Crushed and Mended
Challis Popkey
“Challis, you’ve fucked things up for good this time.” Crushed, I’ve told this to myself
three times in the past three years. The following stories are not glamorous, all include
hysterics and one involves handcuffs.
Prologue
Tailgaiting is part of what validates you as student at the University of Oregon. The
football team, the beloved Ducks, clad in the newest, freshest Nike gear (thanks Uncle Phil)
pump air into the lungs of damp Eugene, Oregon. The town is small, green and gloomy
throughout the 9-month rainy season. It breathes thanks to the 25,000 students and the
money siphoned in by Duck sports.
The student tailgate starts five hours before kickoff. In this case, it was a noon-time
game. So we rolled in at 7 am to my senior crush’s tailgate. It was the first time my sophomore
roommates and I had game tickets and somewhere to get blasted before. Over 21, he and his
friends were preparing to cheer on the Ducks in the loudest, most inebriated state possible.
Autzen Stadium is famous for it’s deafening “OOOOOOOH” chant, enhanced by stadium
acoustics but fueled by the thoroughly intoxicated and body-painted student section.
So there we were. Mitchell had even spent the night, waking me up with his cheshire
cat grin and glacial ice eyes. I’ll admit, I felt pretty cool showing up at the tailgate together in
front of all of his friends. There were three kegs perched in the beds of two pickups along with
stacks of red plastic cups and mysterious concoctions in vodka bottles. We started with Coors
Light and I was three cups in by 9 am. Mitch suggested a kegstand. He grasped my legs as I
sucked from the tube, upside down, as his friends and surrounding tailgaters chanted my
time: “15, 16, 17 – DOWN! WOOH! GO DUCKS!” This was followed by a celebratory round of
shots, then a mystery pink punch concocted by head-stoner and mixologist Chase “Big Kitty”
Pennington. Chase was the president of Washer Nation, a group of fifth-year seniors from San
Francisco who coined the term “washed,” meaning stoned. In a constant state of wash, Chase
was elected on the platform #OccupyCouch. Without fail, Chase and his cabinet made it to the
Autzen parking lot every game day to tailgate. They had training. I did not.
Here things get blurry. I was told we wandered into the stadium around 11:30. I had
lost Mitchell but luckily I had roommates who cared a bit more. I vaguely remember tipoff,
but more fiercely I recall my bursting bladder. I begged Simone, my roommate, to accompany
me to the bathroom. It was her first college football game and we were only one minute in, but
figuring I wouldn’t make it alone she obliged.
I wobbled towards the bathroom and although I still felt like a star, I apparently
resembled a falling one. We were escorted out of the stadium by a security guard on account of
excessive inebriation.
Confession: I’m a confident drunk. I wasn’t taking this ejection without a fight. I pulled
Simone to another entrance and waltzed in like I was LaMichael James.
Same security guard, same story.
Well, I was the same Challis and rejection still meant keep trying. We tried the original
entrance. This time Simone lagged behind, accepting defeat. It was third and long – I charged
back in at full speed. My swagger must have been a bit too Jack Sparrow because the next
thing I remember is being led in handcuffs to the police station within Autzen Stadium.
Hey, at least I was inside.
At this point I was still feeling clever and gave the cops my fake ID. Folks, they are not
as stupid as we think. This move, in combination with the paraphernalia inside my purse and
the fact I was under 21 led to two fat tickets.
Three trips to the Lane County Courtroom and 40 hours of community service later I
decided to pursue other methods of school spirit. Actually, it was decided for me as I was
banned from the stadium for the rest of the year.
It didn’t phase me watching the Ducks from home, safe from jungle juice and keg
stands. The real punishment came from the Study Abroad Office: I needed a year of clean
student conduct in order to represent the university overseas. I was planning on leaving for
Ferrara, Italy in eight months. In fact, I had already bought my ticket.
Plans change.
Chapter One
Paolo boasted that he owned the largest donkey in Tuscany. I buried my head in Big
Bruno’s thick gray fur and let loose the tears. They were hot against his damp body and he
smelled like hay and manure. The distinct smell of horses. The smell of my Sunny, my
adolescence.
Rain furiously pounded on the tin roof and I was thankful for the noise. The past three
days had been uncomfortably silent. It was just me, Paolo, and his herd of 32 malnourished
horses up there in the Apuan Alps. And Bruno, the giant donkey who was confined to a tiny
stone shed covered with a sheet of tin. He couldn’t even stand up straight.
But I had wanted this, right?
When the University of Oregon forced me to delay my studies in Italy for one semester
due to “inappropriate conduct on university property” I decided to go anyways. I didn’t need a
classroom to learn about Italy. So I took the fall semester off and enrolled in the Worldwide
Organization of Organic Farmers (WWOOF). WWOOF provides their volunteers with Italian
farms that need workers from Sicily to Piemonte. In turn for donating work hours, the farms
provide food and lodging for a determined period. It seemed like the perfect solution – learn
Italian and local agricultural customs. I could even play it off to my father that I wanted a
cultural experience before starting school, and therefore avoid confessing the drinking and
paraphernalia tickets at the stadium. After three months of volunteering, I would go to
Ferrara and start the “real” study abroad experience, the one you pay for.
