There are candles to light

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!

http://www.firstgiving.com/fundraiser/1000milesorbust/hiketosaintpeter1000milesorbust

I will love the light for it shows me the way. Yet I will endure the darkness 

for it shows me the stars. 

Og Mandino

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

Magic

As an adult, I have gleefully read Dante's Inferno and frequently reference his circles of hell, generally causing people to give me blank or concerned stares. I reveled in Dante's creative means of punishment in his Purgatorio, but I never had any interest whatsoever in reading his Paradiso. After all,  What could possibly be interesting about perfection?  

As a child, I sat in church, rebelliously listening to stories of heaven and I questioned.. "Really? you just praise God all day? That sounds boring!" After church, I would race outside to play, savoring the freedom of the dirt beneath my fingernails. 

While waiting in the busy basilica to take a photo with Saint Peter, I listened in on a conversation between a young girl, her parents, and a humorless priest. "Why is everyone touching his feet?" The girl questioned while looking at Peter's feet rubbed smooth by the hands of millions of pilgrims. "Well," the priest began haughtily. "It's actually a pagan ritual that I think is wrong because that statue is not saint Peter. It's just a statue and touching the feet is a form of idol worship. Saints are not God and worshiping them is wrong.." As the priest continued his sermon, the little girl interrupted, "but I  just want to touch his feet!" She looked my direction with confusion in her eyes. 

I shrugged sympathetically. "I think that the saints are my friends." I said. "And I am going to touch his feet!" 

The priest glanced darkly my way and said dismissively to the girl, "Well, I'm not, but you can if YOU want."  I watched them walk away without approaching Peter, and I laughed as I saw the little girl glance frequently back at him, a little pilgrim shining from her eyes. 

Later, hours after leaving the basilica, I had lost my humor.  "Peter, you are such an asshole!!!" I said while cleaning my dropped gelato off of all my money and passport. I had spent the intervening hours wandering Rome lost and disoriented after my phone died, taking all my maps with it,  and my sense of direction had fled like a pigeon hoarding a cracker. Peter laughed though, "Jen, you didn't think the lessons would end upon touching my feet, did you..."

My last night in Rome, Daniele, a friend of mine from last year's camino, and I shared beers and confidences in Campo De Fiori.  I had just bought a pretty little dress in one of the stores in the piazza and I was trying to soak in every last weak ray of sunshine and every voice echoing off the cobblestones. Daniele and I sat, our heads together as we talked of life, love and God and my heart felt sick at just the thought of leaving beautiful Rome in mere hours. As we chatted facing the piazza, a loud street performer approached and set up in front of us. I sent an annoyed glance his way as he noisily began his "magic" routine, cutting off my conversation with Daniele. I watched the man grudgingly, mentally scoffing at his silly tricks as he swallowed a sword. "Pfft, Any fool can see that the sword is collapsible," I thought. 
 "Oh Come on Jen, I have taken you across this entire country and still you don't see???"
"Peter, I only see a loud man with tired tricks! I don't know what I am supposed to see?!"
"Look again."

I looked up, staring at the man and glancing at the people around me. My gaze landed on a beautiful young girl, dancing on the edge of becoming a stunning young woman, her face shining with innocence and amazement as she eagerly watched the magician.

"Do you see her joy, Jen?" Peter said. " Stop looking for the trick and instead fill yourself with the same wonder she has in the beautiful creation around  you!"

*****

"Peter!!!! I have to leave today and yet you put a giant street market right outside my door??? You know I love markets!!! WTF???"
"Don't worry Jen, you'll have plenty of chances in your future to buy 3 euro skirts and cheap knockoff soccer jerseys...But why don't you console yourself now with some duty free Grappa."

I put on my backpack, blew a kiss Saint Peter's way, and headed to the airport.

"It's not what you look at that matters, 

It's what you see." 

Henry David Thoreau

Chasing Peter

Catching Peter 

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.” 

― Dr. Seuss

Peter doesn't like to have his picture taken...

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.