Sorrento: An introduction

Sorrento: An Introduction

This short story arises out of a number of experiences that I’ve had in the past few years. The setting—Italy, and then Detroit—are both locations that I’m familiar with; I’ve traveled to both at least twice in the past four years. The storyline comes as a dramatic retelling of a position that we read for our Philosophy of Religion class. The Obstinacy of Faith, by C.S. Lewis, served as the grounds for the conflict. The plot, as with all fiction, is not based on a point-by-point rendering of his philosophical approach—rather it is a loosely-based interpretation of “relational faith.” The conflict between the speaker and Marc, his roommate, represents the tension between those who have experienced the relationship and those who have not. The situation between the speaker and Annie represents the faith relationship—though it may not have been a relationship that C.S. Lewis would’ve been comfortable promoting. Still, I hope that he would be happy with the attempt, appreciating the fictional approach. I’ve found that fiction can be a helpful conduit in understanding situations that have not been experienced. In that sense, Sorrento is a defense of faith from a relational standpoint. I hope you enjoy it!

I'd suggest following the chapters numerically--not chronologically. I loaded the story in five parts. Start with part one. Or don't. Your call...

Sorrento (epilogue)

Epilogue

My seat on the plane is an uncomfortable holster with too little room, and I’m stuck between two large, sleeping sisters. Their children are sitting behind me, kicking my seatback and making it impossible to sleep. Maybe I’ll sleep later. I almost wish I would have paid for first class. But that would have been even more money on this gamble.

Around the smaller of the two sisters, I can see the sun-soaked blanket of clouds, and I know the Atlantic is tucked somewhere beneath it. It is a beautiful view; unfortunately, I’ve been too uncomfortable to enjoy it for most of the trip.

But, I’m on the plane, and that’s the important thing.

Sorrento (part four)

I decided not to tell Marc. Sunday evening passed and he still hadn’t talked to me, so I figured it would just be easier to deal with him when I got back, whenever that would be. I called my parents to let them know not to worry because I wasn’t going to call in to work until I was in Italy. I thought I might be able to come up with an excuse about retracing my steps for my upcoming second book by the time I got there.

My ticket confirmation came through email on Sunday afternoon, and I planned on leaving Monday morning for my noon flight. I waited until Marc went to sleep on Sunday night to pack; Monday morning, my luggage was ready and sitting in my bathroom. I woke up early Monday, before Marc woke up and carried my large backpack out to my car. The morning air had just begun to warm in the climbing sun. Airport parking would be exorbitant, but I had no qualms about paying to avoid asking Marc for a ride. I walked back up to the apartment and toasted a quick breakfast. I could feel my nerves on edge—waiting, expecting. I drained the tart cup of orange juice and poured another. Somewhere beneath the nerves, I sensed a great well of hope, restrained by necessity, eager to break. I finished the toast, and slowly and deliberately washed the dishes. I knew I had to gather myself for the upcoming trip. What could I even let myself think? I had to assume it was another con. On Sunday evening, I travel-proofed all of my credit cards and bought travelers checks online. I grabbed my smaller backpack and walked out the door; I could hear Marc stirring in his bedroom.

I drove, first, to the bank to exchange the cash for the travelers’ checks. The process mirrored the procedure of the previous year; I was pretty certain that it was the same displeased teller. Travelers’ checks were a hassle, apparently. After a string of sighs and eye rolls, I had plenty of time to make my flight. I’d grown accustomed to the constraints of foreign travel. The cheapest parking lot left me a half-mile from the terminal, and the Michigan winter encouraged me to keep moving. I slung arms through the large pack and buckled the waist supports. Even in the frigid air, the pack sat comfortably around me. I held my smaller backpack in my right hand and began the journey toward the terminal—or a transport bus—the pack was not comfortable enough to turn down a ride. I narrowly remembered to check my parking section—CC—I squinted at the sign that was now a distance away. It may have been OO. I should have checked earlier.

He must have found the confirmation on my computer. I heard an engine racing and tires squealing in the next row of cars. I saw the car in flashes, appearing and disappearing behind the cars between us. It seemed to be frantically looking for a parking spot. As it rounded the corner and started down my row, my heart dropped. It was Marc’s old Saab, racing towards me. He almost passed me without noticing in his desperate attempt to find a spot. A few feet past me, he noticed my tell-tale pack. The car was grinding to a halt as he opened the door. He came after me in a burst.

Watching him come toward me, I wondered what was about to happen. Are we really about to fight? I wondered to myself. I began to nonchalantly unharness the pack. As he got closer, his facial expression showed a dynamic mixture of betrayal, anger, and confusion. I had just set the pack down when he reached me.

He stumbled over the words. “What—What?!” He looked at me, bewildered, trying to find a place to start. “What, the hell, are you doing!?” A good place to start, I thought, all things considered.

“Do you want to know the answer to that question, Marc?”

“I saw the ticket on your computer. You’re going to Italy.” I nodded. “Please don’t tell me you are going back to Italy for her. Please.”

“Sorry, Marc.” I shook my head. “I got an email on Saturday, and she asked me to meet her back in Sorrento.”

“You left that email up, too. I read it. You don’t have any idea if it was ‘her’ or not!” He was yelling. “It could be anyone—anything! You could literally be walking into anything. Who knows who organizes that sort of thing?”

I responded evenly—“So you pretty much know what I’m doing; and it seems like you know why,” leaving the conversation up to him.

