Tears with James

Tears with James

Last year on the eve of Saint James' feast day, Genevieve, Marion and I sat devouring delicious freshly made churros and rich chocolate  in the busy little town of Melide, 59 kilometers outside of Santiago. We were tired but anxious as James was drawing us near and the news of his feast day celebration was reverberating all up and down the camino. 

This year on the eve of Jim's feast day, I sat in the beautiful lakeside village of Bolsena, 140 kilometers from Rome, watching life happen in the central square. As I sat, reveling in the warmth of the sun and the joy of living, a thousand miles away a train derailed outside of Santiago, killing nearly 80 people many of whom were pilgrims.

"I just don't get it guys!!!?? What is the grand plan here??"

Saint James spoke in a soft voice mirroring the sadness in his eyes, "Oh Jen, are you savoring each step? Are you smelling each beautiful flower, are you putting your hands on the stone church walls and feeling the heartbeats of those who have come before you? Are you moved by a sunset and blessed within your every breath?" 

Saint Peter joined in, "Are you touching people? Are you putting light into the eyes of those around you? Are you hurting or healing? Are you leaving those you meet better or worse than you have found them? Jen, you have so little time. The question is not what our plan is, it's what is yours?"

Oh James, I am so sorry.

Candles are being lit right now by pilgrims all over the world and our hearts are heavy. 

Table Wine

Each day as a pilgrim walks, she follows signs to her saint. To visit with Saint James,  a pilgrim follows little yellow painted scallop shells all across Spain. And to wander in Peter's general direction, she follows little red and white painted flags which are usually, though not always, pointed towards Rome.  Sometimes a pilgrim will be faced with two paths; one will be going steeply uphill and of course will be marked towards Peter, and the other path will lead down a gentle decline to a picturesque village with smiling people and cheerful flowers. In this moment, our pilgrim will shake her fist and rail against the heavens before grudgingly stomping up the difficult path, leaving the seemingly lovely path behind for another to take.

As I stumbled across Spain, Saint James and I had long chats about letting go of the paths I have not chosen to take, but Peter, the sadistic taskmaster he is, is feeling the need to test my resolve...

We have become lazy pilgrims, allowing Lorenzo to pick our church hostels as well as call ahead for us. However,  as we tripped after him uphill,  past chicken coops, about a kilometer above Aquapendente, I am ashamed to admit that we questioned our favorite Italian pilgrim and his ability to lead us effortlessly to our beds. 

Despite our unfounded doubts, a couple hours later found us all freshly showered with our laundry drying in the breeze. While seated on top of the world around a large table with a canopy of green bean vines, we watched a pumpkin sun sink below the western horizon as a full moon gracefully rose in the east. Our usual cast of six was joined by our host, the large jovial smiling Enzo, his sweet wife Alessandra who talked so lovely that I nearly understood her, and Marco and Angelo, two pilgrims cycling from Rome to Siena.  

An extremely large bottle of Lambrusco acted as a delicious centerpiece, surrounded by flickering candles, salad from the garden ten meters away, and arancini, an irresistible concoction of risotto, cheese and vegetables, breaded and deep fried (Italian food which is already freakishly tasty, becomes manna direct from God's hands, when deep fried..) And as I had agreed to pay  for recipes with songs, my ukulele rested near my dinner plate.  Sated on good food and wine, we passed the quiet Tuscan evening trading songs, jokes, proverbs, advice and restoring amounts of laughter.  

Throughout the night, Gilles shared hilarious stories of his and Nicoline's adventures ringing doorbells across Italy to find places to sleep. As Gilles talked,  Marco, with his slight resemblance to Robert Downey Jr. and his Hemingway-esque artistic aura, sat back in his chair with his legs carelessly crossed while Angelo leaned forward to listen, his elbows on the table and a smile on his face. While warm chatter filled the air, I found myself frequently meeting Angelo's lovely eyes across the table and as we all wandered off to find our beds, I felt nervous at discovering mine next to his. I slept terribly, keenly aware of his every rustle and move. 

The next morning I woke long before everyone else, in order to have a chat with Saint Peter. From the second story bathroom, I watched a beautiful sun peek daintily over the mountain and I questioned. 

"Peter, I don't understand. What is the lesson in this?"

    Seriously Peter? Where is that arrow pointing?!

"Jen, what did you think of the wine last night?"

"I thought it was delicious, but I think you are going 
a bit off topic?"

"Jen, here they drink that wine every night and while they enjoy it, it has become merely table wine. But to you, it tasted fresh and new and intoxicating. Your problem is that you already have a fine vintage waiting at home, but as you have tasted it many times, to you, it has become simple table wine. Perhaps you need to go home and have another taste to remind yourself of the delicious fullness of that very first sip. "

"Peter, I think I need more time to walk.  Rome seems too near."

"Just remember what James taught you. Will you follow the signs up the difficult hill or will you forever stand at the crossroad wondering about that pretty path?"

I returned to my bed, hiding under the covers until the sounds of everyone else shuffling and packing their backpacks became too difficult to ignore. Before breakfast, I let Angelo know that I thought he was attractive.  I told him, not because I had any motive or intent to run off with an attractive italian man, But rather because I hoped it made him feel good to know.  He said with a sweet smile, "it's the same for me."  As we all gathered to say goodbye before heading our separate ways, Angelo and I hugged, momentarily savoring the intoxicating feeling of being desired. And with a soft kiss on the cheek, we were off, he and Marco to Siena, and the six of us chasing Peter to Rome. 

*****

"Dammit Peter!!! My eyelids are sweating!!! I didn't even know they could do that!"

