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You know how disconnected things that by themselves wouldn’t give much reason for thought sometimes come together to make a kind of sense that’s worth further consideration. Last night I had the privilege of staying with Godchildren, Nina and Julian, while their parents went out to dinner and to see a play. After supper, before descending night made play in the street impractical, the corner of Sleepy Way and Sneezy Court (In the way that is pure California, the subdivision streets were named for Disney Characters.) was a literal playground for Nina, Julian, Chris, jeremy, Kyle, Bryan, and Jean Luca. Let’s see if I can recall what happened and explain why today it suddenly got solid in my mind the way Jello does in the refrigerator.

Out of no previous conversation that might explain why he wanted to know, Jean Luca asked me, “Have you ever been to France?” Jean Luca is eight and a half years old. He would be offended if I said just eight years old. Half a year is very important to someone eagerly wanting to be nine. He looked at me directly so I knew his was a serious question wanting an answer. I said that I had been to France; and as adults sometimes do, I added unnecessarily that I had been there several times. Before I could ask if he had been to France, he said, “I was born in Italy. Have you ever been to Italy?”

I said that yes! I had been to Italy several times. He asked, “Is it nice.” So it was my turn to ask some questions of my own about his having been born in Italy, but he pressed for more answers about where I had been. He asked if I had been to Spain and to England and to Germany. I admit to feeling a bit self-conscious about having been to all those places, even though the questioner was only a child; so I said quickly that I’ve never been to South Africa. He said maybe I’d been to some other place in Africa, maybe Egypt; and he had me there. I said that I had been to Egypt.

Before I could get at the reasons for his international interest, young kyle, who is maybe only four or five, asked if I had ever been to the North Pole. I hadn’t noticed that any of the others were listening to the conversation. I said I have not ever been to the North Pole and stopped myself from saying I was only about a thousand miles from the North Pole only last month. I am very, very glad I stopped myself. It would have been unnecessary bragging that might have stopped the wonderful questions. Kyle said matter-of-factly, “Santa Clause lives there.” I said that I had heard that. He went back to putting pieces together to complete Batman’s plastic castle.

Just about that time Jean Luca’s eleven-year-old brother Bryan rode in on his scooter. I asked him if he was born in Italy too. He looked knowingly at Jean Luca and then at me and said, “Jean Luca wasn’t born in Italy. He was born here. I was born in Italy.” Jean Luca looked down, I knew how badly he wished he had been born in Italy. I wished he had been born in Italy. When I got the chance a little later, without Bryan near, I said to him that I was absolutely sure he would someday go all over the world and that he was going to love Italy and France and Spain. He still looked a little sheepish, but he favored me with the slightest smile to let me know he understood what I was doing. It’s a look school teachers recognize.

Later I asked Bryan where in Italy he had been born, and he said Padua. Again I resisted the impulse to say I was surprised that he knew about Padua and to tell him that the Italian name is Padova. I desperately wanted to talk with him about Padua and 
Shakespeare, but I resisted that impulse, too. And then I found myself thinking how absolutely wonderful the world is and how privileged I was to be at the corner of Sleepy Way and Sneezy Court on a summer evening with children who are curious about places far away from El Cajon.

This morning when I rode my bike onto the platform of the Little Italy Trolley Station, the conversations from last night and the things I saw suddenly in early daylight all around the station delighted me again with how wonderful, and terrible if you allow your mind to go there, the world is: there is the word “GLOBE” high up on a building disconnected from any context that might give it meaning; the moving sign above the track flashed over and over, “Not in Service,” but it was clearly in service because a trolley full of people had just pulled away; another sign declared that the blue line trolleys that stopped here were on their way to San Ysidro/Tijuana, a border town and a town in another country; and on a building across the tracks beyond the Little Italy sign the words “CHOW” declared it's over in big letters... or maybe that it's time to eat.