“This is ridiculous, damn it!” I wondered if he might hit me after all. “Even if it is her—if it is the girl you spent three weeks with—she played you once, what makes you think she’s not going to screw you up and disappear again? You are leaving your job, your home, paying thousands of dollars, traveling across the world on a ticket that will probably lead you into getting your heart broken all over again. Nevermind kidnapping or, possibly,” he paused…”possibly anything!” He stood there, seething, almost wanting to understand.

As usual, I stood there silently, staring right back at him. “Listen, Marc, I don’t expect you to understand. I never have.” I paused, collecting myself for my final plea. “Alright, let’s say I go, and it turns out to be legit—she has a good reason for disappearing, and she eventually makes it back here with me. Maybe then, once you meet her, then you will understand what I understood all along.”

“But there’s no way for you to know!” He continued his protest, and the warm air from his breath stormed out against the blue sky. “There’s no way for you to know you aren’t blindly walking into an impossible situation.”

I smiled and nodded. “You’re right. I have no way of knowing that for sure. I never said I did.”

“Well, then why? Why in the world would you take a chance on something so stupid?” He was still incredulous.

“Marc—you can’t possibly understand this, and I know that! This decision isn’t stupid. But you’d have to know her—to know what I’ve come to know—to truly understand that.”

He still wasn’t satisfied—“So you’re just gonna waltz over and pretend that there aren’t a thousand different possibilities that end up with you robbed, kidnapped, or dead?”

“Well, wait a minute, Marc.” It was my turn to lift my voice. “What if you’re looking at this whole thing backwards? What if she is the one who has something at risk—what if she needs my help?” He looked at me confused. “Think about it,” I said, gaining momentum. “What if she had no other way of doing this—if there is something that prevented her from telling me everything, just like she said that night?” I pointed back and forth between he and I—“Look at us; the two of us, standing here arguing. What good are you to her? Even if she needs your help, you can’t give it to her, because you don’t trust her. And that’s ok, because you never met her; but I have!” I hoped my face showed the honest resolve that I’d seen on Annie’s face in Sorrento. “So what good am I to her? I don’t know—maybe none—I honestly don’t know. But she asked me to trust her, and she asked me to go. And because I know her—because I know who she is and what she’s like, I’m going to go. Even if you think it’s blind and stupid.”

As I finished, I felt better. I felt the well of hope begin to leak out on everything around it, and I was a little less worried about letting it splash out. I could see that I hadn’t persuaded Marc. His face lacked the rage of his arrival, but his anger had been replaced by sheer consternation. His baffled look disappeared only as he turned and walked silently to his car. I stared sadly after him, wishing I could do something more. Perhaps if I could bring Annie back, I thought. The closer I could get to her—the better his chance of understanding.

I checked my watch, suddenly aware of my approaching flight.

Sorrento (part three)

“Are you kidding me?!” Marc swung his arms up into the cold air; his exasperated breath puffed white before disintegrating into Friday night. “What is your deal, man!? She’s pretty; she’s funny—she certainly seems to like you! Why not?”

The sea of motor-city vehicles rushed by on the downtown street; Marc and I stood facing each other on the dirty sidewalk. I said nothing—certain he would not appreciate my answer.

“Well?” His eyes pleaded me not to say what we both knew was coming.

“I’m sorry, man.” I really was. He’d labored for weeks to assemble our double date with his girlfriend’s attractive friend. “I just can’t,” I muttered.

His voice swelled. “It’s been over a year! It’s almost closer to two!” The valets glanced up at us from behind their outdoor post. He began pacing, furious. I tried to appease his frustration—

“Listen, Marc, I’m sorry you went to this much trouble. I know how much you had to work to get this thing organized. And it’s not like I’m going home. Can’t we just go finish dinner, watch the movie, and I’ll be nice.”

“You’ve been nice.” His voice lowered, but his eyes were just as angry. “You’re always nice; that’s not the problem.” He walked closer; I felt my muscles tense. “Listen—” he gripped my shoulder and looked at me, measured and cool—“She’s not coming. She played you, man. Her parents, if they were even hers to begin with, haven’t shown up in a year. It’s not happening. You have to deal with it. I’m sorry.” He lowered his head, his hand still on my shoulder, and then turned and walked back into the restaurant.

The valets looked at me until I stared back to show that I saw them. I hailed a cab. It’s a shame, I thought, as a large Crown Victoria pulled up to the curb. I turned back to look at the restaurant; I would have liked to had dinner with them. But I knew what Marc meant about being nice. I was only there for dinner—they knew it, and I knew it. I lowered my head out of the sharp January air and into the warm backseat, feeling a familiar pinch of frustration. Could a girl who “loved” me put me through this? Could a person truly love after three weeks?

City lights blurred the city buildings outside the foggy window. The confrontation in front of the restaurant was only the far end of a long ride. Marc and I had been charging to that end, like a train on steel girders, since our conversation in his Saab the previous fall. Our infrequent dialogue since then had almost prepared me to stand there, alone on the dirty street, defending the indefensible.

After that first car ride when I told him about her disappearance, he never listened to anything about her, or about my time with her. I couldn’t blame him; I didn’t really have anything but the time I spent with her. The camera I took to Italy was supplied by work, so she took all the pictures of us together. She was supposed to email them to me. I retained a few broken shards of the mug that had shattered on the steps at the train station. It carried the smell of wine for almost a full year.

