Clean Feet and Grappa

A man who dares to waste one hour of time has not discovered the value of life.

Charles Darwin

I am back in the land of deadlines, time constraints, responsibilities, traffic and exhaustion and I miss my saints, Peter and James. The Chicago days are growing shorter, the sun weaker and the leaves are beginning to show signs of autumn. The richness of Tuscany seems a galaxy away, but I wonder.. Did I truly appreciated the rolling Tuscan hills as I trudged up and down them, swearing and sweating all the way?

A beautiful, fat, harvest moon has been hanging low over my city these past few evenings.  A couple of nights ago, I had finished teaching in the north shore and was driving home alongside Lake Michigan. I rolled my window down and stretched my hand out into the sweet, humid, night air and I drank in the sight of a rotund moon lazily rising and reflecting brilliantly off of the gentle lake waters. "I should stop," I thought. "I should park my car, put my feet in the water and admire the same beautiful moon that rose above St. Peters Square only 7 hours ago." 

But I didn't stop... I was tired, and so that moment slipped by me.

*****

(a continuation of the previous post  unconditional..)

My fingers has turned to white prunes and I had begun to shiver. I had left the affectionate cheese-eating kittens a few miles behind, while the previously raging storm had become a steady, gentle rain. I walked through quiet, empty fields, rain drops bouncing off my nose, and I smiled to myself as I purposefully and childishly stomped in each puddle. Though my spirits were high, my teeth were beginning to chatter and I was soaked to the bone by the time I stumbled into Abbadia-a-Isola.  As I wandered into the empty, tiny town, a thin, older woman with frizzy, strawberry-blonde hair peeked her head out of a door and asked if I was a pilgrim. I said yes and asked if she had seen any others before me that day and as I was asking her about Gilles and Nicoline, I heard their voices shout my name from inside.  I happily followed the woman, Elena, inside and up a flight of stairs, warmth and delicious smells luring me onward.

An hour later, after I had lingered under a hot shower, Gilles, Nicoline, Serge, Angela, our newly acquired Lorenzo, and I sat in chairs in a semicircle as Elena and Ana kneeled, washing and kissing our feet.  Exuberant Elena and her shorter, more tranquil, dark-haired friend, Ana, explained that as members of the Confraternita of Saint James, their job is to welcome and care for the weary pilgrim as they would welcome and care for Christ.  After eating two large bowls of Elena's Christ worthy, heavenly flavored minestrone for dinner, I slept deeply and peacefully through the night.   

As a result of the quirks of the Confraternita's scheduling rotation, the six of us happily found ourselves once again as guests of the gentile Elena and Ana in the majestic, hilltop town of Radicofani. Due to the addition of Ana's affable and slightly irreverent husband, Gaspare, dinner was a loud, warm and hilarious event. Throughout the evening, I watched as Elena told stories vivaciously, her joie de vivre showing in every line of her body. I  observed as Ana leaned her head towards Elena and Gaspare protectively covered Elena's hand with his and I saw in those small gestures, years of friendship and love.  When I learned later that Elena had been very sick, nearly to the point of dying, I understood better the light in her eyes and the attentive love radiating from her friends.  

Towards the end of the evening, after eating ridiculous amounts of delicious minestrone and arancini, Gaspare introduced us all to the spicy warmth of Grappa.  He placed dainty cups in front of each of us and a much larger glass in front of himself and proceeded to fill our cups multiple times as we toasted friendship, love, and God. And as we raised our glasses, my heart took a photograph. 


I have brought home a bottle of Grappa. Perhaps this weekend I will steal back my missed moment with the moon. Perhaps I will take my Grappa to the lakefront and raise a glass towards my Peter. 

"Jen, make sure it's a small glass though.. That stuff is strong and we don't want you drowning or getting arrested for public intoxication..."

"Gee thanks Peter. I'll keep that in mind..."

I have drunken deep of joy, 

And I will taste no other wine tonight.

Percy Bysshe Shelley 

Red Underwear and football...

