com·pas·sion

–noun
a feeling of deep sympathy and sorrow for another who is stricken by misfortune, accompanied by a strong desire to alleviate the suffering.

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It didn't take but a week's time in my new city to start seeing familiar faces in and around my small neighborhood. I visited Gottardo 29 every morning and was soon greeted each day by Diego or Julia as, on cue, they would prepare my capucinno con cioccolata, bollente latte per favore e canna da zucchero

. In true Starbuck's style, I had to have a lengthy "discussion" about my coffee order and couldn't come close to a typical Italian who casually strides in, utters "cafe"

, takes one deep swallow like it was a shot of tequila, and quickly scampers off to work. Coffee, however, has no significance to this story.

I first noticed Silvia perched atop a heap of her bagged personal items under the protective awning of Banco di Credito, sipping from a beer bottle while being watchful of a small scrap of fabric with a scattering of various coins she had collected. It was in a sweltering heat, though you wouldn't know that by the layers of clothing she had draped on and around her body. Her face was gaunt and thin while her body appeared plump with all the coverings. She was deeply engaged in a conversation with an unseen visitor but quickly shifted her attention to a male companion, also crouched in the corner, when he spoke to her directly. This was in early September.

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Ever since, I have been acutely aware of this thin, oddly beautiful woman, in various locations in Navigli. She certainly isn't the only homeless person contrasting a bustling town, broken up by a myriad of canals that are the setting of popular aperitivo

evenings where young, fashion conscious hipsters gather. Silvia has, however, stuck in my mind. Perhaps it is as much her exotic look as it is the ever present smile she wears ~ day and night; in rain, snow or cloudless sunshine. For some reason I rarely take note of her peers, moving about the city, as they seem to change as regularly as Silvia changes her wardrobe. And this she does often.

Silvia never dons the popular iPod accessory the Milanese wear to shut out their surroundings as they move about their daily routines. She doesn't need the music to flow through her to give rise to a swaying body. When she is not embroiled in a tête-à-tête, she sings. Sometimes loudly enough to be heard as she rocks and swings to her own beat; other occasions resting somberly, seemingly to soothe and please only herself.

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Alongside the homeless in Milan are the beggars. I make a distinction, not because the homeless themselves don't anticipate alms for the poor, rather because I don't see the beggars sleeping on the sidewalks cocooned by discarded boxes, tattered sheets, or plastic bags. They arrive at daylight and disappear before the shadows of their silhouettes are cast. They have no totes and push no carts. They are empty handed save for a cup. The beggars actively beg, rattling collected coins upwards towards you as they wish upon you a good day and rave of your beauty. Silvia and her contemporaries are more subtle and undemonstrative. Some days I observe a cap's bounty pooled and happily divided by all around it, other times there is nothing evident in which to leave a token. Avoiding eye contact with the beggars doesn't thwart their efforts as you pass beyond them. Meeting the eyes of the homeless typically garners a smile, a shrug or a face devoid of any emotion whatsoever. The beggars have their regular posts and aren't disturbed. The homeless are often times confronted by the polizia

who assure they don't overstay their welcome in any one given spot.




It was on such a day, last Sunday, that I finally met Silvia personally. I had been actively seeking her out.


Three days prior to watching her haul all of her worldly belongings across the piazza, I saw her indoors for the very first time. It was on Thursday when I was shopping at my local supermercato

for ingredients to prepare that evenings meal. On the slowly descending escalator I had ample time to sense her presence even before I saw her smiling face. Just set aside to the right of the landing, along the entrance wall, were numerous bags holding her possessions. I recognized the green and purple duffel from Alaska as belonging to the lively black woman I've come to think of often. As I combed the aisles dropping items into my basket, I came across her speaking with another customer by the abundant cheese section. Our eyes met. I nodded and in return she flashed her effervescent grin, showing up close for the first time the rotting teeth and toothless gaps. It wasn't in recognition of the American who saw her so frequently in our common town, it was just Silvia's way.

