LORETO (part III): My date with Moses

AT FIRST I DON'T really know how to address the three men standing before me.

My intimidation is partially due to their long baby blue tunics belted with thick white robes, and also due in part to their enthusiastic interest in anything I say.

My month long trip to Italy and undergraduate degree seem pathetic after learning they have studied in Italy for seven years, becoming fluent in five different languages, and they will be returning to their native country Zambia in seven months. There they will finish their studies and become priests.

“How old are you?” I ask one of the men hoping that maybe I still have a few years to catch up and learn at least one more language.

“Twenty-three,” Moses says grinning.

I am 21. And when I tell him that, he high-fives me.

He tells me what town they are studying in. Not recognizing the name I ask him to write it on a piece of paper. After writing his address he takes the opportunity to write down his email and two phone numbers.

Then passes the paper to each of his friends who do the same.

Before handing the notebook back to me, he adds a second email address in case the first one he gave doesn’t work.

While it is not a rare occurrence for me to exchange phone numbers with guys that I meet out at bars, it was only in Loreto that I had the unique experience of acquiring the digits and email addresses of not one, but three student priests.

Moses and I chat a little longer and I snap a photo of us all which I promise to email to them.

Up to then, I had found Loreto kind of boring. The Catholic church looked a lot like the others I had seen throughout Italy, the souvenir shops were pretty standard with lots of rosary beads and crosses, and the people watching was pretty weak due to the rain.

Looking for inspiration I thought the three young men could explain the town’s appeal.

“Why are you visiting Loreto?” I ask Moses.

As he looks around, he laughs and doesn’t answer me. Only when he looks back at me and sees my questioning expression does he realize that I’m serious.

He replies, “To see the church, to see the black Madonna, to watch the Eucharist.”

His tone implied a lighthearted, “Duh.”

I look over to a gathering of people at the side of the square. A bible-carrying priest leads a procession through the crowd.

“Shall we go?” he asks, motioning towards the crowd.

I stand with my new friends listening to the service, watching the people recite Italian words in unison.

“Are you Catholic?” he asks.

“No, Episcopalian.”

“Oh,” he says, clearly disappointed.

In an attempt to win back his respect I add, “I went to Catholic college.”

“Ah … very good,” he says smiling and turning back to the service.

Curious about the black Madonna and the religious ties to Loreto I look it up in a local guide magazine when I get home.

“Talking about Loreto, it is thinking about faith,” I read.

Confused about the meaning, I assume something may have been lost in the magazine’s Italian to English translation. Still, I’m reminded of the student priests.

I e-mail each of them the picture and propose the plan of visiting their town. I am not envious of their lifestyle, but impressed by their dedication and it may be one of the few times I will get a guy’s number and make an effort to see him again.

- Philly Petronis