At first we all assumed that Lorenzo was the way he was because of the fact that he was Italian, but eventually we came to the conclusion that Lorenzo was the way he was because he was only being Lorenzo. Each morning as we began walking, he would call ahead to reserve our next night's sleep, talking loudly with much animation to whichever unsuspecting soul answered his ring.  He always ended his phone conversations with rapid fire repetition "Ciao, Ciao. ciao....ciao," the last ciao echoing into thin air as he had already pulled the phone away from his ear. He would then look up to the five of us and say simply "Va bene." (vah baaayyy nay) And onward we all would walk towards our night's accommodations.  

A pilgrim has a very specific routine.. he begins walking early in the morning to avoid the scorching afternoon Italian sun.  He arrives at his destination between 1pm and 3pm, showers, washes and hangs the clothes that he walked in that day, explores the village he is staying in, has dinner, sleeps and starts over the next morning. Lorenzo though, added post shower stretching to his routine, which of course, was something we all should have been doing to ease our tight muscles. However, Lorenzo would strip down to a tiny pair of fire engine red underwear before enthusiastically commencing to stretch. I alternated between staring openly with a dropped jaw, snickering behind my hand while sneaking random peeks, and completely averting my eyes while trying to block out the flash of red from my peripheral vision. I strongly suspect that for years to come, the image of Lorenzo leaning to touch his toes while the sides of his bright underwear inch up his butt cheek will pop unexpectedly into my mind yanking me out of whatever moment I am in and taking me back to one scorching Italian summer.

Lorenzo also introduced me to the wonderful italian tradition of 'Aperitivo.'  Rather than just going out to a large dinner, Italians first head to a bar for pre-dinner drinks and snacks such as cheese, prosciutto and olives, before heading elsewhere for a sit-down meal.  Each day after thorough stretching, Lorenzo would search our current village for the central piazza, select an acceptable bar, purchase a Spritz for himself and me, and argue with me about why he feels as the man, he has to pay. After adamantly refusing my money, we would sit sipping our delicious drinks while watching life happen in front of us in the town square. Thanks to Lorenzo writing out the recipe for a spritz and Rome airport's Duty Free Prosecco and Aperol, I have happily brought home the tradition of Aperitivo.

Lorenzo gave horrible advice though. As we walked, we talked about many things and he watched me struggle with feelings I wasn't sure how to handle. His sage advice came in the form of an italian proverb "Occhio che non vede, core che non duole," or "what the eye doesn't see, doesn't hurt the heart." Lorenzo then explained that despite there being no romantic feelings between him and me, he still didn't feel the need to tell his wife that we had shared sleeping areas. "Why worry her with nothing?" he said.  Well...hmm. 

On the last full day of walking, I had wanted to walk alone with my thoughts and I became increasingly annoyed with Lorenzo for not leaving me so. I would stop to eat a peach, telling him to go on, only for him to reply with an "it's ok, I will wait." At one point I even sat down on a rock in the middle of the river telling him to walk ahead only to receive his usual response. After a few minutes he would hurry me along with his "Okaaayuh... Shall we go?... okaaayuh..." But even through my desire to lose him and my frustration with his tenacity, I knew that he was just trying to watch out for me and protect me. And maybe perhaps... he wasn't prepared to walk alone. 

 Dinner for Gilles... I worry about him..

A couple days before reaching Rome, Lorenzo, Nicoline, Gilles and I walked while discussing what we look forward to once we arrive home. Lorenzo described having a white fish with lemon, garlic and wine, Gilles anticipated  going for a run without the burden of a 15 kilo backpack, I mentioned mini pilgrimages to my neighborhood bakeries and Nicoline lost herself while expounding on the virtues of pancakes and the many possible toppings.. After an embarrassingly long discussion about pancake toppings.. our conversation merged seamlessly into soccer/football and our upcoming hopes for our respective leagues and teams. Gilles talked about the surprising strength of the Belgian team and I mentioned the scandals that have plagued the Italian national team and league. Lorenzo, of course,  piped in with a "Scandal? What scandal...I don't know of any scandals?"    