As I proceeded to the checkout where the long lines had begun forming in the after-work hours, I sidled up behind the hip-hopping Silvia. It wasn't the shortest line. It was where I was drawn. As we waited for our respective turns I took in her odor. It was highly unpleasant and disturbing. I found myself inhaling long breaths of her stench and instead of reeling from it, exhaled only to take another. The whispers and avoidance of her did not go unnoticed by me. Silvia, on the other hand, was nonplussed or unaware. I continued to gulp in the air we so closely shared. It was as though I wished to be enveloped by her very being ~ an acknowledgment of her existence. As her place in line brought her to the moving belt scanning items for purchase, she unloaded her basket. I counted 8 large bottles of pale lager, 2 small boxes of vino rosso

and 1 very sad batch of 4 overcooked and shriveled chicken wings. This was the only non-liquid item for the noticeably thinning homeless woman. Her total cost: ¤6,42. As she rustled through her badly stained Hello Kitty change purse, the impatient housewives and suited businessmen began to nervously shift their weight back and forth. Their tolerance for the wait decreased substantially when Silvia had to move to her various bags to sift for more change. All the while I willed them to find the patience to see her though the lengthening transaction.

By the time I easily paid for and quickly bagged my groceries, Silvia was still arranging as many shoulder straps as she could possibly fit on her small frame. As I was being carried back up towards daylight, I glanced backwards to see her grooving to a new rhythm as she was humming aloud. I walked the two minutes back to my home in a deep meditation barely aware of the tears that were finding their way down my cheeks. Full of empathy, when I returned home I quickly found my fingers flying across the keyboard. It didn't take longer than a minute or two before I would compose 55 words to capture that encounter. I wouldn't see Silvia again for three days.

a constant. in the square. on the street. at the park.
laughing joyfully. dialoguing with invisible friends.
at the supermarket today, i inhaled your scent.
urine merged with the filth of no water.
and full of booze.
like your basket today.
why do you smile so?
why my tears of joy?
could i be you?

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Those were the 55 words that flowed freely upon my return from that impressionable visit to the supermercato

. I knew immediately after my workday concluded, I would add more. I would not expand on the writing; instead insert an element of personification by including a photograph of my muse. It would then become my contribution to Friday's weekly meme, Flash Fiction 55. It has become my signature to combine a pictorial with my words to typify my subject matter or heighten the mood of what I am trying to convey. This is of course not a fictitious story, but that has never posed a problem. What did present a complication was the simple fact that I did not have a picture of Silvia. Hence my search for her began.

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With camera in tow, some loose change and a handful of practiced Italian questions, I set out that night just after 10. It was a warmer evening than it had been all week ~ streets were full of people returning from dinner and even more just beginning their night’s activities. I was beckoned to enter Gottardo 29 by Diego as he was singing John Denver's Country Roads

~ Thursday's he stays open late with live music which typically draws a considerable English speaking crowd. I blew him a reciprocating kiss and continued along my quest. If I were successful, perhaps I would join them later.


Reaching the end of the street by Banco di Credito, where Silvia can often be found, I had a sinking feeling my efforts may be in vain. The only people present were those waiting in the queue to enter the ATM vestibule. The streets were abuzz with lively energy but I felt oddly out of place. Usually on an evening stroll I soak up the spirit of those around me; this night I remained in a more contemplative mood. Like a racehorse with blinders on, I was on a mission. Another 40 minutes of walking the streets I hoped would lead me to Silvia confirmed my gut instinct by the bank. I did not check the parks ~ I've been warned that, "even in Navigli"

, these were not places for a lone woman to be wandering around at nighttime. Heading back, when I came upon the voices now singing an upbeat tempo, I passed by with just a wave in Diego's direction.

Arriving home feeling a bit defeated, I began mulling over the idea of using a stock photograph for my submission the following day. Perhaps this would prove the best solution. Could shooting and using Silvia's face [I was determined to capture her beguiling smile] be considered exploitative given her unfortunate circumstances? Searching various archives I found a plethora of other homeless images I could use, saving my worries over potential outcry should someone feel I was taking advantage of her plight. Though in viewing the numerous photographers’ galleries, I felt no ill will nor did I think they had misused their subjects in any way. I was feeling highly sensitive to my own compassion towards Silvia and had only the desire to do right by her. Having mixed emotions about what to do, I went to bed knowing my answers would come. For now, I would put aside my penned words in exchange for another topic that was weighing heavily on my mind ~ my daughter. This is a struggling young woman not yet ready to give up her personal fight, as it seems Silvia may have. So different these two; and yet potentially so devastatingly similar.

