On top of a tiny mountain in the little medieval town of Bussana Vecchia, I sang for my supper . Earlier that day, I had risked life and limb walking on minuscule roads with wreckless Italian drivers, I had thrown my bag over a fence before crawling under with my face millimeters from a puddle, I had followed Saint Peter's cursed arrows up a mountain on a disappearing path, tall shrubbery swallowing me whole and in the process, I had shouted enough obscenities to necessitate at least three more compostelles. As the mountain forest mercifully spit me out into a cool, cobbled, small, walled in village, I stumbled into the first open doorway and was given water by Stefano.
Stefano, a slightly gruff older man, sat and chatted with me in his lovely white restaurant with curved ceilings, while I regained my breath. He asked where I was from and what I did and upon learning that I play piano, he asked if I would like to stay and play for dinner while pointing towards the piano in the corner. Shortly thereafter, Guiseppe and Enrico wandered in to share a freakishly simple and delicious lunch of spicy penne and wine all while endearingly poking fun at each other.
Guiseppe, a skinny, cute jazz guitar player, suggested an afternoon at the beach and Enrico a loud jovial man in his mid forties agreed to drive us if we would help him move an exercise bike into his and his wife's 5th floor home . And so we piled into Enrico's car for a teeth shattering, white knuckle drive down steep mountain paths that were likely never meant for cars, driven by a homicidal maniac who laughed and joked, his hands miles from the steering wheel. I had my sunglasses on to hide the fact that my eyes were closed.
Later that night after singing jazz standards for the supper shift with Guisseppi playing guitar, we finished another amazing meal by toasting with Stefano's homemade limoncello and talking religion.
Saint James and I had a serious talk in the courtyard outside of the quiet church of San Giacomo. Sunlight was tilting towards twilight, all of the albergos and hotels had been full in the last town of Diano Calderina and I was nearly out of water.
"What the hell, Jim??? You told me to come see Peter, but he is kicking my ass all over this country!! "
"Yeah sorry Jen. He did always like to do things the hard way."
There is a chapter in one of the Harry Potter books (or a scene in a movie for those of you who don't do books,) where the main characters are trapped in the dark forest with thousands of man eating hairy spiders. I have found that forest.
I had spent the better part of my morning climbing 450 meters to Passo Chiappa, the border between Imperia and Savona and was proudly feeling my Rocky Balboa groove when my eyes spotted Peter's next sadistic yellow arrow. I started down the tiny overgrown steeply descending path and shrieked in horror at the hundreds of spider webs stretched across. I raced back to the top, consulted my maps for an alternate route and upon finding nothing, I took calming breaths before putting on my rain gear. With sweat trickling down my back and potential hysteria a mere second away, I ran the kilometer long, steep, knee destroying gauntlet of spiders only to shed my web infested coat at the bottom and squeal like a little girl. (No one was nearby....) my legs now look like I have active lepersy.
"I am a non practicing catholic," Matteo told me, "I think all Italians are.."
In a train station in Loano, Matteo became my hero. I had spent my day climbing on hands and knees up the side of a mountain, following arrows that had eventually disappeared.
I then had climbed down to a town where I waited an hour in the heat for a bus that I needed in order to cross a 300 meter bridge... My other option was to swim... I got across the bridge to discover that absolutely every seaside hotel was full and Peter's arrows had disappeared somewhere up his butt. My phone wasn't working and though I asked for directions in broken Italian and Spanish, people were either looking down their noses at me or blatantly ignoring me. I couldn't walk anymore and so admitted defeat, heading to the train station. While waiting in line to buy a ticket anywhere, a man stepped in front of me as though I was invisible. I shouted, my voice echoing off the stone walls... I had reached my breaking point.
Later, with a ticket to Genova in hand and a dinner of corn nuts (everything is better if there are corn nuts..) I asked a guy near me if the train coming is the one on my ticket. He said yes and shyly started talking. "I saw you back there when you shouted," he quietly said.
We sat together, talking the whole train ride. He told me that he is a 26 year old just finishing his architect studies with no job prospects in sight due to the economy. He told me that he understood my current frustrations because he had had a similar experience traveling in Asia. He also told me that as soon as I put on the backpack, I am a gypsy in the eyes of Italians. And even the concept of being a pilgrim does not help because so much of Italy has lost faith. But on the plus side.. at least the gypsies don't bother you! Matteo then called a hotel and booked a room for me in his lovely musical Italian and upon arriving in Genova, he walked me to the hotel before racing back to catch his night train to Rome.
A Genova Sunday morning found me attending mass in a stunning medieval church. "Where do I go now?" I asked my saint Jim.
"Hmm Jen, Do you see any arrows?"
"Nope, not a one..."
"Well, this is Peter we are dealing with... Perhaps we need more corn nuts..."
I got up from the pew and lit a candle..
