Detailing journeys on the Camino de Santiago and the Via Francigena. This blog is about learning how to walk far enough to find one's self while still laughing.
An entry for the DaVinci Storyteller Competition... I had walked for hours, sweat and dust caking into areas that I had never really given thought to before; my eyebrows, my salty upper lip, behind my ears and knees. I had passed row after endless row of celery green grapevines and I had begun to obsessively plan my first swallow of evening wine. As my mind fixated on thoughts of full strong flavors and the resulting warmth of dazed limbs, my body reveled in the dry heat of the Rioja sun. After nearly a week of walking the pilgrimage across northern Spain to Santiago (Saint James) I was moments away from reaching the fabled wine fountain at the Bodegas Irache. I stumbled up the last remaining steps, already tasting the heady wine, and I gleefully turned the lever, my hand posed to catch the precious drops. And…? Nothing!! "Son of a B%@$#!!!!"
I had been thwarted by the many pilgrims faster than I, who were at that moment carrying camelbacks full of wine. (as a side note, rubber flavored warm wine drank from a camelback is truly foul.)
While I suspect that I would have difficulty discerning a $15 bottle of wine from a $100 bottle of wine, I have come to the conclusion that the world occasionally stops to collectively take a sip and who am I to refuse?! Wine has marked so many moments; a smooth glass of red with an old man in Genova, an exploding bottle of cheap Cava among laughing friends in front of Saint James, A bottle of Lambrusco shared with a sunset viewed from the top of a mountain, a plastic cup toast of expensive Prosecco in Saint Peter's Square, a sacred taste of holy communion, a crisp white wine while staring into the eyes of a new lover... Occasionally, life tastes like wine.
I have a good life. I live in a beautiful city and teach music to a bunch of overly precocious kids in Chicago's north shore. (I will not admit to the amount of times that I have been coerced into playing "Let it Go" from Frozen.) On the weekends, I tutor English as a second language, cantor for masses and play gigs. But sometimes, the cold of the Chicago winter seeps below my skin, permeating through my bones. In these moments, there is nothing for me to do but to pack my bag, grab my ukulele and my passport and head off in search of a new adventure.
When there are moments in which practicalities prevent me from escaping Chicago's hectic cold, I must simply stop to take stock of the memories I have made and the stories I have brought home to share with my students, family and friends. These moments are jumbled together into one solid blanket of warmth…Buying pounds of chocolate and overindulging with giggling orphans and nuns in Peru, petting a sheep at 2 am one rainy night in Ireland, Sharing crackers with a donkey in Liguria, watching socks dry next to the sea in France, incurring the wrath of an Italian mother in Rome, blowing raspberries with a family in Riomaggiore...
I have hugged haystacks, sang Edelweiss with german nuns, peed in fields, won an ugly ceramic chicken while playing Tombola, experienced delicious street food in Thailand (and the unfortunate intestinal response..) I have counted stars, fallen in and out of love, chased saints, hugged gods, slept with bedbugs, stolen fruit, and sang Puccini while crossing the River Arno. I have built and breathed dreams . Oh yes, I have lived. And at the end of each day, I have raised a glass, or a bottle, or a box, or a plastic cup (or a camelback) and I have toasted to the warmth of this beautiful world.
In order to keep Italy close, one cold fall morning, I had recently taken a scooter licensing class with my downstairs neighbor. As my licensing test progressed, I drove my adorable little borrowed scooter in and out of preset cones, I demonstrated a mildly successful 90 degree turn, I surprisingly survived a u-turn and I nervously stopped my scooter on the line in front of a tall, thin, pony-tailed older man holding a clip board. "If I give you a passing score," he said, "you have to promise to light a candle for me.." I looked up owlishly at him as he handed me a passing checklist and extended his hand for a shake. "My name is Jeff," he said while flashing a well lived in smile.
All along the Via Francigena there were candles to light and prayers to take with us to the feet of Saint Peter. In a grocery store parking lot a hundred or so kilometers from Rome, Gilles, Nicoline and I listened to the hopes and sadness of a tiny lonely old woman who sent us on our way with our promise to light a candle at St Peters for her. And so in this way, my heart carried many people with me to Rome... Matteo, my cute young hero in a train station, Elizabeth, my encouraging host in Ventmiglia, Caroline, a beautiful cafe owner who sat down to share a morning coffee with me, The sweet man who owned the owl bed and breakfast..who wouldn't let me leave without taking a tiny porcelain owl to guide me, the helpful priest in Alassio who showed me that while I was lost, I was only steps away from where I needed to be, and my men in Bussana Vecchio who invited me to live and share in their day.
I had candles to light for my walking companions..Jeff, the fatherly American Swiss pastor who raced to catch a train back to Switzerland just so he could walk another day with us, Lorenzo, our fearless protector, Gilles and Nicoline who walked with all the optimism and happiness that youth implies, Benoit, the lion of a frenchman who clearly revels in every bit of joy in every moment of his life and Serge and Angela who showed such grace, love and kindness.
I had candles to light for those I wanted to learn from... For Elena, Anna and Gapare, who enveloped everyone in their love, for the lovely priest at Santuario di Pancole who spoke to me of miracles as though there was nothing else to be done all day, For the priest in San Quirico who showed that being unconventional can be quite wonderful, For Enzo and his wife who laughed, cooked and lived loudly, and for the lovely hotel owner just meters away from Saint Peter, who gave me a room and clucked over me like a mother hen.
And then I had candles to light for those I would always hold in my heart, for Angelo who gave mountains of kindness and understanding, for Daniele who walked the way to Santiago with me and who I will likely walk with again, for his mom, who opened her home and heart to me, and for the tiny old woman selling figs on the road who despite having so little..gave more.