*****

Here in Chicago, summer is heading dangerously to it's demise. Children are buying school clothes and sharpening pencils at alarming rates and hectic fall schedules are beginning to take shape. Adding to the depression of a dying summer, The English premier league has begun with a characteristic Arsenal loss to a team much weaker... However, this season, I have new teams to watch. I will cheer loudly as Belgium plays their smattering of world cup qualifying games and I will smile with each win that Napoli is able to lay hold of.  Because I will know that in the moment of each win, someone I care greatly about will also be smiling.  As for Arsenal... Well, I will not be holding my breath...

I have attached below a very bad recording of a song I wrote and recorded during the South Korea/Japan world cup. At that time I had made a pledge to watch every match despite the fact that they were on Korean time. This, of course, had an adverse effect on my life. But I still laugh each time I stumble across this recording :)  

Enjoy!

Simple Wishes

While I always have my camera with me, there are certain times that I keep it down, fully knowing that I can't do justice to what I am seeing... a full moon through the trees, a laughing child, a candle being lit... My heart remembers more accurately than my camera lens...

As daylight began to dim, we rounded the corner entering the Piazza di Trevi. I dropped my camera, letting the strap anchor it uselessly at my back and I absorbed the scene before me. The smell of water-soaked change mingled with the mustiness of old buildings and the aroma of a thousand dinners being cooked. The sounds of street musicians competed with the conversations of a hundred voices, flowing water and the clicking of high heels on the stone square. The Trevi Fountain, in all of it's beautiful 17th century grandeur, filled my vision as my walking companion slipped a coin into my hand. We stood for a few moments quietly observing the crush of people surrounding the 85 foot fountain before I made my way down the stone steps to the water's edge. As tradition required, I turned my back to the water, raised the coin to my lips, made a wish in my heart and flicked the coin over my shoulder. I don't remember if I used the right hand or if I tossed the coin over the proper shoulder. I don't even know if my borrowed coin landed in the water.. perhaps I flicked it badly and it ricochetted off of one of Neptune's incredibly chiseled stone pecks. Perhaps my borrowed coin tangled with my fingers before landing uselessly at my feet, thus negating my wish. I don't know.. I will never know as my eyes were occupied elsewhere.

*****

The Earth is currently passing through the Perseids and the night sky is fancifully lit by multitudes of shooting stars... or as those less romantically inclined souls like to call them.. Meteors.. Life back in Chicago has been difficult since leaving my Saint Peter behind.  Yesterday was rough, today is no picnic and unfortunately, tomorrow has the capacity to be even worse. There are choices to make and changes to survive but for tonight, there are stars to see. The other side of the world is already presently tucked into the night and as tradition requires, millions of wishes are being heaped on hapless stars burning at the edge of the atmosphere. By the time night falls in Chicago, the stars will be burdened by the heaviness of the wishes of the world. However, I will look for one star, a single star, perhaps lightly carrying Italian wishes. I will place my wish on top like a blanket and I will watch diligently as this star streaks through the night sky into oblivion..

"Jen, what will you be wishing for?" Peters asks.
"Oh, I don't know.. maybe for enough skill to finally stop overcooking my pasta..?"

"It seems to me we can never give up longing and wishing while we are still alive. There are certain things we feel to be beautiful and good, and we must hunger for them." 

George Eliot

unconditional

Today I hate Peter.  I went for a walk, looking at all the sloppily dressed people and I thought "don't you people have pride in yourselves??" I thought this.. me.. the person who wears makeup only for recitals and who brushes her hair every other day. I missed the beautiful Italian women in their flowery dresses and the gorgeous men in their Ray Bans. As I walked, I felt Peter behind me, pulling me backwards. "Jen, why are you walking away from me?" he said. "Because the grocery store is not in the same direction as you!!"I shouted.

 Peter is now Mecca. I am always aware of what direction to face in order to look towards him. 

Yesterday it was 97 degrees in Rome and 85 degrees in Chicago. Yet in Chicago, I froze my ass off while waiting hours to renew my drivers license in an overpopulated and overly air conditioned government building. But since I was there, I took a simple test and in addition to a renewed license, I received a learners permit to one day drive a Vespa. 

But while Chicago is not Rome, here I know how to cross a street, I know that I never get lost, I know what people around me are saying, I know I have respect, I know who I am.... most of the time.

