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. 

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!?"