[Oe List ...] Salmon: EARTHRISE WITNESS.doc

[William Salmon]

EARTHRISE WITNESS
January 21, 2009
William Salmon
The Italian Caper

	It was in Rome where I learned to say, “Un beer” in the little bistro across the street. The Rome House was located on one of Rome’s famous Seven Hills, and the bus stop was near Nero’s tomb. Several of us were assigned to write the book, “Approaches That Work.” A list of these are included at the end of this story. 
	This is a workbook that laid out the ICA research effort to collect information on successful projects from around the globe. This included ICA work as well as the work of others.
	The Italian House budget was required by the local bank to carry a one-month balance ahead of what they needed for any one month. The sudden addition of this team, and soon the food budget was stretched to the breaking point and the House ran out of money and food. 
	Someone asked if anyone had a credit card? Silly person, indeed, to make a loan to anyone in the Order. When would they ever get it back? Silly man that I am, I confessed. It was either that or not eat. 
	“How much value is left on the card,” someone queried?
	“Oh, about $1,200, I suppose,” I noted.
	“Head down to the Visa Bank and get us some money!”
	I arrived at the down-town Roma Visa Bank at about 4 p.m. The place was crawling with world-travelers-cum wealthy young hippies. This was in 1980. I finally got to the desk to make my request, and the teller asked, “How much are you asking for?”  I gulped, and said, “Well, I think my balance is $1,500.” “OK,” came the reply, “but I’ll have to call Wichita, Kansas to confirm your balance.” I winced and swallowed again.” The voice continued, “Come back in the morning. Arriverdeche!” “Si, un beer to you and gracias!” What the hell, with that I had expended the resources of all my Italian lexicon; after all, I am ignorant in several languages.
	The next day dawned cool and clear—why does that now seem so profound? I was at the Visa desk by 9 a.m. The cum wealthy young hippies were much too much in evidence for my liking, being the sophisticate that I am. I waited my way to the desk. “Name please. How much did you request?”
	I lost my nerve. “$1,200,” I replied.
	“Um-m, well, you can’t have it!”
	“I can’t? Why not?” I questioned, feeling like I’d had too much ‘un Beer.’
	“Because (Idiot!) you asked for $1,500. Go over to that desk to get your money.” 
Much relieved, I obeyed like the circumspect man, a la Kierkegaard, that I am.
	The pay-out desk was wide-open: no cage, no security, no nothing. Just an open desk with a big stack of brown paper bags behind the Pay-Out Official. 
	I gave the man a slip of paper. He retrieved a large paper bag and began filling it with single 1,500 lira notes. Now let’s see. $1,500 American is how many 1,500 lira notes? 
	Frankly, I didn’t give a damn about the count because all of those cum wealthy youth hippies were observing this transaction as the paper bag was filled. My gawd, man. How was I gonna get home with my life, much less this paper bag? 
	Suddenly, I assumed my James Bond .007 role. I squared my shoulders, adjusted the gun under my arm. OK, I scratched my armpit and made a dive for the front door. Should I go directly to the underground? Naw, I better check to see if’n I’m being followed. I stopped near several store windows. Um? Was that one of the cum wealthy young hippies at the Visa Bank? Naw, I don’t think so. 
	After several blocks, I looked at my Mickey Mouse watch with the hidden microphone, and turned smartly into the underground to make it home-sweet-home among the Seven Hills of Sunny Rome.
	“Did’ya get the money?”
	“Yes,” James Bond reported a successful mission. 
	“Well, tomorrow you take it up to the bank. But that is another story. They won’t let you in, and then they won’t let you out.
	In celebration, the writing team went to a neighborhood restaurant. Everything looked Bon! The ante-pasta (salad/fruit) bar looked grand. We all ordered whatever we wanted from the menu (they had special steaks from Argentina), and went back to the ante-pasta table. Hugh mounds of food we filed high on our plates. I even put two oranges in my coat pocket; hell its cold every evening in sunny Rome.
	Our waiter was delighted with our enthusiasm. ”Oh,” he exclaimed, “TEN TIMES,” he said in broken English while giving us all ten-up-fingers. Later, his enthusiasm would be reduced to a one-up-finger.
	After a wonderful evening of food, great conversation, lots of ante-pasta and Italian wine, we asked for the check. ONE-HUNDRED AND THIRTY-FIVE DOLLARS AMERICAN. ARE YOU KIDDING? Jim Wiegle brought only $100 with him. Yep, we were charged TEN TIMES FOR EACH SALAD PLATE. 	
	Now the fun began. 
	Wiegle called for our waiter. Pigeon English cum Pigeon Italian is very amusing, and this went on for awhile. Finally, the waiter disappeared to the back room to reappear with the Matre-de cum Manager. More pigeon droppings. Again, the boss and waiter disappear to the back room to reappear in a few minutes—all this time about 150 Italians (who else) watched this ugly-American scene take place. Finally, the administration settled on $100 American. Now, let’s see. How much is that in lira?

	There is more to the story, and Beverly needs to take it from here. 
	As I came in the door at 4750 No. Sheridan in Chicago, I was met by Wanda Holcomb who just arrived from Brussels, Belgium. Wanda said. “Oh, you are just the one I want to see. She handed me a check for $1,500. I was shocked, and asked, “Why are you giving me this check?” Wanda replied, “Didn’t Bill tell you he cashed in your Discover Credit card?” Immediately, I took the check and sent it to Wichita. 

PS: There’s another story to be told about presenting a draft copy of our workbook to The POPE-OF-ALL-CHRISTENDOM. Our private audience included 300 other people, outside in Vatican Square, and we were’nt close enough to even throw the book at-em. 
	Then, there is the story of my first marathon in Rome. It started and ended in the Stadium built by Mussolini, the Italian dictator and cohort in the first Axis of Terror. I never was very fast, but I’m long winded. Any confirmations?

Those at the Rome House including the Writing Team:
To those who were wrongly added, and to those inadvertently left out, I apologize, but my notes are really cold, and twenty-eight years ago seems like yesterday until I begin to think about, and to research, names. Forgive me. 

The Writing Team?
	 Jim Wiegle, George Walters, Joe Crocker, Sr. James and Lady Peggy Lindsley, Phil Townley, David McClesky, Mary D’Souza, Judy Tippet, and Bill Salmon.
The Rome House?
Jon and Maureen Jenkins, David and Paula Okusu, Rudri, Ronnie Seagren, John Stringham, Shirley Massey, and Dharmalingam. 

	I apologize about the length of this article. I hate it when the Earthrise Witnesses are not the old “witness length.” You remember – Stand up, Say it, Set down, and “Pass the wine, please.” However, I found this story to weigh heavily on my mind because others asked for my version of it, and it sat on my desk and got cold.
	 Bill and Beverly Salmon are members of the Order in Diaspora and we still are marching on “The Journey To The East.” Bill continues to research a book on, Conversations in Jail: for the prisoner in all of us, to be written this summer. He publishes a weekly on-line IHOP Bible Study and SermonStarter, and is the editor of a new soon-to-be blog, “Experiencing Christ in the Now,” to publish grass-roots writers of post-modern thinking. Beverly continues her leadership in the UM Women in Kansas.
 	To those who were wrongly added, and to those inadvertently left out, I apologize, but my notes are really cold, and twenty-eight years ago seems like yesterday until I begin to think about, and to research, names. Forgive me. 


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