"Hah!" Saint Peter laughed, slapping me on the back...hard. "If you think this is tough, you should try being crucified upside down!" 

I rolled my sweaty eyes and trudged uphill. 

Figs and Friends

Saint Christopher is one of those saints who falls somewhere between reality and myth. He was said to have been a warrior giant serving a powerful master. However, upon meeting the devil in battle, Saint Christopher noticed his master shaking in fear.  So, our not so loyal Chris decided he wanted to follow the  more powerful Devil. Shortly after, Chris was going into battle for his new master when he observed the devil's fear of the much more powerful God. Our fickle Chris then instantly  decided that God was the master for him.  God though, is not one to be placated or flattered and so in order for Chris to become his servant, God put him to use by having him carry travelers across a dangerous river. As a result, Saint Christopher is now known as the patron saint of travelers. 

 As legend says, one day a child came to cross the river. Chris picked the child up, placing him on his shoulders and began to walk across the river. But the closer Chris got to reaching the opposite bank, the heavier and heavier the small, overly dense child became, almost to the point where the giant Chris could barely manage. Upon setting the youth safely down, Chris discovered  that he had been carrying the child Jesus who was himself carrying the weight of the sins of the world on his tiny shoulders. 

Saint Chris welcomed me  into the medieval hilltop town of Fucecchio by grinning down at me from a massive house sized mural depicting him with Christ on his shoulders. 

"Jen," he said "I know that this journey has not been a walk in the park, but I hope you know that James and I... we got your back!" Chris winked and I smiled in return while sizing him up through my camera lens. 

As I lowered my camera, a small old man with puffy white hair and a pitcher of water stood in front of me. "Pellegrina?" he asked. "Si," I responded, exhausting my Italian vocabulary. "Venga, venga," he said while motioning for me to follow him and as pilgrims often do, I blindly followed a random stranger. He took me to his house about a block away, handed me a glass of cold water and we chatted in a combination of broken Italian, English and Spanish. He asked about my work and when I said I was a musician, his eyes lit and he showed me his prized possession... A drum set. He played a bit and as I clapped, he smiled warmly and kissed my cheeks. "Buon viaggio" He said kindly as he squeezed my shoulders.

*****

"We have 8.9 miles to go.. 

That is about the distance I have walked from my house to China town to get a bubble tea."

"What is bubble tea," Lorenzo asked. Lorenzo and I had been walking together since a couple days before Siena and as a result of walking with an Italian, my journey had become much easier.  Lorenzo is a fit man in his mid 40s who would seem attractive to me if it weren't for a slight resemblance to Chicago's Cardinal George.  I described bubble tea to him in great manic detail and proceeded to walk well over 10 kilometers outside of San Quirico-d'orcia in a deep tapioca induced meditative state. 

"Have you heard of Saint Rocco?" Jeff asked. 

"No," I said. "Tell me."

I had met Jeff the day the coastal route met the Via Francigena in Sarzana. I was tired of being the only pilgrim and was thrilled to bits to discover that upon reaching the Convento San Francesco I was no longer alone.  Jeff, an American minister living in Switzerland launched into the tale of the Italian Saint  Rocco. Saint Rocco was a doctor in the unfortunate time of the plague. As most people shied away from those sick and dying, Rocco, Who was on pilgrimage to Rome, jumped in whole heartily, helping some to survive while easing the pain of those who would eventually succumb. As one would suspect, Rocco himself fell ill, but rather than accepting care and risking the  infection of others, he wandered off to the forest to live out his last few painful days. However, Rocco's story does not finish yet because as divine intercession would have it, an extremely gentile village dog travelled each day to visit Rocco in the forest, carrying a loaf of bread to the saint in its kind furry mouth. Some say that Rocco died in the forest, albeit slightly more peacefully due to the company of the dog, but others still claim that our Saint Rocco was miraculously healed. 

"You will see Saint Rocco all over Italy accompanied by a dog with a loaf of bread on it's mouth." Jeff told me. Sadly, the next day, Jeff left the trail to return to Switzerland in order to preside over a wedding.  As for Saint Rocco and his loyal pup... they turned up on the feast day of Saint Christina in a beautiful 11th century  church in Bolsena. I was thrilled to bits to not need the plague in order to see them. 

*****

There are six of us. There is Lorenzo, the lovely Italian man I mentioned before. there are the young Nicoline and her attentive earnest boyfriend Gilles. There is Serge, an impish, retired, rail thin Frenchman. And there is his partner Angela, a beautiful, older, Spanish music teacher who walks the path with class and grace. We stay protectively close to each other, meeting up each night to share stories and laughter on the way to Rome.

*****

I suspect that were figs a part of the fall from grace in the garden of Eden, I would have enthusiastically raced Eve to condemn the entire human race.  Having grown up only knowing figs from the highly processed Fig Newton cookies, I had  no idea of the tiny succulent miracle God created. An old woman in a pretty flower dress selling fruit on the side of the road insisted I take a bag full of a small mushy green fruit. Again... Doing as pilgrims do, I simply ate what was put in my hands.  As I bit into the soft fresh green exterior, I discovered a sweet pinkish purple center that will likely inhabit my dreams. Italy is extremely fertile though, with trees lining the streets dropping sweet plums, figs, cherries and other beautiful fruits into our path. And if the fruits are not dropped " directly at our feet, we grasp greedily through hedges and over fences. By the end of a long day's walk, we arrive at our destination as children... With sticky fingers and stained mouths.

*****

"Seriously, Peter!?! Did you have to bring me to a country where every croissant has cream???" I raced into a thorn infested olive grove, toilet paper in hand. 

"Gah!!! Jen, could you please not talk to me while you are 
doing THAT!?"