My first farm was a vineyard in Cerbaia, just south of Florence. I harvested sangiovese
grapes for six weeks, which meant eight hours a day bent over, armed with scissors and a
bucket. It also meant weekends in Florence, unlimited Chianti (literally bottom of the barrel,
stuff the owner wouldn’t sell), and a new friendship with Clemè, a fellow WWOOFer from
Tennessee.
At the end of the harvest, Clemè had plans to travel. She had money and wanted to see
Bologna, Venice, Rome, Milan, Napoli, Bari, basically the whole damn boot. She then wanted
to hit Berlin, London and Amsterdam. I liked Clemè, she’d been the only conversation I had
for six weeks as the other vineyard workers were Moldavian. We finished a bottle of Chianti
together every night; she made me laugh and taught me how to roll cigarettes. So when she
invited me to tag along I agreed – without controlling my bank statement.
We had made it only to Bologna when I realized it wasn’t financially possible to hop
around the continent eating decadent meals and sleeping with down comforters in hotels.
Plus, I was in Italy to learn Italian, to soak in the culture, to work the land… right? I broke the
news to Clemè who was quite upset and not down to travel alone. She booked a flight back to
Nashville and I headed to my next farm, a ranch in the Apuan Alps of northwestern Tuscany.
Paolo picked me up at the station in Massa-Carrara and we climbed into the
mountains. The road was densely populated with oak trees and the only human we saw was a
Porcini-mushroom hunter and his dog. After the weeks with Clemè I had practiced almost no
Italian, and Paolo spoke no English. I questioned him nonetheless about Wifi, and if I would
be able to write my parents. No Wifi. No computer. No phone service. Every fourth day he
goes to town to get groceries. I could make calls there.
The sun was still shining and I was still optimistic, but when I saw his horses my
stomach lurched. They were emaciated. There were 32 of them, seven were mothers with
foals. Some searched the ground for chestnuts, which Paolo claimed were their natural diet in
the fall and winter months. According to him, they needed little hay thanks to these
apparently plentiful and nutritious nuts. The skinniest of the herd had no energy to even
search and stood forlornly in the mud with empty eyes and protruding ribs.
In theory, the farm was actually a Bed and Breakfast that incorporated
horsebackriding. There was a large wooden farmhouse with three spare bedrooms and a
smaller stone guest house. My duties were to saddle and bridle the horses, make beds, and
help guide tours. These duties all relied on the presence of customers. That first day my only
human contact was Paolo and my only duty was to feed the horses one dose of soggy, brown
hay. I missed Clemè and started to regret declining two months of American Touristing, the
Instagram photos and Facebook status’ I could have been posting.
The second day it started to rain. I wanted to cover the horses with blankets, they had
no meat on their bones and looked so miserable. I passed silent hours in their pasture, which
was several acres of steep forest enclosed haphazardly by a wooden fence and rope. I stroked
them, brushed them, gathered chestnuts and fed them to the nursing mothers. I wanted to
sneak them more hay but they all made such a fuss, pushing and biting and whinnying when
they saw food that Paolo would have heard immediately.
Day three we had one visitor; a sculptor who wanted to do a piece on the largest
donkey in Tuscany. So Bruno was allowed out of his shed, only to be rained on while the
sculptor sketched. I followed Bruno back in with a towel and started to dry him off. All at
once, my loneliness overwhelmed me. The tears burst out, getting my sympathetic friend wet
all over again. What the hell was I doing up here? No one had any idea where I was, if I was
alive. I had no way to escape, the train station was miles away and I’d have to ask Paolo for a
ride. Clemè, why didn’t I go with you? What’s some racked up credit card debt when
compared to complete isolation with an ominous Tuscan rancher who starves his animals?
Once the tears started coming, they didn’t stop. Sometimes when you’re sad other sad
thoughts sense your weakness and attack, begging to be dealt with. I let myself think about my
cousin Glenn, she would have been 21 the following week, October 29th. She was fearless. She
loved traveling alone. She’d have the courage to tell Paolo to give his horses more food. She’d
enjoy these marble mountains and their sinister silence. I cursed myself for being so
miserable. Glenn would have would have made the best of this, instead of blubbering
hopelessly into the fur of a giant donkey. Why was I still here and she was gone?
I collapsed at Bruno’s hooves, which were two times the size of my feet. “It’s not fair!” I
wailed to him. Neck hunched uncomfortably from the too-short roof, he gazed down at me
with eyes that understood. Life isn’t fair.
Bruno stood patiently with me for another hour as my tear ducts drained and I let my
mind wander from premature death to possible solutions. I counted the ways in which I was
lucky. I could stand up without hitting my head on the roof. I was going home for Christmas. I
had people who loved me and were probably very concerned about my whereabouts. I owned
a closet full of clothes, a car, and a laptop computer.
