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

Corn Nuts and Crying..

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..