A few times I watched Marc wonder, without saying anything, whether I made the story up. He knew I’d been changed by whatever happened in Italy, but my story seemed foolish to him. The evidence I gave him would never be reason to believe my memories of Annie. His perspective interpreted my tales for him. I understood—it was too little grounds for him to share in my hopefulness. I didn’t hold it against him; he did hold it against me.

The drive passed as a sustained flash, long but unnoticed—like a momentary camera flash stretched across an evening. I handed a crisp twenty dollar bill to the cabbie—it wasn’t even a great tip by the time we reached home.

“Have a good night, buddy” said the voice from the front seat. I hadn’t noticed him at all—an Indian man, offering a polite half-smile.

“Yep,” I said with a slight sigh. “Thanks.” I heard him say something as I scooted out the door. I ducked my head back in again. “What’s that?”

He pointed to the stereo and said in a funny Indian accent, “It’s gonna be a long hard drag, but we’ll make it.” He saw my puzzled expression. “Janis Joplin—she was just on.”

“Oh,” I chuckled. “You have a good night, too.” I walked away from the cab, glad for the chance to laugh. Marc was always at home so I didn’t get the place to myself much, and I knew we were going to have to get things settled when he got back home, so I sprawled out on our couch and enjoyed the dark silence of the living room. I reached over to the table and grabbed my laptop, setting it on my outstretched legs.

I surveyed the news quickly, checking for any developments that I shouldn’t miss, and then clicked through to my email. “(1) New.” Both the lines labeled “Sender” and “Title” were left uncomfortably blank. I had never known that an email like that could be sent at all. My curiosity overcame the likelihood that it was a virus.

When the text of the email appeared, I felt the nerves run the length of my neck. I launched to my feet and nearly threw the computer:

I need you to meet me. I promise I’ll explain then.

Tuesday at three—Italian time. Via Nastro Verde 96. Sorrento.

I stared, my eyes wide and mouth open. My eyes could have penetrated the glowing screen as it lit up the dark room. I didn’t take my eyes off the screen for a long time, subconsciously worrying that the mysterious message would be gone if I blinked. I eventually granted the inanity of my stare, but not before I had cautiously copied the text into another open document. The rumble of warring factions stirred within me. Hope is an infection—the most obstinate of all diseases. Once infected, something must die—either the hope itself, or that which stands between the hope and the hoped for.

I had no interested in piecing myself back together. Many of Marco’s arguments had made sense. But I already knew I would be going.

Marc arrived home late, walked past me without a word, and went to his room. I figured I’d tell him in the morning. I fell asleep on the couch, my computer open to the available flights before Tuesday.

▼

Sorrento (part two)

The plane screeched down, scraping rubber onto Detroit’s tarmac as the wheels caught up to speed. My window set the drizzly background in a plastic oblong frame, and I could feel the artificial light escaping past me into the night. The stewardess thanked us for flying US Air, and she smiled a pretty smile as I stepped past her into the gate. Her complexion and dark eyes almost seemed Hispanic, but her curly blondish brown hair betrayed a fake tan. Her hair split into two pigtails and laid across her blue uniform. Annie wore pigtails when she worked because the owner of the hostel thought it was very American and would attract business. I spent the long walk up the gate trying to think of another way to find her. A huge hug startled me back to Detroit.

“What, you don’t recognize me after a few weeks in Italy?” protested Marc as he stepped away and clasped his hands on my shoulders.

“Buddy!” I laughed at my mental lapse. “How are you, man?” I asked, as I reached out and grabbed his wide shoulders in return.

Marc and I had roomed together for almost two years, and we thoroughly enjoyed each others’ company. His real name, Marco, conveyed his Hispanic lineage; his distaste for the American stigma of Hispanics helped him drop the “o.” His family was wealthy, and I assumed they had been for generations when they first moved to Detroit.

“I’m good, now that you’re back” he remarked, and I could see honesty across his wide smile. “That place just isn’t the same when there’s only one person there. Who am I supposed to beat in foosball all the time? Not to mention those video games. Getting’ hammered online by some Japanese kid just doesn’t have the same effect as my victory dance after I drop a game winner on you at the buzzer.”

“You better keep your fingers crossed, Marc, because that’s never gonna happen,” I said with the traditional arrogance of our video game banter.

“Better be careful there, sport. That almost sounds like a challenge,” he retorted. We joked and talked about the month that had passed as we walked to get the rest of my luggage.

“So, you, a 26 year-old bachelor, gets paid by a tour book company to travel Italy while I spend my days wasting away at a law school that takes my money and makes it financial unreasonable for me to finance a girlfriend?”

“Oh,” I laughed, interested, “so it’s the finances of it now, huh? You can’t afford a girlfriend.” I laughed again. “I have missed this.” His jab lit up my right shoulder; I struggled to pretend it hadn’t hurt, and I laughed harder.

“Yeah. That’s right,” he mocked, “Don’t rub it. Did you miss that, too?” He grabbed my backpack and threw me the third bag. “Oh, yeah, my car is in the ‘Do Not Park Here’ section, so we should probably hurry unless you want to pay to get it out of the impound.”

I laughed again, “Oh, I’m paying? Is that how it works around here? That’s cool.”

“Hey, I don’t make the rules,” he said, lifting his hands in innocence. “I just keep them.”

My parents never left Indianapolis, where my dad ran the public relations department for an aspiring prosthetics company. My undergrad degree in History never got me excited about grad school, so after college I got a job in my dad’s PR division. A year in a cubicle was all I could take, so I set off into Europe. By the time I returned home, I figured I could write travel books better than the ones I used. So I wrote one, and my first one on backpacking the UK was bought by a large travel publisher.

