Action-Man, 17 June, Rome, Italy

Last night, Drew and I found a short, old woman on a corner near the train station. We were hunting Rome for a hostel when she called to us. She showed me a crumpled list of three hotels, so I called a man to help us find them on the map. The man was exactly twice her height. None of us could help her--this old woman from Brazil, who spoke neither English nor Italian, without directions, without family, and carrying two heavy bags, late at night in downtown Rome.

So Drew and I took her to our prospective hostel. It was a youth hostel, and when the three of us walked in, the throbbing music seemed to stop, and twenty or thirty kids my age turned to stare at us. There were no vacancies. But at the next hostel, there were three beds left, so we took them. This morning, I met her on the staircase, "What will you do today?" I said loudly and slowly. She made some vague hand motions and said "baggage" and "hotel" and "I prefer." She whined and chirped her English. Then her face lit up, and she said, "Then I go Vaticano."

Drew and I also went to the Vatican today. We saw the Colloseum and Altare de la Patri, a white temple on a hill that honors Italy's military. Drew ran half around the Circus Maximus and then we crossed the Tiber. At the Sistine Chapel, Michaelangelo beautifully presented creation and the fall for all the American and European and Asian tourists. On one wall was a ship dropping men off in hell. The demons tugged at the muscular men and Hades itself drew in the ship. But there in front of the wall was gaunt Jesus hung on a spindly cross.

The second half of the USA-Italy game has started. I am writing in the hostel lobby. Drew and I are hoping for an upset tonight. We have heard trash talk all day. Eddie Pope just got America's second red card of the night. There is one Italian man here in a pink polo, who talks very loudly. I hope to gloat over him in 40 minutes.

Sam

Color-man, 17 June, Rome, Italy

Memory is often sweeter than experience. I've returned to Rome after three years, quite unexpectantly. We never planned to be here on this trip. I was in the city in 2002 with my family on our trip around the world. We stayed nearly five days at a spacious hostel, reveling in the Italian cuisine and history. It was our first resting place on a long trip, and I remember it fondly. The local ristorante made excellant spaghetti, and the waiter took a liking to our family. (I think it was because of Sara's dimples and curls.) We even took a picture with him.

Last night, as Sam and I scrambled to find a cheap hostel at nearly midnight, we stumbled across the same old ristorante, waiter and all. Eating pasta under that same light, with the old smells drifting in, drew out some delicious memories. I remembered the whole feel of that life-changing trip, but more than that I remembered remembering. The month after our return from that trip was full of stabs of remembrance. At school or at the dinner table, I would close my eyes and return to the adventures. It was like the warm feeling in your belly after some wine; the taste going down was good, but how much more so afterwards! That warmth came flooding back last night.

Memories don't decay, unless you let them. They grow stronger with age. Even if you do forget for a year, two years, twenty years, a small man at the back of your head keeps the file. Occasionally, he falls asleep, but all you must do is return to the right place, or wave the right smell beneath his nose, and he will pop up and take you for a royal ride.

Think back to the times when you felt God deeply--those rare moments when you were stabbed with joy. If you cannot remember this, and don't know what I'm talking about, perhaps you must first begin to form those experiences. It's like depositing money in the bank; you have to start somewhere to reap later on. But first, you must begin to know God. If you have been "surprised by joy," perhaps it's time to revisit those memories. Go back to that place. "Remember the signs!" as Aslan instructs Jill Pole.

What we need is a more diligent remembrance of his faithfulness, and of his promises. The Israelites wrote Psalms to remember Him as they ascended the mountain of Jerusalem. We don't need to repeat the past--that's impossible. We must, though, remember the signs.

I began writing this as Sam disappeared into the Colloseum. I'm waiting outside; it's 11 Euros. Where is he?

Drew

Action-Man, 16 June, Venice, Italy

Clay apartment buildings close me in on three sides on the island of Murano. I am on a bench in an empty square. I see two old Italian ladies and a boy at a table full of miniature glasswork. There is no one else. Drew is looking for a free toilet, but the island will surely force him to pay a euro. How can they charge for a basic human need?

Murano is an island off Venice. It is famous for its glass blowing and glass products. Drew and I just watched a man pull a glowing clump of orange from the furnace. He sat down and pulled and twisted, and in less than a minute, he formed a horse with a head, a mane and a tail.

I can see Venice from here. Is it true that Venice is supported over the sea by posts? Why didn't they build it on solid ground? Yesterday at the train station, an old gentleman won us over to spend the night at his hotel. He led us through the city to our room as he told us his disgust with the governor of Venice. He pointed to some litter, saying, "He doesn't do anything. He says he's a philosopher, but he's not even that! If he took a shower, he wouldn't get himself clean."

Early this morning, I went out along the Grand Canal for breakfast and got lost. There are no cars here. Everyone walks and uses the water. The water of all the canals is very dirty, because there is little circulation. I bought some bread and fruit and milk. I tried to remember landmarks, but on my way back, each small canal looked like the other. The layout of the city changed as shops opened. I walked past restaurants with tables and trinkets behind windows. The labrynth seemed to have no end.

Sam