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Knowing I would more than likely run across Silvia in the coming week, I made sure to have my camera battery fully charged and with me at all times. Friday and Saturday kept me indoors most of the day not wishing to do battle with our constant shift in weather. Our beautiful springtime that had been ushered in on the coattails of Easter had quickly disappeared. More times than I can count I've heard, "we've never had a May like this ~ so cold, so unusual".

A taxi cab driver even blamed the volcano, with the unpronounceable name in Iceland, for the unpredictable state of temperature and precipitation. In any case, I avoided the elements those two days. Furthermore, there were other pressing matters for me to attend to than scour my city with a shoddy corner-bought-umbrella for a woman I may or may not find.


Much needed sunshine reappeared by 1pm on Sunday. My soul craved the opportunity to get out of my confining apartment, so I readied myself for the afternoon. Still pocketing my camera, I first headed to a local church service. While I'm not a church-going kinda gal, it was Mother's Day and I felt a strong urge to sit in a place of peace, surrounded by joy and song ~ even if I didn't understand a word of it.

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As fate would have it, in the end, I had remembered the service hours incorrectly and arrived 3 hours early. Not wanting to waste a sunny day and being in a festive mood, I decided take a walk. Sunday's provide for some very interesting people watching in Milan's major Piazza and shopping district, so I headed north towards the Duomo. I didn't make it far however. In minutes, arriving at the bottleneck of cars, public transport and people in Navigli's Piazza Ventiquattro Maggio ~ I spotted Silvia.

She was standing on the fringe of the square, scattered belongings at her feet, waiting for a tram to pull away from the curb. Instinctively, I pulled out the digital and started shooting as she began traipsing all of her things from one side of the square to the other. Trying to be somewhat inconspicuous, I also took pictures of some of the other buildings around me. She was still too far away for me to snap anything that I had envisioned. In that moment, my uneasy gut gave me a sign. I would wait for her to finish and then attempt to have the conversation I had anticipated Thursday night. I didn't want to use any of my pictures without her permission and I also yearned to learn more about her. I wanted her story.

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em·pa·thy

-noun
the intellectual identification with or vicarious experiencing of the feelings, thoughts, or attitudes of another.

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As I watched Silvia take the last of her 4 trips across the square, toting all of her things, I was composing in my mind what I would say to her. I wanted her story; I wanted her permission. Would I get it? Would she be receptive to the idea? I paced to and fro on the street opposite of where she would land for the day.

As she settled in, I began my walk over to her. I was not sad, rather deep in thought and hopeful. Again, the bounce in her step and the way in which she moved gracefully and with the constant grin, kept my own spirits high. As I approached her, she looked at me a bit quizzically, head cocked to one side and a half smile spread across her face.

"Buongiorno"

, I said, using a formal greeting while standing next to her. "Ciao"

, she responded, as a friend would. I then stooped down to eye level, not wanting to be intimidating by hovering over her. I began in Italian by asking her name at which point she very proudly stated, full smile with teeth showing, "Silvia"

. I then explained that my Italian was not very good, does she speak any English? "English, yes, I speak English".

Relieved that we could dialogue in a common language, and with her patting the ground to her right, I sat beside her. I noticed immediately that the odor that was so off-putting at the supermercato

three days hence was not evident. No longer reeking of booze and days left without bathing, I was encouraged that perhaps I had caught her in a sober moment.

My first question to Silvia was to inquire where she was from. She told me, "Navigli"

, and then began pointing to the various spots she had been living. I got the sense that she had misunderstood me. I asked if she was Italian and she told me, "no, American"

; something else in common. Asking again where she was from, and specifically in America, she repeated her hand motions and began mumbling something in a mix of Italian, English and incomprehensible slurring. My optimism began to fade as I realized it would be a difficult task to understand her and therefore my ability to formulate a clearer picture of who Silvia actually is.

Due to the broken bits I did comprehend and the length it took to do so, it does not serve me to attempt to recreate our hindered banter. What I was able to grasp is that the polizia

kept her on the move, that she had no cigarettes and that Navigli is her home. Beyond the inarticulate words, what struck me most about Silvia that day were her beauty and her appreciation to have some company. With high cheekbones and a glint in the bloodshot eyes, I could see a younger polished woman. What brought her to Italy? How long had she been here? Was hers always a street life? Did she have family and where were they now? These, and so many other questions, lingered as I began to take my leave.

