Life Tastes like Wine...

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.

"So Jen, what will your next adventure be?"

"Well…hmm…"

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?"