They brought me on staff, and I spent much of the next year checking other authors’ travel suggestions. My parents were happy when I ended up in Detroit—though I was gone about two weeks out of five. Despite all the travel I did for work, Detroit had slowly come to feel like home. Marc and I met through a mutual friend from undergrad, and we rented a nice apartment near his law program just outside the city.

We made it to Marc’s old Saab before the tow-truck, but we didn’t escape the verbal lashing from the middle-aged woman in a blaze orange “Parking Attendant” vest. She made a spirited argument that Marc had to wait for the Police to come because she could not write him a ticket herself. Once inside the car, Marc determined that he could no longer hear her yelling and promptly pulled away.

He took the expressway out to I-69, and we talked of the previous month—his month leading up to year three of law school; my month of research for my next book.

“Research?!” he yelled, “Research?! Ha! Try two years of law school, and then call that ‘Research’!” He enjoyed his flamboyant tirades, and most times, I enjoyed them just as much as he did.

“How are the boys doing?” I asked as we passed a giant billboard showing the Detroit sports teams. He filled me in on the playoff race for the uncharacteristically good Tigers, and the off-season acquirements of the Pistons. I’d never been a fan of any Detroit teams, but living there makes you a fan…makes you. Marc’s dad had season tickets to all three professional teams, and Marco was bred to root for anything “Detroit”—sports, products, people—if it was “Detroit,” Marc was for it. He was fully capable of talking for hours about the highlights and blunders of each team.

“So, you spend just over a month in Italy, and you spend three of the weeks traveling with some chick?” The question caught me off guard, and he watched my face turn.

“Whoa,” he said, immediately interested. I looked back at him, trying to decide if it was too late to hide my facial expression. He barged in—“What did that look mean, chief?” I looked out the window. He continued, “Hey, you’re the one who told me about her in the email. You said she was a family friend, right?”

“Yeah. Well, sort of. Her parents were friends of my parents. I’d never met her before.”

“So I assume she’s a pretty girl?”

“Beautiful,” I responded. I couldn’t hold back a pent-up sigh.

“You certainly sound excited,” he said sarcastically. “So far, I think I’ve missed the part of the story where you start making painful faces and sighing every time she gets mentioned. Did something happen to her?” he asked, suddenly cautious.

“No—” I started to say, but realized that I didn’t have any idea whether something had happened to her. She had drifted away, into that night, and I knew nothing after that. “Well…I guess I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

“Alright, I’m pretty confused,” he began. “I want to make sure I’ve got this,” he said, steering with his knees so he could use his hands as visual aides. “So you and this girl—you run into each other in Naples, Italy; you hit it off; you spend three weeks romping around Italy hand in hand; she leaves and never calls?”

“Well, not exactly,” I responded defensively, telling him of the final moments of our conversation. “I mean she did say that it didn’t make sense.”

“Didn’t you exchange phone numbers, or email, or address…” he paused, wanting to continue the string…“or pictures or names or anything for that matter!? I mean, come on! Social Security numbers for goodness’ sake. She has to be somewhere.”

I knew he wasn’t going to like my answer.

“Yeah,” I murmured. “I have all but the Social Security number.”

“AND?! No response?”

“No. Well, yeah sort of—none of them work.”

His head cocked and he turned toward me, wide eyed. “They don’t work? None of them!?”

“Nope,” I sighed. “None—cell phone was disconnected, the emails addressed to her got returned, and the address was to a hotel in Vienna where she was supposed to be staying with her dad—hotel doesn’t exist.”

“That’s unbelievable!” He sat, stunned and silent.

“I know,” I spoke into the silence. “I don’t really know what to make of it.”

“I’ll tell you what to make of it!” I could feel his tirade coming. “What a tramp! That’s what you make of it—Pretty girl, American. Probably lives in Italy and picks up a different guy every few weeks then jumps ship. I bet you paid for her everywhere you went, didn’t you?”

“Well, no, actually she paid for everything on her own, except dinner a few times when I refused her.”

He kept going; “She probably just lives in Italy, living off good natured American boys who think they’re getting the love of their live. Disgusting!” Marc was mad. “I’m really sorry, man. I had no idea that had happened.”

“Thanks man.” I mustered a hopeful voice, “I don’t know that I’ve given up hope yet.”

“Hope?” He looked at me like I’d told him I was headed back to the hostel—not that the plane ride hadn’t given me ample time to think it. He gathered himself, trying to conceal his bewilderment. “I don’t know, man. I have no idea what all that means, but I can’t imagine its worth thinking about.” I nodded my understanding; it did look crazy. I had no idea what to think of it. But I couldn’t expect Marc to understand; he’d never met Annie. He never saw the resolve wash across her face when she told me she’d find me.

Marc glanced over; seeing me wrestle the question of hope, he moved the conversation away from the aching matter of “future.”

“And how, exactly, did you run into your parents’ friends’ daughter 4,000 miles from either one of your homes?”

I laughed as I told him about my mom’s email; he rolled his eyes and complained—

“So your Mom sets you up with some gorgeous girl on a different continent? In Italy, no less! Ridiculous. I can’t get a date in my hometown—where I, and my mom, have lived for well over twenty years.” I couldn’t resist the comment that snuck into the back of my mind—

“Internet dating, man; I’m telling you; it’s for you.” I laughed through the suggestion before being pounded by him; he draped himself across the wide cup holders, swinging violently to reach me as I clung to the far door, howling at my own humor.