Laptop computer! That’s it! I hugged Bruno, bidding him goodnight and thanking him
for his patience. I darted through the rain, into the house and up to my wooden bunk in one of
the guest rooms. I pulled my MacBook out of my backpack. Even without Wifi, a pirated
escape awaited: Grease
.
110 minutes of American classic: John Travolta in leather pants, thrusting his hips on a
Ford De Luxe. Olivia Newton John lost and lonely in a foreign country, Danny breaks her
heart and poor Rizzo is pregnant. Then “Goodbye to Sandra Dee,” she’s a sexbot with a leather
jumpsuit in that fabulous last number where everyone finds love and high school is over. In
the last shot she waved to me, permed and fabulous in her flying car next to Danny Zuko. She
had adapted to her surroundings, and she’d never stopped singing. And in that moment, I
knew I could too. I just needed to find my voice.
Chapter Two
I had made love, I mean really made love, for the first time in my life the night before.
It’s strange how you can be so sure you know something and how quickly that knowledge is
shattered when you taste the real thing. It had happened numerous times to me since my
arrival one year ago in Italy; pizza crust is thin and shouldn’t be stuffed with cheese,
macchiatos aren’t twenty ounce chocolate-caramel-sugarbombs, meatballs deserve a course to
themselves and come after spaghetti, and macaroni sauce is not made from a neon orange
powder. And now, the night before I left forever, I’d learned that making love is different than
having sex.
And it was time to say goodbye. Sicilians are dramatic about traveling – the Palermo
airport was filled with families waving goodbye to their departing member, always armed with
some southern food (cannoli, arancine, biscotti di mandorla) to sustain them while away from
la patria (the homeland). We had stopped at Giancarlo’s fathers’ bakery an hour before and I
was equipped to bring the best cannolis in Alcamo to my New York girlfriends.
My little Italian family was composed of Carla, Roberta, Peppe and Giancarlo. But it
wasn’t a normal goodbye. I wouldn’t be coming back. Carla and I had shared an apartment in
Ferrara for seven months, but she too was destined for America and a senior year of college.
She was Italian-American and had taught me how to make involtini, bleach my mustache
hairs and ride a bike “in due,” one personal pedaling and the other poised above the back
wheel. It was sad to close that chapter, but I knew I’d see her again.
With Roberta, I wasn’t so sure. She was my best friend in Ferrara, and she had invited
me to spend my last week in Italy in her Sicilian hometown, Alcamo. She was a southern
beauty, voluptuous, confident and commanding with her mafiosa accent. She had introduced
me to her cousin just one week ago. One week ago, I was ready to go home.
Giancarlo had eyes like Roberta, piercing turquoise like the sea from which he was
born. I tried to memorize their color, their way of speaking without uttering a word, as I gazed
into them for the last time. Tears welled at the bottom. The tears were salty too, like the sea
water that lapped around us inside la nostra grotta
, our cave. Holding my breath, I had
followed him as he swam beneath an overhanging rock wall. Five meters later the wall opened
up into a glorious hidden cave. The white sand was filtered through the cyan waters, casting
dancing fairies of light across the dark volcanic rock. He pulled me close, held me, kissed me
with salty lips.
Our tears made his lips salty again, but this kiss was agonizing, packed with fear and
lust, the concept of “last.” Already, the fabric band forming the snake-line towards the security
check separated us. Soon, the entire Atlantic Ocean would keep us apart. Tack on the entire
mass of America when I wound up back in Oregon and it became an impossible distance.
Peppe, the pudgy jokester, tried to lighten the mood. “Dai Challis, che ci tornerai!”
You’ll be back I thought. But would I? I had a year to finish in rainy Eugene. Eugene, where
the most important aspect of life was those damn Ducks. Eugene, where it would be
dangerously easy to get back with Mitchell. Eugene, where I would speak boring English and
always carry an umbrella.
I peeled myself off him and wound through the line. Sunglasses hid my streaming eyes.
Placing my purse on the X-Ray belt I looked back at him. Fuck, what the hell was I doing?
“WAIT!” I violently elbowed my way back, abandoning my things on the belt. Collapsing into
his arms I started sobbing again. This couldn’t be the last hug. What if I didn’t get on the
plane?
A security guard grabbed my elbow – I guess it’s pretty illegal to abandon a bag in an
airport. He informed me that my things would searched and I must come claim them, or be
arrested.
“Vai,” his mouth said, but his eyes betrayed him.
“Ci tornerò,” I promised. With a final turn, I followed the guard back towards my
belongings and away from where I belonged.
_____________________________________
I finish my yogurt and honey and gaze out the window. My neighbor is sweeping
orange oak leaves off her balcony to the littered street below. Two boys with a soccer ball pass
below her on their way to Villa Pamphili, Rome’s largest park. I wonder if they have been
shattered yet.
Sometimes you have to feel like shit to figure out what feels best.
