Last week I was waiting at the bus stop. There were seven people in total. Three of them were nuns and one was a priest. The priest was casually scrolling on his iPhone while the three nuns were giggling trying to cram themselves under one umbrella as it was pouring. A pretty ordinary scene in Rome most people here don’t even notice, but something that is rather remarkable for someone who is visiting the Eternal City for the first time.
“They probably won’t order an aperol spritz,” he said while he couldn’t help laughing, “but why couldn’t they be here and have a coffee and catch up?”
About a year ago – when the tourists still found their way to Rome – I was in the typical Roman bar San Calisto around the hour of aperitivo. There was an Australian couple behind me, and I heard the woman whispering to her man “Look at those nuns. I didn’t know they were allowed to do this?” In front of us two nuns were waiting for their turn at the bar. An employee who walked by had heard the woman too and turned around. “They probably won’t order an aperol spritz,” he said while he couldn’t help laughing, “but why couldn’t they be here and have a coffee and catch up?”
I couldn’t imagine what these women were doing all day, whether they never felt like wearing something else or going shopping, or whether they were also arguing sometimes just like we did
Somehow, I could understand where the comment of the Australian lady was coming from. From my childhood I only knew nuns from the monastery in the village where my mother’s family comes from. Sunday morning – when they slowly walked into the church one by one from the side entrance – was the only time you would see them. You never heard them talking (you did hear them singing, unfortunately) and outside the monastery you would never see them. Now I don’t know if they were even allowed to do so, but I don’t believe that any of them ever set foot in a bar. The only and at the same time most vivid memory I have of the nuns is how they looked a bit like penguins with their black and white habits and shuffling way of walking. No doubt it was due to their old age. While me and my cousins always tried to keep ourselves as quiet as possible in the pews on Sunday mornings, there was always someone (often my mother) who would make a remark to us about a penguin. I can assure you it’s nearly impossible to stay serious if you’re nine years-old and your brother and cousin are already hiding themselves under the plunge not being able to control their laughter. For us as children, those strict, non-speaking nuns were quite fascinating. I couldn’t imagine what these women were doing all day, whether they never felt like wearing something else or going shopping, or whether they were also arguing sometimes just like we did. I believe that my grandmother was the only one who didn’t find the nuns a bit intriguing.
To my surprise, I noticed that she was very different from the nuns I knew from back home. But it was not her freckled face, her red hair and wide smile that surprised me the most
My dear grandmother Maria. In many ways she was the classic grandmother from the south of the Netherlands. A crucifix above her bed and a rosary on her bedside table. No matter how young I was, I did notice that my grandmother always seemed to be the only one in our colourful family who experienced Mass in a slightly different way than we did. She knew exactly when to say which prayer, she knew them all by hard and didn’t need a prayer book (while we were always looking frantically for the right page) and listened attentively to what the priest said. When, at the age of sixteen, I went on a Rome trip with my high-school class where we were also going to visit the Vatican, I immediately took myself to bring a present for my grandmother. On the roof of St. Peter’s, I then bought a candle with a picture of the Pope for her, with the personal wishes of a dear nun in a grey habit. To my surprise, I noticed that she was very different from the nuns I knew from back home. But it was not her freckled face, her red hair and wide smile that surprised me the most. It was her age. Because this nun must not have been older than halfway through her twenties.
Last summer, I walked into a church behind a group of girls without thinking, it was very hot and I wanted to cool down for a while. However, I didn’t notice that they all had a book in their hands and their grey uniforms didn’t ring a bell either
I vividly remember how surprised I was on that school trip to see nuns standing in line for gelato, riding an overly crowded city bus and hanging around a fountain while they used a fan to wave themselves a bit of fresh air and laughed at the seemingly funny stories they told each other. From the colours of their habits, you could see who belonged to which group. But above all, I realised they belong to the city of Rome. When I went to the premiere of Chiara Ferragni’s film last November (an influencer but above all a superstar in Italy), I wasn’t surprised anymore that there was also a young nun with her (very fashionable) mother in the crowd, ready to catch a glimpse of the spectacle on the red carpet. Last summer, I walked into a church behind a group of girls without thinking, it was very hot and I wanted to cool down for a while. However, I didn’t notice that they all had a book in their hands and their grey uniforms didn’t ring a bell either. That’s how I suddenly found myself in the middle of a nuns-in-training meeting with dozens of eyes that were glazing at me with all curiosity. With a polite smile and a scusate I quickly went outside again, into the burning sun. I had to chuckle, because this only happens to you in Rome, doesn’t it?
I had barely gotten off the bus when I said to my parents “someday I’m going to live there”. They probably didn’t really value my words at the time, and I myself would soon shift my attention too
My grandmother was very happy with the candle I brought her from Rome which she then gave a beautiful spot next to the rosary on her bedside table. At the same time, the sixteen-year-old me had had the time of her life in Rome. Those absurdly beautiful squares, that beautiful language and those lovely people. I had barely gotten off the bus when I said to my parents “someday I’m going to live there”. They probably didn’t really value my words at the time, and I myself would soon shift my attention too when I moved to Amsterdam after my final exams. But somewhere deep inside me, this desire had already rooted as a flower that would eventually start to blossom.
A while after her death, when my mother and aunts were sorting out her things, they gave me back the candle I had bought for her up there on the St Peter’s church. The black wick betrayed that she had lightened the candle, but the small dimple in the candle wax showed that it most likely had been just one time
Unfortunately, my grandmother wouldn’t learn about me moving to Rome. She died in February 2015, while only a month later I was told that I had been selected for a prestigious place at a Roman university. Yet the memory of my grandmother is also part of my life in Rome. I often think about how she would have loved Rome, would she ever have had the chance to come here. She would probably have been completely overwhelmed, that too, but she would undoubtedly have loved it. A while after her death, when my mother and aunts were sorting out her things, they gave me back the candle I had bought for her up there on the St Peter’s church. The black wick betrayed that she had lightened the candle, but the small dimple in the candle wax showed that it most likely had been just one time. Knowing my grandmother, cautious as she was with all her belongings, that must have been a very special moment, one when she probably needed it very much. And now, every time I walk into a church in Rome, I think not only of her, but also of that one moment. And then, in my turn, I burn a candle for her. Preferably under a statue of Maria.