There is a burly young man who lives at the Carmel Post Office. He used to sleep on a wooden bench across from the mail slots, but someone took the bench away and now he lies curled up on the tile floor where the bench used to be. His hands, pressed palm to palm, form a makeshift pillow. His right cheek bone rests against his knuckles.
I usually pick up the mail late in the evening. One chilly November night, I entered the post office and its lone resident was standing in the corner by the recycling bins. The hood of his navy blue sweatshirt was drawn up over his unruly, dark hair. His complexion bore the ruddiness of one who has been exposed to too many elements. As I walked past, he looked over at me and held out one tentative, open hand. I stretched both my empty palms toward him and shook my head. He returned my gesture with a a slight smile and an understanding nod. That is the closest we’ve had to a conversation. Mostly, we both just stare into space—he, at something on the opposite wall and I, at a point just beyond my feet as I make my way to my mailbox down the poorly lit corridor.
There was a time when if I ended up sitting at an intersection and a panhandler was at my driver’s side window, I would shuffle through my purse and rustle up whatever I could find to contribute to the cause. Then one day, I had nothing but a single chocolate chip cookie. I rolled down the window and held it up to the weathered, bearded man slouched beside my Jeep. He beamed a gap-toothed grin and brought his face close to mine. As he reached for the cookie, my usually docile Australian Shepherd leapt from the passenger seat across my lap and lunged for the man’s bulbous, rather purple nose. Mercifully, he ducked and my dog missed. I muttered a mortified apology and was relieved that the light had turned green and I could escape. At dinner that night, when I confessed to my husband what had happened, he admonished me for being so reckless. I have been wary of opening my car window at stoplights ever since. I could be a danger to strangers.
On the other hand, one Christmas Eve near the entrance of the SaveMart, I stumbled upon Lonnie, who was strumming a beat up guitar for change while balancing a rabbit on his head. I cradled the rabbit in my arms and joined in a chorus or two of You are My Sunshine and Slient Night. This is more like the relationship we have with street people when we’re in Italy. We banter with them and take their photographs. We have come to know Monika, a gaunt yet attractive, thirtyish Hungarian woman, who wears her blond hair swept up in a careless bun. She holds court at various places in downtown Naples, sitting cross-legged on a worn pink blanket with her three Rhodesian Ridgebacks. We kneel down to speak with her and pet her dogs. We wonder how she manages to feed them, much less herself. How does one end up in a foreign city on a sidewalk with a cardboard sign and three purebred dogs? It is difficult to get a straight answer.
Signora Rita sits in front of the Duomo di San Gennaro with her little black and white mixed breed, Ciccia. She holds a stack of the saint’s holy cards and is happy to exchange one for a coin or two. She tells us she has a daughter in America. Once Rita gave us her address and when we returned to the States we sent her a couple of photos we’d taken of her and and her beloved dog posing on the steps of the Cathedral.. A few months later the manilla envelope with the 8 x 10s came back to us in the mail.
The streets of Naples display their usual musicians and pantomimes, plying their talents for whatever you can spare. One sunny afternoon on the Via Toledo, a beautiful sixteenth century, cobblestoned avenue that cuts through the heart of the Spanish Quarter, a tiny older man approached us. He could not have been more than five feet tall. His hair was white and his eyes were the color of his azure cashmere cardigan. “Signori,” he pleaded, his hands held out to us. He was a most unlikely beggar. My husband placed a few euros into his palms. He grasped the coins and then, as if they had stung his fingers, he flung them to the pavement with disgust. “Sono una persona per bene!” he bellowed at us. He was a good person. He had demeaned himself to stand on the sidewalk and beg and we had dishonoured him with too paltry an offering in return.
What is enough to give? Half of what you have in your pockets, everything you have in your purse, your only cookie, a smile, a thought, a prayer? You may have a ten spot folded up in your wallet, but it is earmarked for something else. You have a bill to pay. Then again, your last quarter or euro may be all that it takes to help feed someone’s dog tonight.. A shake of the head was enough for the man in the post office. What would have appeased the one in the blue sweater?
I suppose that most of us have, at some point or another, asked and given too much and too little. Throughout my life, I have received more and less than I’ve asked for, but more or less what I’ve deserved. I am learning that when asking or giving, it is best to do so with open hands and no expectation. And when receiving, palms together will suffice.