The conversation meandered back to the Tigers, their pitching staff, and their chances of making it to the World Series. A short discussion about his family brought us into the parking lot behind our building. He helped me carry the luggage into the lobby, and we took the elevator to our fourth floor home.

The doors parted with a ding on the fourth floor. Each floor had two apartments; ours was to the left; the uptight Hutchisons at the far end of the hall. His key slid in and opened our door, and as it swung wide, I shook my head at the previous month. I followed him through the door frame, feeling, suddenly, the weight laid upon it.

▼

Sorrento (part one)

Sorrento

A short story by Luke Helm

The calm darkness of the Mediterranean descended on Sorrento as we eased toward the city’s small train station. The picturesque Italian buildings settled back into their natural pastels, fading from their brilliance in the coastline’s setting sun. A heavy rain had stilled the city from the bustle of tourists’ days, but it passed as quickly as it fell, and the town was beginning to shows signs of the tranquil Italian evenings.

I carried her backpack, and we walked the cobblestone streets that had been quaint when we first arrived. Now, they seemed to give an impression of home. We passed a smiling little man, sitting in a rickety wooden chair outside his trattoria. He motioned for us to come closer, and then, in colored English—“De best Etalian vine, you buy, for her.” She smiled and lightly set her hand on his arm. In the best performance of his life, he drew his hand to his forehead, threw his head back and used the wall to steady himself. Turning to me, he whispered loudly, “For her…anything!” We laughed, and he disappeared through the narrow door and emerged carrying a bottle of white wine and a rose. Only fifteen Euros for “vino migliore in Italia!”—and the rose was a gift to the “Bella Donna.” His eyes widened as she, in graceful Italian, thanked him but explained that she had to catch the final train to Naples. I paid him for it anyway, handing her the rose and stuffing the bottle into my backpack. We walked on, the deepening night bringing the distant sounds of the train, miles away but approaching noisily along the lush mountain shore.

The email from my mother had humored me when I first read it—I’d been in Rome for two hours, including customs. I could tell that it had taken her hours to find the keys and peck out the six line message. It must be important, I thought.

The infamous Annie, the elusive gem, the oldest daughter of my parents’ friends from Cornell, would also be touring the Amalfi Coast during my three week Italian endeavor. And, the email added in a small aside, my mom loved me. I’d never met Annie though we got a Christmas card from her family for years. After I turned twelve, each card had a short message from her to me—I assumed her parents forced her to write it. I’d met her parents once, at an airport, when my parents and I were traveling. We ran into them while getting coffee. Her dad had worked in the international department for one of the German car companies. He was based off the East Coast, but they did their share of traveling, too—Annie, her one sister, and their parents. Her parents had always been intriguing, but after retirement, they were apt to disappear for weeks or months at a time, no address and no phone number.

In my last year of high school, my mother told me she’d seen a picture of Annie—beautiful, apparently. A few years later, I uncovered a college plot between the four friends to have their children marry. When I got her email, I scoffed. A convenient email address link hung at the bottom of the page. I knew Mom didn’t know how to do that.

I deleted the email and left the café, laughing to myself. The next train out of Rome left me plenty of time to enjoy a few trademark Roman delicacies. Espresso to fight the jet lag until nightfall; Tums—not Roman, but necessary to calm the stomach; and the Italian confection gelato that always made everything better. I arrived in Naples well before evening and began calling the local hostels to ask which had what I was looking for.

“Ciao, Hostel of the Sun—English o Italiano, por favore?”

The convincing Italian from a distinctly American voice stopped me.

“Uh,” I closed my eyes to gather my thought. “Umm…English. Sorry”

“Sure, what can I do for you?”

The voice seemed eager to help, but the slight Bostonian edge paired with her smooth Italian baffled me.

“Um, yeah—I’m looking for a place in Naples for the next week—I was wondering whether you serve breakfast.”

“Yes, we do. Fresh bread and fresh fruit, every morning.”

“Ok, do you have internet access?”

“Well…yes. It was in and out last week—mostly out. But we’re feeling positive about it this week.”

I laughed and asked if they had an open room for the week. They had open dorm beds through the weekend, and after that, an open single room until the weekend. I took it and hopped a trolley to the Hostel of the Sun.

When I arrived, I met Annie for the first time. Her job as the receptionist hostel ended, along with the summer season, three days after I arrived, and we spent the next three weeks together, venturing through all places she still wanted to see, and the sites I had to visit for work.

We sat on the white stone steps of the train station, reeling from her imminent departure. I took out the bottle of wine; the homemade label had already begun to peel. She opened it with the red, white, and green bottle opener she bought for her sister from the bike vendor outside Pompeii. We toasted to our next meeting and sipped the crisp wine from “I Heart Italy” mugs she would soon take to her dad in Vienna.

The foghorn of the train signaled its customary, three minute early arrival. We stared silently at the spinning red petals of the rose, as she rolled the stem with her fingertips.

“I won’t be back in the States until October,” she said slowly, “And even then, I’ll be stuck in Maryland without any vacation days. The most I could do would be flying out for a few days before heading back. Once I start in Maryland, my life is essentially over for two years.”

“Aww,” I pleaded innocently, “but Detroit is so nice in the fall. Michigan State has a grad Psych program, too.” I nudged her shoulder with mine—her light grip on the mug gave way, and we instinctively gasped as the cheap mug shattered. A heap of alabaster pieces and sprinkled wine scattered the damp stone. She smiled and pouted, picked up one small piece, and lowered her head to lay it on my arm.

