Homeless by Choice

Gaunt, with a straggly flowing grey beard and hair, he sits huddled in the doorway of the bank at the crossing of two of the main streets in town. Or you may find him on the short street that leads to the market where he is more sheltered from the wind. Wrapped in a blanket, another bundle to one side may contain a tent which he unfurls at night after finding a suitable site in a park on the outskirts of the city.

 Most people just pass him by, a beggar asking for a handout.  But if you do stop to talk to him, you’ll find he is unusually cultured and speaks various languages including English as well as Italian and Catalan, which seems to be his native tongue.  Erin (or Aronne)  he tells you is his name. This year he says has been a bad year for he has been ill and been recovered in hospitals in various countries. It’s hard to say how old he is, I would say at least 70. There is an unusual dignity to him as he sits there crocheting, with a small bag full of multicolored yarns at his side. If you do stop and exchange a few words, he seems thankful for this human contact. One year I gave him 10 euros, telling him to get a good meal, and he insisted on giving me a small pouch he had been crocheting in exchange, even though I tried to refuse, saying it wasn’t necessary.  Even if you give him one euro, he has to repay you with a crocheted string. It’s his way of saying he isn’t just begging but feels he has to give you something in return.

Erin or Aronne is not the only wanderer one encounters, the transitory inhabitant of the town. They come and go and their permanence usually coincides with market days. I hesitate to call them beggars or mendicants – although they are asking for money.  On the Corso every so often there is a young man with his dog Whiskey, an extremely well-behaved reddish-gold Setter. If his owner goes to get a cup of coffee, Whiskey will patiently sit and wait for him to return.  While I have no problem remembering the name of the dog, I forget the name of the owner from one market day to the next. He is Canadian and has travelled to countries in various continents. He too speaks several languages and his family has accepted his decision to lead a vagabond life. Whiskey is definitely an attraction as I have found out when walking the streets with my dog, Teah, for people are more likely to say hi to her than to me. From our conversations, I know that Whiskey is well cared for and taken to the vet if necessary.

People and dogs. Now why do people respond to a four-legged friend more than to their two-legged owners?  Perhaps because a dog or cat doesn’t expect much in the way of conversation. People I cross paths with are much more likely to stop and talk with me if I have my dog along. Empathy is the right word.

Temporarily Whiskey and his owner live in a farmhouse near a small Umbrian town along the railroad tracks. Room and board, and the permission to plant a vegetable garden, a fair exchange in return for cleaning and cooking and acting as caretaker for the owner. H has a day off every week so he can come, say to Orvieto, and make a few euros for his personal expenses. While many just leave one euro in his hat, some will be more generous.

There are a few other who may be defined as homeless (in Italian it is senza fissa dimora or without a fixed abode) and others I sometimes run into. They come and go, living lives of their choice. A young man I have frequently seen has a bike draped with Canadian flags. He may have stopped for a pizza or even slept overnight in an inexpensive hotel. Always fresh and clean. He never stays long in Orvieto, though.

Then there are the street musicians. I find the slender young woman playing a harp particularly intriguing. Wearing a long skirt and with her hair pulled back in a bun, she looks as if she had stepped from an Emily Dickenson poem or from a page by Jane Austen. I really would like to find out more about her but have never thought to ask. Some are real musicians like Peter with his cello. He’s the one I stopped to speak with after I noted that his sandaled feet were absolutely clean and that he was playing a Bach fugue as only a professional musician would. Turned out he was American and came to Italy each summer to play in the northern towns, with pretty good results financially. As the years passed he got into the habit of making Orvieto his last stop. We would have dinner after he had had his morning two- kilometer run and seen the sunset over the valley. Last time he came he was no longer alone but had a lovely young Asian wife with him. While he had previously depended on local transportation, trains or buses, he now used a car which gave him better access to smaller out of the way towns. In a sense he isn’t really homeless, for back home he has an apartment in NYC and teaches cello.

Homeless by choice. Some like Erin have been vagabonds for years. They have no commitments, can live and move wherever they like. On the other hand, there’s the risk of finding themselves alone.  Most of us spend a good part of our lives searching for companionship, for a stable relationship. For a partner, for someone to share our thoughts and lives with. What are these homeless people looking for? Perhaps even if they live a makeshift life, for whatever reason it is their choice, while mine is what might normally be considered more acceptable, and I settled down in this small town more or less permanently. Yet as we move through life, my homeless acquaintances and I share the need to interact with others, for none of us is alone on this planet. And we are free to choose the type of life we lead.