Never with her hand held out or a request for anything, I offered her ¤2,00. With an enthusiastic hug she thanked me, quite clearly, for the gesture. I asked if I could please take her photograph to which she jumped to her feet and obliged. She was intrigued by seeing them through the LCD and also approved of the ones I had taken before we met. As I told her good-bye, she did ask if I had a cigarette. I told her no but that I would be happy to return with some for her. She sat back down with a nod in my direction and a "grazie bella".

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As I wandered along Corso Porta Ticenese, so did my thoughts of Silvia. With her striking features I envisioned a disillusioned young model arriving in Milan to pursue a high-fashion career. Was that her story? Did her dream go awry among the world of drugs and prostitution? Underneath the alcohol and street life did she have full mental capacity? What had been her state of mind and undoing?

I was close to the Duomo before I happened upon an open tabbachi

to purchase a pack of cigarettes for Silvia. With the sun still shining I followed the music blaring from the piazza. Hundreds of people had gathered in front of a stage set up with musicians entertaining the crowd. I stayed to watch and rock with the others for about 45 minutes until the clouds began rolling in with a start. The sky blackened quickly and with thunder and lightning in the clouds wake, and no umbrella on me, I swiftly left the square and made my way to the tram.

Descending one stop before my own, I set out to give Silvia her cigarettes. Walking towards her I could see that she had scrunched herself up against the building she nested by to afford her protection from the rain. She was sound asleep with her bare feet sticking out getting drizzled upon. Next to her was a plastic cup holding what was left of the crumpled red wine box. Not wanting to wake her, but also not wanting to leave her package in a place she would not see, I gently nudged her shoulder and repeated her name several times. Her eyes fluttered open and with recognition, she managed a small grin when I handed her the pack of Lucky Strikes. She took them in her hand and snuggled with them as though a stuffed animal to comfort her, and mouthed "thank you"

while pursing her lips together in a kiss. As quickly as she opened her eyes, she closed them once again and drifted back to where she had been.

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Making my way back home, I stopped in the church that had been my original destination on that Sunday, Mother's Day. Had I not made the error in time, I would have stumbled upon a sleeping Silvia in the rain that afternoon. I may not have ever had the opportunity to make her acquaintance; attempt a conversation; or feel the overwhelming compassion and empathy I now had after spending some time with her. I took a seat on one of the old wooden pews in the dimly lit sanctuary and prayed. I prayed first for my own life; and the sobriety I have so humbly and gratefully embraced. I prayed for the children that made me a mother on this special day of celebration. And I prayed for Silvia. I prayed for her health, well-being and safety. And I somberly thanked her for filling my life with fullness and appreciation that day. Godspeed Silvia.

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Epilogue

: I have spent the past two days sitting with Silvia and getting to know a bit more about her. As with all people, she has a story to tell. I have done my best to relay what I have learned of her ~ and from her. She is a human being with a beating heart and a kind and gentle soul. Never has she once asked for money ~ rather she has offered it to me to buy her cigarettes. When I brought her clothes and a blanket yesterday, she affectionately offered to share her meal with me. I have now seen her as sad as I have seen her happy. She shared a story of crying for a home and of the stares she gets from children who see her in a way adults do not.

While our conversations have been fraught with fragmented understanding, what I have taken away is that I could never fully pen the experiences I have had by being in her presence. Any remaining stories I have to tell will be what I take home with me nestled in my heart.

Good-bye Silvia and thank you for brightening my world.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Karis Vail is an emerging writer who recently spent 9 months in Milan, Italy in an effort to devote time to hone her skills. She is an avid photographer and often blends her photos with her words ~ creating an additional element of interest. It is these photos that are often the inspiration for the words themselves.

In March, 2010 she won BookRix's Winter & Poems writing contest.

Karis is a professionally trained chef, and when she is not writing for her daily blog, is often found in the kitchen creating new recipes. She also plays tennis, loves to hike, kayak and travel. She is mom to five grown children who have also acquired her love of travel and adventure.