Standing high overhead, the tiles of blue arrivals and green departures purred as they slowed and clicked into place. The puddles on the platform shook under the weight of the train; the neon greens and blues danced across the remnants of earlier rainstorms. The train bounded into the station, and the horn blared, deafening from twenty yards away. I gripped the large pack to hand to her. She looked down at the bag, then back up to me, her face strained—the first time I’d seen her look uncomfortable.

“What is it?” I asked, unfamiliar with her expression.

“I’m sorry”—she stared at me—“I couldn’t tell you everything here.”

The doors to the train opened; a handful of Italian men and tourists disappeared past us.

My face flooded with color and confusion. I managed only—“What couldn’t you tell me?”

“I’m sorry, darling; I know it doesn’t make any sense. I’m sorry, but you have to trust me.”

The conductor hollered, “All aboard!” My head snapped around to see that we were the only two still on the platform. She held out her hand for the bag, and my arm obeyed, but only with all the discipline it amassed over a lifetime. She slung the pack over her shoulder and grabbed my hand, and we walked toward the open doors.

“Wait,” I scrambled, “trust you about what?” My mind raced to understand. “I’ll call you sometime Thursday—once you get to the hotel with your Dad. I’ll talk to you then.” My statement was more of a plea.

She looked sadly into my eyes, and shook her head in an apologetic “no” as a few tears started down her face. The conductor hollered his final call; she turned and stood tall, awkward under the weight of the bag, straining to kiss my cheek. I lowered to her, feeling her wet cheek. And then she squeezed my hand, and stepped backward onto the train. Her gaze steadied as the horn blew again.

Her face looked of nothing but resolve—“I’ll find you. I love you. Trust me.”

The doors slid shut with their mechanical conviction; I watched her retreat to the handrail and set her pack down. And with that, the train exhaled deeply and slid, slowly at first, into a world without me. She was gone, gone before I could think to jump on the train with her, gone before I could think anything. The train sped her off, along the sea and then toward Vienna, with no regard for my affections.

I drifted back down the white stone steps and stopped to sit next to the broken mug. She had told me she had to leave on the 13^th, but we didn’t talk of it again until that night. She’d packed her belongings into her enormous backpack and emerged from the girls’ wing of the hostel in Sorrento, smiling but quiet.

Going with her was never mentioned—she never gave me the option. She had given me her email address and her cell-phone number from the States and the hotel number where she was meeting her Dad. I reeled from our last few moments. I had work to finish in Italy, and I needed to fool myself into believing I’d get it done. I scooped up a few pieces of the broken mug and headed back through the dark streets.

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No one cares but me: IWU's R-rated movie policy

“R”

Indiana Wesleyan’s Student Development department has taken upon itself the responsibility of regulating students’ media intake. The Media Policy, as listed in the Student Handbook, is the result of their efforts. The rule, even according to the Vice President of Student Development, represents an imperfect effort to formulate a policy for a thorny subject. Many students and faculty have become frustrated with the rule, a fact that Student Development readily acknowledges. IWU wishes to promote critical thinking and discernment and to provide a “safety net,” and to utilize a hands-on approach that challenges students. However, the current policy defeats each of these goals because of its overbearing attempt to enforce a safety net. The Student Development department needs to recognize the specific pitfalls of the current rule and make the appropriate changes.

Many similar institutions share IWU’s philosophic and denominational views of education. The policies used by other Wesleyan schools provide a suitable starting point for evaluating Indiana Wesleyan’s policy. The Wesleyan tradition has been well-represented in higher education throughout the past two centuries. A large number of colleges and universities have carried the Wesleyan name, and many more stem from a similar Methodist background. Many of these schools have wandered from their religious roots, continuing the Wesleyan and Methodist traditions only in name. Yet a number of schools still faithfully adhere to Wesleyan code and conduct. Many of these institutions have joined the governing body of Evangelical Christian Education—the Council for Christian Colleges and Universities (CCCU). These schools share a vision for excellence in higher education and a faithful dependence on their Wesleyan/Methodist heritage. The CCCU website lists four schools affiliated with the Free Methodist Church: Greenville College, Roberts Wesleyan, Seattle Pacific University, and Spring Arbor University. The Wesleyan Church also has four schools listed with it: Houghton College, Indiana Wesleyan University, Oklahoma Wesleyan University, and Southern Wesleyan University. These eight schools represent higher education in the Wesleyan tradition. Most of these institutions have made their student handbooks available online, and their media/movie policies are listed within them.

When we observe their respective handbooks, these eight schools are clearly similar in their philosophy of eduction. All of the schools echo common refrains concerning beliefs, goals, and the distinctiveness of a Wesleyan education. One consistent theme is an emphasis on Christian living that stems from the Holiness movement. The schools embody a set of values tied directly to Wesleyan doctrine, and these dictates are applied in various forms of “Lifestyle Expectations” through the Residence Life departments. A good example of these principles comes from Houghton’s “Responsibility of Community Life.”

The people of Houghton College comprise a Christian community that has joined together to seek academic progress, personal development, and spiritual growth. We strive to uphold a unity based on the lordship of Jesus Christ, guided by Biblical principles and the moral laws of God. We affirm our commitment to the triune God, perfectly revealed in Jesus Christ. We recognize that the Biblical standards for both individual and corporate life within the body of believers are necessary bases upon which to live.

