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for me. But the speech was too rapid. I felt like a stupid American, in a country where I couldn’t speak the language proficiently, about to perform prayers for which I didn’t even know the words. Then, Jamaluddin said in English that before we began dhikr, I would be converted to Islam.
    Ash shadu an laa ilaha illa Allah, wa ash shadu anna Muhammadar Rasulallah.
    I repeated each word after him while holding out my right pointer finger to signify the Oneness of God. Everybody in the room voiced each Arabic word as I did. There was a moment of silence, then one of the Naqshbandis handed me a beautiful white kufi. The kufi is an Islamic skullcap that, similar to the Jewish yarmulke, signifies that one is a believer. Over the course of the semester, I would come to see the kufi as an important symbol of my faith, a visual reminder of who I am and who I should not be.
    We made salat, and I was better able to follow along now than I had been in Winston-Salem. After salat I found out what dhikr was. Jamaluddin dimmed the lights and we repeated verses from the Qur’an in a melodic chant. At first I wasn’t confident enough to participate, but after a few minutes my voice joined the chorus. Jamaluddin would subtly alter the pace of the words and everybody followed his lead. We all contributed to this unique form of music in our own way, some of the men humming in the background while others chanted in Arabic.
    Eventually we finished. The lights came back on. We hugged and talked about how beautiful the dhikr was. I learned then that dhikr is Arabic for remembrance of Allah. When performed out loud, as we did, it is known as “loud dhikr. ” It can also be performed silently. One of the Muslims explained that dhikr is mentioned over a hundred times in the Qur’an. He said, “Through dhikr you can earn Allah’s pleasure and stay away from the sins that come when He slips from your mind.”
    The next day, Jamaluddin and I drove to the countryside for juma prayers, the traditional Friday prayers. The services were held in the home of Abdu Salam Attar, a merchant of aromatherapy and perfumes. Before prayers, he splashed a small amount of musk perfume on all the worshippers’ arms. Although I strained to understand the Italian-language sermon, I was content to be around so many other people who loved God as I did.
    When we stood around, talking after prayers, Abdu Salam asked if I had a Qur’an. When I said that I didn’t, he walked to a bookcase and reached up to the top shelf. He pulled out a green hardbound Qur’an inlaid with gold calligraphy. Inside an English-language translation stood side by side with the original Arabic script. Abdu Salam kissed it and handed it to me.
    “Quanta costa?” I asked, but he refused payment, explaining that this was part of Muslim hospitality. “Grazie,” I said. “Grazie mille!” I was genuinely thankful.
    Later, when it was time to return to Venice, I asked Jamaluddin where I could buy a bus ticket to get back to the train station. He immediately handed me a ticket. I reached into my change purse and pulled out fifty thousand lire (about thirty dollars). It wasn’t extravagant, but was enough to show my appreciation for his hospitality. But he, too, refused payment.
    “Thank you so much,” I said. “Thank you for treating me so well here.”
    “It is hospitality that all Muslims show,” he replied. “It is what Allah wills.”
    I ruminated on the treatment I had received from people who barely knew me. “That’s very profound,” I said. We hugged and I left. I wore the kufi that they had given me all the way back to Venice.
    Al-Husein was the first person I told of my conversion. I told him by e-mail and he phoned the next day to welcome me into my new faith.
    For the rest of the semester, I proudly wore my kufi whenever I set foot outside Casa Artom. Other students would often find me in Casa Artom’s main hallway, praying or making silent dhikr with my wooden prayer