The breeze was chilling, the language unfamiliar. Illuminated signs lined the cobblestoned streets, pointing haphazardly towards a restaurant, a drugstore, a theater, a church, a home- or at least we assumed that was where they were pointing, given our inability to decipher the words. Our twelve-person group huddled together, clad in flowing black attire, clutching our instruments like they were the only things we could recognize (they were). Even the moon, albeit the same moon visible from every corner of the world, seemed altered, tinted with the hues of distance. 3,824 miles away lay our pillows, our families, our comforting front doors, our schools, and the cadence of conversations in English. Shivering, we stood in a parking lot outside of a church, staring, waiting, expecting the unexpected.
Minutes passed, or maybe hours, or perhaps seconds. As the chilled air enveloped us, it became increasingly clear that we were alone in the streets of Milan. The city, rich with the beauty of history and fashion and fame, ignored our search for family or familiarity. Of course, we weren’t truly alone; the beeping of car doors and everyday cacophonies of a city reminded us of life, of people with families and friends and stories. Yet even while surrounded by apartments and the hums of vivacity, even while gently reminded of the hundreds of thousands of city inhabitants, we remained encased by the loneliness of our language. Our attempts to communicate in broken, clumsy Italian were met with confusion, and often pity. Geometrically, plainly, we couldn’t connect.
Cold, frustrated, and unequivocally bored, we decided to open our instruments and begin an impromptu rehearsal. Disregarding our lack of sheet music, light, or instruction, we tuned our instruments and formed our crescent, orchestral formation- cellos by the street, violins by the apartment building, violas facing the church, string basses by the curb. We exchanged glances, our faces dimmed yet determined, and in unison began to play.
Initially discombobulated, the cold air and solitary streetlight were inadequate for immediate coordination. Yet as our fingers warmed and our hearts opened, the music began to blend in a way like never before. With our sight limited, our ears had no choice but to bloom, and we had no choice but to trust our instincts. Within minutes- or perhaps even seconds- the music flourished, and even with slight memorization mistakes, the sound was undeniably sparkling, alive with the sound of passion and love and excitement. The moon, once daunting, smiled down, shedding light on our collective achievement and our ability to unite in what seemed like the darkest of times.
Soon, we began to hear city cacophonies descending upon us- dwellers from the apartment, churchgoers, even the innocent drivers all paused, opening their windows to let our sound wash over them. The street glimmered, the wind encouraged us, and when we looked up, the smiles of the people emanated hope and longing and everything in between. Our music swirled upwards and outwards, cascading and blending effervescently among our crescent formation.
While we couldn’t converse with the dwellers of Milan through our mouths or our minds, we spoke to them through our instruments and our passion. We transcended the barrier of language with music, allowing our souls to connect and reach out to others. To an outsider, it may have simply seemed like a group of American teenagers rehearsing for an orchestra concert in a Milan parking lot, but to us and those around us, it was pure magic. We conversed on both intellectual and subconscious levels, bridging the fears, frustration, and confusion that so often block true connection between cultures.
When the piece was over, we set down our instruments, bracing for the unexpected. Was any of it real? The answer, arriving in the form of cheering and applause and appreciation, validated what we had known the moment we started playing: music truly brings people together. Though we couldn’t fully understand the cheers, the connection eased and blurred the differences between our group and the people of Milan.
Though fleeting, the magic of the moment was palpable. We were floating, touching hands with every listener from the apartments, every person on the stairs of church, and every driver in their car. We understood simply, truthfully, allowing connections to roll over us like a wave of comfort. The breeze was chilling and the language unfamiliar and our homes were 3,824 miles away, but our music welcomed us into the lives of those beside us, of those above us, of those who couldn’t understand our language but could resonate with our sound.
Kate Wolfson is a senior at Arlington High school with a passion for writing and conveying emotions through words. When she is not writing, Kate can be found playing tennis, running, and playing violin.