As members of a community, we expect each other-- trustees, administrators, faculty, staff, and students-- to take seriously the responsibilities mentioned herein. We dedicate ourselves to individual academic progress, personal growth, and the building of a Christ-centered community that will provide spiritual nurture for all.

Together, we seek to honor Christ by integrating faith, learning, and living as we reflect the process of maturing in Him. We choose to live according to the word of God, to respond to one another in love, and to make decisions motivated by unselfish love and divine truth.

Our goal is the ideal of mature self-regulation and active participation in fulfilling community responsibilities. In joining this community, we freely and willingly take upon ourselves the responsibilities outlined in this statement.

This exemplifies the spirit of the schools in question—particularly, the Student Development departments of the schools. Though the phrasing changes from school to school, the basic tenets of Christian education are expressed by each. The specific goals within Residence Life of Christian institutions are worth noting. Unlike non-Christian schools, these colleges and university seek to encourage Christian values in the lives of their students. “Lifestyle Contracts” and “Community Values Contracts” exhibit these goals. Still, within these eight schools, movie policies vary widely. Yet all eight schools address entertainment in some form.

Indiana Wesleyan’s version of the rule, however, differs greatly from the other schools. The school’s history and the current policy serve as a backdrop to the other institutions’ approaches. The Vice President of Student Development at Indiana Wesleyan is Dr. Todd Voss. In our November 1^st meeting, he explained to me the history of Indiana Wesleyan’s movie policy. Since the school first offered classes in 1920, the school had maintained a conservative Wesleyan aversion to film. The national ratings system changed over the years—Dr. Voss quickly pointed out that the changes were enacted to allow for more risqué material to be marketed to young people. This change put the current system in place, giving us “G,” “PG,” “PG-13,” “R,” “NC-17,” and “X.” According to Dr. Voss, the school has not allowed students to watch “R” rated movies at any point since the rating system was put into place. The policy stood unchanged until the summer of 2000. One student’s persistence put into motion a conciliatory effort to allow the viewing of some “R” rated films. The school acknowledged the “redeeming value” of some “R” rated films and wanted to allow students to watch them. At the same time, the school wanted to ensure that students to critically engage the entertainment that they encountered. During our discussion, Dr. Voss told me that Student Development struggled to find a policy that embodied all their goals. This frustration led to the formulation of a new rule—a rule which would contribute to reach all their

The policy has been tweaked slightly since its inception in 2001, and the changes continue as Student Development sees fit to improve the rule. Dr. Voss seemed proud of the steps that IWU had taken towards a more inclusive policy. He listed the improved policy and the recent addition of the Globe Theater in the student center. He contrasted those developments with the staunch disdain of film that characterized the Wesleyan/Holiness movement for much of its history. In comparison, he said, IWU is emerging as a leading proponent of movies within the tradition. A look at other schools policies will shed light on this.

The CCCU has eight schools listed within the two religious affiliations that are most closely associated with the Wesleyan/Methodist tradition. Using these schools, we have a helpful common ground from which to assess IWU’s movie policy. The distinctive aspects of each school’s policy are discussed beneath as they appear in their student handbooks; a few pertinent policies have been included to give examples of helpful distinctions. The policies are listed in Appendix A, excerpted from the student handbooks.

Free Methodist Church

Greenville College uses a policy very similar to Indiana Wesleyan’s. They ban all “R” rated films in residence hall/house lounges and living rooms. If a student wishes to show a movie that is “R” rated, he/she must submit a request to the staff in their building. This policy is different in a few important ways. First, the ban extends only on campus. The students are allowed to make their choice outside of campus living areas. Secondly, if a student wishes to show a movie on campus, he/she must seek approval. This seems similar to Indiana Wesleyan’s policy, but it differs with its individual approach. Movies are approved for watching on a case by case basis, rather than movie by movie.

Roberts Wesleyan lists no official policy regarding “R” rated movies. They do, however, use a rule that is shared by all eight of the schools. They ban all use or possession of pornographic material. The student handbook goes no further, allowing the students to make choices that align with the guiding principles listed in the handbook under “Commitment,” “Wholeness,” and “Excellence.”

Seattle Pacific also gives no specific policy for students regarding rated “R” movies, but they list a few helpful rules regarding student conduct. SPU shares IWU’s ban on alcohol, tobacco, and illegal drugs. Their rule, however, includes an important clause that IWU’s policy omits. Their student handbook states “SPU makes no attempt to preempt the customs of the family, which may include the use of alcohol at a family meal or family event...” Included in their website is a potentially helpful statement concerning the use of movies in Club activities. They explicitly ban all “NC-17” and “X” rated films, and they make a concession allowing for questionable content to be shown if it has “exceptional moral, social, or ethical message that is well established.” This, again, is addressed to school-based Clubs, not the student population; however, it reveals a look at the school’s stance on movies.

Spring Arbor University uses a rule that seems to combine Greenville’s and Seattle Pacific’s. “X” and “NC-17” movies are not allowed to be watched or possessed, “R” rated movies cannot be shown in lounge areas, and films that are “exceptionally violent, vulgar, or sexual in content” are prohibited. But, it should be noted, this distinction is left up to the student.

The Wesleyan Church

Houghton College, a “sister school” of IWU, gives no formal policy regarding “R” rated movies. The section regarding entertainment sounds much like IWU’s and a number of the other schools’, but they leave the decision-making to the students. “Fellow Christians have urged discretion and restraint in our choice[s]…especially if these…are morally questionable or diminish…sensitivity.” These cautions are made primarily from a standpoint of time-stewardship. In addition to this rule, however, Houghton joins Seattle Pacific by conceding authority to parental standards when students return home. Included with this concession is a request for students to exercise restraint as representatives of Houghton and of God.

