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. 

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.

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..

Salty Socks

Today I washed my socks in the sea.. Walking to Rome is different than walking to Santiago. On the way to Santiago, people knew what you were doing and wished you warm buon caminos, but not so many pilgrims crowd the roads to Rome. And so people have been looking my way with a bit of apprehension, perhaps suspecting my gypsy heritage. (Of course, I was walking through Monaco at the time.. they look at anyone making less than $500,000 a year that way..)

I kissed my husband a few days ago, borded a night train and happily left Paris behind. I will eventually write about Paris, but let it momentarily suffice to say that I am thrilled to to be in Italy with it's plethora of public toilets.) I stepped off a train and began my walk yesterday in Nice after unexpectedly catching a Sunday morning mass. After crossing into Italy, I stayed in lovely Ventimiglia with Elizabeth, her italian husband, her teenage daughter and her two affectionate dogs. Elizabeth is an american kung fu teacher who had listed her spare bedroom on Airbnb.com and upon my arrival, she invited me to join her family for what turned out to be a delicious vegen dinner of gespacho, smoked eggplant, potatoes, truffles and fresh herbs. There was a moment when I considered giving up on Rome and just spending the month with Elizabeth and her family..

Italy smells like sage and jasmine lines the road.  (Paris smells a bit like piss..) Pastel pink, orange and yellow houses are stacked in the hills touching the sea while colors run riot in the agressive vines growing around every home. People seem to be chatty so far, wanting to know what purpose a stranger has to walk through their neighborhoods. One old man stopped me earlier, simply to tell me that I have strong calves and upon learning of my trek to Rome, he assured me that I will make it with no troubles. I am overcoming my mild fear of heights as most of the roads I am walking are on steep cliffs above the Mediterranean. Though I had prepared for an unmarked trail, I am thrilled to bits to see that the Via Della Costa, my route to Rome, is thoroughly marked with familiar cheery yellow arrows. I am eating freakish amounts of fresh fruits bought at local markets. Today I ate a peach so juicy that I nearly went through a pack of wet wipes to clean myself off. And I am remembering all of the gloriously forgotten aches of the camino... the stiff knees, tight ankles, chaffed shoulders, tired feet.. and oh, the blisters, how could I forget the blisters??

Tonight my tent is on a beach outside of San Remo. Caravans are nearby, full of families with children drunk on summertime and as the sun sets, the sound of waves will lull all off to sleep.

  

Pesky Doubts

There is always a point in the preparations where doubt creeps in.  Before heading to Peru, I worried that I had not packed what I needed, that I had nothing to teach, that I was naive.  Before flying to France, I nearly panicked at hearing the airplane announcements in french. Before traveling to Ireland, I was terrified at the thought of losing myself along the winding roads, Before running away to Spain for the first time, I was simply tired of being alone. Before heading to Thailand, I was afraid to never be alone again and before wandering back to Spain to find Santiago, I worried that I was not strong enough... In all cases, I was right.. and wrong. 

In Peru, thanks to a pick-pocket, I learned that I could survive for six weeks on $200. I also learned that the best way to pass time is to go on a chocolate eating binge with  giggling orphans. In France, I learned that it is always right to follow love because even if it doesn't work out, the lavender still smells lovely. In Ireland, I learned that getting lost is half the fun. In Spain I learned that there are friends to be found everywhere. In Thailand, I learned to embrace colors and chaos, and while walking across Spain to St. James I learned that one is never too weak to be lifted up or too strong to be humbled. 

I am in the doubting phase of my preparations right now. I am making endless lists and packing and packing again. I am studying maps and languages while trying to decide on daily stages. I am attempting to prepare for every possibility yet still feeling like a student headed to a final for which I haven't even begun to study. And all the while, I know that as soon as my feet hit the ground, my well laid plans will scatter on the wind.  With Hanuman around my neck, Saint James pushing at my back, Italy under my feet, the Mediterranean always to my right and Saint Peter as my lodestone, I will walk. 

Details.. Oh, the Details!!

My husband and I will be leaving in a week for Europe, where we will visit Genevieve (with whom I shared many adventures on the way to Santiago.) On June 29th, my husband will head back to our lovely Chicago and I will begin walking from Nice, through Monaco, into Italy and onward to Rome in an effort to discover Italy while raising money for Almost Home Kids.  

As I have mentioned before, Almost Home Kids is an organization close to my heart because as a young girl, I witnessed my little sister's fight to live and I watched my mother cope with losing a child. I saw first hand the effects of a family fracturing as a result of the chaos, strain and eventual hollow quiet of caring for a little one whose time was fragile and far too short. However, years later as I walked through the Chicago doors of “Almost Home Kids,” I saw another possibility for families such as mine. I saw refuge, love, laughter, hope, calm and normalcy. I saw an organization that provides education and support to families stretched to their limits. I saw a place that cares for medically fragile children by not just seeing to their physical needs, but also by feeding their need to simply be children. 

So, as I pack my tent, restring my ukulele and prepare to put one foot in front of the other (for a very long time..) I ask for your support for all of the young angels at Almost Home Kids! And for those of you who have already donated... You have made my step lighter. You have some serious good karma coming your way!! Thank you so much!!

To Donate...

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

And for more info on this amazing organization...

http://almosthomekids.net 

How do I tell her that she can't come :(