Week 1: Italy - Sicily

Poverty is a word I heard often growing up, but fortunately never truly had to experience. That is, until i went on a church missions trip to Antigua, Guatemala the summer before my first year of high school. If you were to ask me what the most memorable thing about my ten days inpovrty was, i would say: faces. The countless faces of mothers, husbands, children, all of them dirty and weary looking, but each time i saw these people, i was amazed at their ability to dig deep inside, past allthe suffering and find an abundance of gratitude, love, and smiles, that never seemed to fade. Their eyes were so wise and kind, and the children seemed to have a sparkle of mischief not unlike the kids back home in America. Actually, I couldn't find much of a difference between these poor Guatemalan boys and girls and the kids in my own neighborhood except for their lack of hygene and material possessions. It's amazing how someone with nothing can be just as happy, or even happier than those with everything. This is not the case for Sicily. Poverty here is a devouring disease. Something that comes, ravages, makes you puke a little, and just never seems to go away. These faces are sad and grouchy and mean. The mischief I see takes the form of a poker game out in the streets, kind of like Vegas or I don't know, somewhere, anywhere in the US where there's poker. But get this - instead of professional poker players or college students on their spring breaks, the masters of this game of deceit are a group of 7 or 8 year old boys, and their chairs are makeshift wooden crates flipped upside down. Don't get me wrong, this city is chalk-full of history and drama, beautiful buildings and artwork, but like my trip to Guatemala, what i will remember are the faces. Only this time, they don't smile back at me.

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