*****

There are worse places to hide from the rain than in a shed full of hay and kittens. Earlier in the day I had gotten distracted by a street market in San Gimignano causing me to start my day's walk at 10am. Five kilometers later, I managed to get lost in an olive grove, unnecessarily climbing a very large hill... twice. Throughout the day I watched nervously as thick dark clouds gathered on the horizon directly ahead of me. I raced, thinking to reach my destination before the heavens opened. As lighting flashed across the sky, I walked low through exposed fields, aware of the foolish metal walking stick in my hand. Finally, after a couple of hours of anticipation, and just 3 miles outside of Abbidia-a-Isola, the storm raged.  I walked, letting the rain drench my skin, my eyelashes sprinkled with water. I spotted a tiny three walled shed just off the path and quickly changed my direction. I took off my backpack, and climbed onto a dry haystack as the rain picked up in intensity. While I waited quietly huddled, eating a cheese sandwich, I was joined by two cheese loving kittens. An hour later with cheese as a fond memory, I sat with a kitten on my lap and another perched on a haystack at my shoulder, sweetly head butting my neck. As the rain softened, I thought to stay there forever, warm and unconditionally cherished. But, as always, the next destination awaited...

"Peter, I could really use an arrow right now."
"Oh, Jen.."

"When the path ignites a soul,

There's no remaining in place.

The foot touches ground,

but not for long."

Hakim Sanai

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!?"

Hot Hills..and Tigers

I lick my lips and taste salt, sweat and bug spray stinging my eyes. A heated breeze hits my body much the same as when I open an oven  and peek obsessively in on baked goods. My water bottle is hot to the touch and the skin on my face is chafing from the hundreds of times I have mopped it dry of dust and sweat. My walking stick is again hitting the ground in four four time, matching every fourth step I take. As the rocky cliffs of the coastal route have given way to the gentle hills of tuscany, I have found my rhythm. 

While walking, a pilgrim will obsess over tiny luxuries for hours... for example, I have recently lost half a day fixated on the idea of the condensation on the outside of a glass of ice tea..the blissful way it collects and runs icily down the side of the glass before pooling  in a ring at the bottom.. My favorite Italian phrase is  "avete ghiaccio?" .. Do you have ice??? I ask this often with a desperate expression on my face. I also have formed an unfortunate 4 euro a day Fanta habit. 

While wandering, Pilgrims will pose unanswerable questions to themselves..  "Would I rather feel cool wearing shorts, but get torn by thorns and eaten by bugs or instead wear pants and feel sweat rolling down my legs?" Or "Would I rather walk downhill in the sun or uphill in the shade?" However, such questions prove pointless because the pilgrim is in fact walking steeply uphill in the full sun AND wearing pants while still being eaten alive.

Italians call them "tiger" Mosquitos and they refuse to claim them as their own, rather saying that they arrived as pesky stowaways aboard boats and semis from far off lands. In one single minute, I had managed to acquire about 20 bites which eventually swelled to ping pong ball sized welts that itched like mad but ached when scratched. However, I ceased my complaining when I met Nicolene, a young, pretty, blonde Belgian girl whose legs and arms were covered in tennis ball sized bullseye bug bite bruises. 

The mosquitos and the Tuscan sun create the perfect purgatory though. One afternoon as Nicoline, her adorable boyfriend Gilles and I trudged under a scorching sun, we happily followed signs leading to water and shade. We gleefully shed our backpacks, plopping down under a tree, only to be quickly driven off by swarms of vicious little ravenous buzzing bastards.  And so a pilgrim asks herself.. "Would I rather walk in the sun and risk heatstroke or walk in the shade and risk malaria?"

*****

I had climbed to the top of yet another mountain only to be told that no hostel or hotel existed in that particular town. I was out of strength and knew I wouldn't make it to the town of Alassio 6 kilometers away.  And so, I looked down from my hillside perch, spotted a collection of houses below and left Peter's arrows to try my luck. As every pilgrim does, I headed to the church and slumped exhausted in a pew to await divine intervention.  I was shortly joined by a young priest to whom I poured out my frustrations and after hearing me out he asked where I had been trying to get to. "Alassio," I said dejectedly. He looked at me a moment before replying and pointing "but Alassio is right there!" A few days later when a different priest with eyes matching the Mediterranean, handed my pilgrim credential back to me, I realized that I could never be a Catholic in Italy since the priests are far too young and attractive. 

