feast.  One of the nuns brought out a bottle of red wine, screwed in the wine-opener and popped the cork like a pro, an paradoxical image that made me smile.  The food was interesting; I’m not exactly sure what I ate to be honest, but I tried everything they put in front of me.  The best parts were the lasagna and the dessert, some kind of custard and raisin filled piecrust pastry topped off with whipped cream and a delicate strawberry.  I have no idea what it is called and I’ll probably never have it again, which is how I justified eating the entire thing.  There were eight of us women eating together, five nuns and two other guests in addition to myself, both of whom were sisters of one of the nuns. 

At one point during the meal, the head nun (I can’t recall the proper term), seated at her own table in the front of the room, asked me if I wanted to become a nun myself.  Somewhat startled by the question, I managed to gain my composure and respond politely.  “No grazie” was all I could think to say. 

The nuns wouldn’t let me assist with anything, preparation nor clean up, even though I asked repeatedly if I could help.  By the time I left, I had spent nearly five hours at the convent, between the meal and then spending time with Cecilia afterwards.  At one point, she and I wandered into the prayer room and knelt together, saying our own silent prayers, in our own languages, but to the same God. 

My Easter meal with the nuns was one of the more memorable experiences of my semester, proof that both food and faith can connect people regardless of differences in age, culture, or language.  Amen to that.