My city is wrapping herself up in Christmas. We have all eaten more than our fill of our delicious Thanksgiving feasts and the holiday shopping season has begun with a vengeance. The rush to buy, buy, buy is underway and yet I find myself stepping back apprehensively. I am having a hard time reconciling this world to the world of simply lighting candles. I crave simplicity and I am learning that there are very few things which are under my control. And so, I have begun doing good deeds and making deals with the universe. "Universe," I say, "if I do this, can I please stop doubting myself?"
The other night as I drove home from teaching I passed the same begging old man in the street on Irving Park Road that I pass almost every night. I drove by, yet I couldn't get him out of my mind. So I stopped, bought a sandwich and some orange juice and turned my car around. I parked and ran to the center of the road where he stands night after night begging. As I handed him the small bag of food, he patted my arm, gave a tired bearded smile and said "God bless you, honey." He says that to everyone though, despite whether they give him a smile or a scowl.. "God bless you," he says, perhaps a thousand times a day. I gave to him for purely selfish reasons though. Despite any other worries in my life, I knew that in giving, I had the power to simply make one person full. I was capable of at least that. As I walked back to my car, the chaos in my head subsided, my heart beat slowed and for just a moment my world was peace.
For those of you who would like to understand what I felt, please follow this link and give. You will instantly feel good, I promise! I wish you all a wonderful start to your holiday season!
I have created a new language. By smashing together Spanish, French and six words of Italian, I am able to communicate as a thoroughly confused four year old. But while I am lacking eloquence, i am generally at least partially understood. instead of speech, I rely on varying degrees of smiles and shrugs and I simply hope for the best.
Peter has robbed me of my beloved words and though at first I shouted at him and rebelled against him, I am beginning to understand. When I am forced to sit back, close my mouth and exit a conversation is when, for the first time, I begin to see.
"Look around you Jen, tell me what it is that you see?"
"Peter, I had no idea. I see so much. I see lovers leaning close, their heads angled together and their knees touching. I see an old man wistfully watching young children play in the square. I see fatigue in the lines of the body of the waitress. I see frustration and homesickness in the eyes of the foreigner. I see impatience in the movements of a teenager. I see a hand resting comfortably in another's. "
The last stage walking into Rome is not very pretty. We walk single file along the busy highway as the smell of exhaust clogs the air. I walked quietly behind Serge and Angela, observing their linked hands and hearts. As I walked, I abruptly redirected my feet to avoid stepping on a dead cat on the side of the road. I quickly averted my eyes from its perfectly intact little body and lifeless eyes.
"Peter, what do I do when I see too much, when there is nothing I can do to ease any of the pain I see?"
"Jen, you look, you look closer, and then you look again while breathing in the blessings of your own life. I denied our lord 3 times, I looked away from his pain and yet he still gave me everything he had. "
We arrived inSaint Peters Square on July 29th at 11:30am, Angela dropping to her knees to reverently kiss the ground. As the six of us looked at each other, a suspicious sheen was visible in each of our eyes.
We raised little plastic cups filled with crisp prosecco, toasting Peter, friendship and the never ending drive to continue walking.
Sometimes though, the sacred moments are not the ones we expect. When Genevieve, Marion and I walked our last few miles to Saint James, the stars hung low and the smell of eucalyptus filled the air. We raced through the night guided by the Big Dipper pointing towards Our Jim. As for Peter, I tried to see him the day I arrived in Rome because as pilgrims we are allowed to skip the excessive line and head directly into the basilica to Peter's feet. However, we were told by the guards that one of us was responsible to stay with the bags. So I volunteered and contentedly sat writing, seated next to our bags as the others went inside to meet Peter. An hour later after everyone came back, I approached the guards to go in myself, but I was turned away with the excuse that the pilgrims office closes at 1pm and it was 12:59. I was deflated.
I went back to see Peter on my birthday and while I was thrilled to bits to have the security guard sing happy birthday to me after checking my passport, I did not feel awe and a sense of the sacred while surrounded by a thousand photo snapping tourists and guards urging all to move along. I went to saint Peter's feet and just as a kind stranger was about to snap my photo with Peter and my testimonium, a guard told me to move. I waited patiently nearby for about a half hour until the guard felt bad and allowed me to have my photo taken but as I walked away contentedly, I looked at my camera only to discover that Peter's head was cut off.
"Son of a @$&&!!!! "
Peter laughed deep in his stomach, "Jen, I guess if you only want a good picture then you will just have to come back again!! But you know that this was not your moment."
Peter was right, my sacred moment was not inside the basilica on my birthday or the day the guards turned me away, but rather My moment had been outside in Peter's empty quiet piazza late at night a couple days earlier. The stars had hung low as a blissfully mild breeze eased the roman heat. The cobble stone glowed from the soft light delicately illuminating the saints surrounding the piazza, and the Big Dipper had dangled in the sky directly above my dear Peter, ready to scoop us up and carry us off in a dream.
"So Jen, when are you coming back to visit me again?"
"Peter, please just shut up..." I say as I stalk off to buy fifty Vespa keychains for my students.
“Don't cry because it's over, smile because it happened.”
Nothing!!
I have hugged haystacks, sang Edelweiss with german nuns, peed in fields, won an ugly ceramic chicken while playing Tombola, experienced delicious street food in Thailand (and the unfortunate intestinal response..) I have counted stars, fallen in and out of love, chased saints, hugged gods, slept with bedbugs, stolen fruit, and sang Puccini while crossing the River Arno. I have built and breathed dreams . Oh yes, I have lived. And at the end of each day, I have raised a glass, or a bottle, or a box, or a plastic cup (or a camelback) and I have toasted to the warmth of this beautiful world.