*****

As I approached a fountain behind a broken abandoned church, a gangly adolescent boy with a dark tangled mop of hair jumped back to allow me to fill my water bottle. His shirt was wet and it was clear that he had been warding off the midday sun by playing in the fountain's water. Moments later, I began to walk silently on my way but Peter shouted at me, his anger halting me in my tracks. I turned back to the boy, raised my hand to wave and tossed off a simple "Ciao!" In response, the boys face instantly lit into a broad smile, revealing a mouth full of neglected teeth... 

But oh, what a lovely smile it was.

 "Jen," Peter admonished, "how many other times have you simply walked past?"

Blowing Rasperries at the Sea

I have often wondered about the saints... Did they smile and laugh or were the times too terrifying?  Did the disciples ever crack bad jokes causing Peter to roll his eyes and Jesus to mutter under his breath"Oh for Christ's sake..." Did the saints ever just want to be liked? 

I shared a tomato and a package of crackers with a donkey outside of Civezza.  As I was walking by, the donkey had come up to the fence to announce his presence and I was so happy to have another creature to talk to that I sat down to share the last if my food .  

Peter made fun of me though.."Come on Jen, you'll have conversations with asses before you start listening to me?? It's time we get to work!"

"Peter, you have one sick sense of humor if you think this walk has been anything BUT work!"

"Jen, at what point did we say that this has anything to do with you??? We already sent you to see Saint James to learn about yourself. Now, you have been sent to me. Now you will learn about others."

It poured,  hail bouncing off windows and artwork at an outdoor market in Genoa. The beautiful architecture that Matteo had told me about, reflected off the wet, shiny, grey pavement, doubling it's impressive effect. I had spent my day wandering through massive churches and art galleries and at one point was even joined for awhile by a soft spoken  older man, eager to show me the way to Columbus's house.  I enjoyed a day wearing dress and my backpack was in my hotel room, waiting patiently for me to start listening to Peter.  Eventually, I had returned to the hotel and was sitting alone in the empty dining room checking emails when an attractive man walked in, sat heavily down and cried. I moved to sit next to him, putting my hand on his back as he showed me a picture he was holding of an old man.  We never learned each others names or talked. We just sat there, sharing the same bit of space for a tiny bit of time. 

"I have one room. There is just one problem though... There are a few steps..." I had just arrived in the Cinque Terre and upon my second inquiry, I  had discovered a room for a reasonable 35 euros a night. I explained that I had spent the last week walking with an average daily ascent of 900 meters  and as  long as the room had a bed, a few stairs weren't going to stop me.  193 steps later, I collapsed happily onto a bed in a lovely room at the top of riomaggiare. 

In Riomaggiare, one of the five villages making up le Cinque Terre, at least a hundred square houses in various pastel shades sit stacked precariously on steep cliffs touching the ocean.   The houses have been built so closely together that there are no major roads for cars to get in.  Rather, people get around by a beautiful series of footpaths and steps carved into the side of the cliffs.

 I had taken a day away from walking to rent a kayak and with no instructions or life jacket, I paddled out into a lovely clear Mediterranean Sea to view the five lands. Nervous at first, I tightly gripped my paddle as each tourist ferry sent me rocking in its wake. However, two hours later found me lazily eating fruit, my feet dangling in the sea, my camera inches from the water, and le Cinque Terre spread dramatically before me.

As twilight engulfed Riomaggiare, I quietly wandered from terrace to terrace, observing the sea trying on the varying shades of a waning sun. I found a sea facing terrace with family balconies on both sides and I watched as two local families shouted and laughed while passing  wine across. Children erupted into giggles as they made competing progressively louder farting noises and the moms halfheartedly swatted at them while chuckling. Noticing  me watching, one father embarrassingly nudged his wife and as all eyes turned my direction, I did what any self respecting teacher would do... I raised my arm to my lips and "let er rip!" I walked back up to my room, silly laughter ringing in my ears. Peter is certainly rolling his eyes.