Oklahoma Wesleyan University makes another formulation of the rule. Their policy is listed under the “Televisions/VCR’s/DVD Player” heading. They insist that, when used on campus, movies rated beyond “PG-13” are not allowed. This rule disallows “X”, “NC-17,” and “Mature” along with “R” rated films. This rule seems to negate all “R” rated movies, making it more stringent than IWU’s policy; we should note, however, that the rule applies only to movies watched on campus. This leaves open all other venues for student discretion.

Southern Wesleyan University, while addressing the issue from a conceptual standpoint, never explicitly gives a list of allowed/disallowed ratings. They ask students to “avoid activities, entertainment, media establishments or materials that promote violence, pornography, sexually explicit themes and immoral practices.” They also list a series of punishments for “media misuse” that includes the same list of restrictions. Again, this policy leaves the decisions up to the student.

With these seven schools in mind, Indiana Wesleyan’s policy is seen in a different light. Greenville and Spring Arbor have the clearest, and longest, movie policies. Both of these schools have one paragraph concerning students and movies. Indiana Wesleyan’s student handbook gives three full pages concerning students and media. The majority of these pages deal with movies. Clearly, Indiana Wesleyan has expounded on the policy more than the other schools, probably combined. This is understandable as IWU’s policy is much more exhaustive than the other schools. In our meeting, Dr. Voss mentioned the lack of a suitable precedent from other schools. IWU seems to be attempting a flagship effort, providing a more comprehensive approach. The contrasts are readily apparent.

The most glaring difference pits IWU’s policy against all seven of its fellow schools. No other policy extends the rule past the students’ families. A number of schools qualify their policies, allowing students to be under parents’ rules while at home. Indiana Wesleyan extends their policy (on all matters of student behavior) throughout students’ enrollment. Any time spent at home and any time on breaks, students are expected to follow Student Development’s rules—even if they conflict with family customs and traditions. I asked Dr. Thompson, the Assistant Vice President of Residence Life, about this in our discussion, and his response was unsatisfactory. When faced with the conflict of IWU rules versus parents’ rules, he loosely remarked that Student Development doesn’t “actively pursue” rule-breakers at home or during the summer and Christmas breaks. However, he did stand by the school’s ultimate position—students are technically expected to follow the school’s rules at home, even if they conflict with family customs and traditions. This formulation of the rule is certain to frustrate students. The school puts a rule in place technically, but willingly allows students to function outside of it. The frustration lies with the students’ motivation to follow the rule. The school relies on students’ integrity to keep their rule, but they diminish the importance of integrity by, in effect, expecting students to spend the summer at their own discretion. The school wants to use a convenient grey area to avoid the fact that they impose their rules above family customs. The students who heed the school’s call to integrity are left on the losing end of the school’s convenience: forced to exclude themselves from watching movies and from family traditions.

The media policy at Indiana Wesleyan is clearly more involved than those at other schools; unfortunately, the involvement has not brought about the goals the school aimed for. The rules from other schools regulate movies on student-owned electronics and in campus buildings. In fact, every other policy ends on the edges of campus. Understandably, no other school extends a movie policy to include all students’ choices. This extension undermines the school’s goal to “encourage discernment.” Students are asked to discern good movies from bad movies, but the policy allows no chance for that discernment to occur. Every other school encourages students to be cautious in their media selections; Greenville and Oklahoma Wesleyan even join IWU with a ban on “R” rated movies on campus. But only IWU, amidst all eight schools, extends this ban to all students’ choices. Greenville ends its regulation in campus housing; OWU also restricts movie-watching but only when they are viewed on campus. These other schools still acknowledge students’ prerogative to make decisions off campus and at home. This allows students some freedom to do the discerning about available movie choices.

The system erected by Indiana Wesleyan attempts to screen the “R” rated movies before the students are allowed to view them. Once the individual movies are deemed “redeeming,” students are allowed to view them. Obviously, this process is more involved than any other rule in place at the related institutions in the CCCU. The result is a far-reaching ban that defeats the school’s original goals. According to Dr. Voss, the school wants to encourage critical thinking and discernment, maintain the school’s “safety net,” and to utilize a hands-on approach that challenges students. The current policy defeats each of these goals because of its overbearing attempt to enforce a safety net. Critical thinking and discernment are discouraged—denied, even—by the extension of IWU’s policy to students’ decisions off campus and at home. The safety net defeats itself, the way overprotective parents force their children to rebel. Ironically, the school knows this but makes no provision for students at home or off campus. The same principle applies to the “hands on” approach. Too many “hands on” anyone will eventually force them away.

The school should either admit (and justify) their insistence on their own rules over families’, or, following the example of Seattle Pacific and Houghton, make an official provision for students under the auspices of home. IWU’s hesitance to give this qualification comes from the worry that students will abuse the freedom. However, the school should take responsibility for this problem, recognizing that playing on students’ integrity is unfair and exasperating. As for students off campus—the uniformity of the other seven schools gives a convincing illustration. If the school makes those concessions, the resulting policy would allow students an opportunity to think critically and to discern. The current IWU policy shows that a “hands on” approach cannot be successful without an occasional breath of “hands off.” The best safety net is, and always has been, good balance.